Page 68 of Engineering a Love Story

“I’m not sure. I guess Gore didn’t win Florida.”

“Can they do that?”

Before long, W is on the television saying with confidence that Gore has not won Florida—or the election.

For the rest of the night, the commentators speak only of Florida. The complexity of the state’s demographics, the county-by-county breakdown of outstanding votes. It’s more than anyone ever wanted to know about Florida. Even when it’s announced that Gore has taken California—and its fifty-four electoral votes—the bar remains somber; it will all come down to Florida.

Things get hazy. I have two more blue drinks. At one point, Lian is there with Brittany. Then they’re gone. Later, I’m vaguely aware Travis has left.

I sit with Lars. His fingers intertwine with mine on the bar, both of us wet with condensation from our drinks. He traces patterns in the puddles on the mahogany and chatters to me about Sweden, where he’s heading for Christmas with his family for a visit with relatives.

“We’ll watch Donald Duck on Christmas Eve. Every year.”

I argue this can’t be true, flick a little water at him, and put my hand back with his in the wet. His fingers are long and strong, with a light dusting of blond hair near his wrists.

“Swedes do all kinds of weird shit,” he says. “Like, they’re terrified of badgers.” I laugh and shake my head. “No, it’s completely true. When we were growing up, there was some kind of groundhog that used to burrow under our front porch. My mom was petrified of that thing, always wanting my dad to kill it. Because she thought it was a badger.”

Later still, Lars tells me more about his move to the Bay Area. “It wasn’t just the stupid perfume shit, though that office reeked.” Worse for him was the dislocation he felt in the incessant valley sunshine and his frustration with the endless traffic. He longed to be with his parents and siblings. “I even missed Gilroy,” he says, moving his hand to my thigh.

I put my hand on top of his, and I have a feeling of giving way. There isn’t any reason not to do this. I can’t even remember what my concerns about Lars had been. With him beside me now, it all seems simple.

We leave when the bartender announces last call. I stand and the bar sways, causing me to stumble. Lars catches my arm and I hold on.

Lars in a taxi. Why are we in a taxi when I live three blocks away? He’s pressed against the door when I kiss him. I can feel his lean soccer muscles through his jeans, and he tastes of cigarettes, which seems dirty and a little thrilling. When we left the bar, he put on some kind of puffy coat and this squishes between us.

When I exit the taxi, Lars simply follows me. I’m tingling and taut. I want to take him upstairs and see what he’s like without the coat and his jeans. I remember dancing with him at the wedding, how tall and warm he’d been against me. All of that is going to feel good.

Lars on the stairs. We’re climbing, but I keep stopping to kiss him. Whenever we break apart, his blue eyes are as glorious as cornflowers. I finger his short blond hair—it’s surprisingly soft. “Shouldn’t we go up?” he asks, gesturing toward the top of the stairs, his beautiful eyes a little pleading. I take his hand. We’re on the second-floor landing when he leans and slurs in my ear. “You might be the perfect woman.”

It’s an absurd thing to say—he hardly knows me. Still, I’m flattered. As I fumble with my keys, I ask him to elaborate.

“You’re just cool,” he says. “You don’t like the footie, but we’ll fix that. You’re low maintenance. No hassles.”

Lars finishes with an uneven nod, but I freeze, holding my keys a few inches from my doorknob.

He doesn’t mean perfect. Only malleable. Agreeable and passive, though maybe that is perfect to him. He doesn’t want to know me, not really. Like Ash, who never tried to find out why I was miserable. Ash, my father, Donny, Ronald—Howard. All of them just expecting me to go along and not make a fuss.

Even Seth. I hardly made a peep when he broke my heart.

Lars has to go then. I can’t or won’t explain why he’s upset me, but I spin and face him, dropping my keys. They clatter against the tile floor. I insist he leave.

“What?” Lars chuckles and bends to pick up my keys. I’m drunk and unsteady, but I push him away and he stumbles.

“It’s late, I need to go in,” I say.

His face goes red and confused. My hands sink again into his coat as I shove at Lars, encouraging him toward the stairs. He continues to protest and angles the top half of his body back toward me, still trying to kiss me.

Finally, I shout, “Lars, no!”

Hector’s door opens downstairs. Through the stairwell, I see his curly head appear. Lars peers down at Hector, then back at me.

And then Lars does leave, all in a huff, stomping down the stairs, past Hector and out the heavy front door, which bangs shut behind him.

It’s quiet.

“You good?” Hector calls up.

“Yes. Thank you.”