Page 69 of Engineering a Love Story

Forty-One

Even though I had my first drink at a young age—twelve, maybe—I’m generally careful with alcohol. I’ve witnessed too many incidents like the one with my uncle Eric not to know better. I don’t get drunk the way I am on election night very often. A Senior Skip Day in high school that left me puking in the bathroom and pleading menstrual cramps when my father came home. A couple times in college. That one wedding with Ash where I was so taken with the charmer in the seersucker suit. So it’s not a frequent occurrence, but I’ve been through it enough to know I can pass from cheerful to hostile and onto sad in the space of about thirty minutes.

Hazily, I unlock my apartment door. If I can move onto sad quickly, I can resist my urge to call Seth, a temptation I’ve been fighting for weeks. But right now, I’m angry, and this propels me into my apartment. I throw my coat and keys to the floor, irate that Lars recognized my submissiveness. My willingness to accept, rather than demand. How dare he want that? Praise it and present it to me as a positive?

And goddamn Al Gore for being so stiff and unengaging. Bill Clinton too—he’s only too engaging. All his scandalous behavior piled up to the point where it became nearly insurmountable for poor, dull Al.

Of course, George W. Bush gets his share of my anger too. Standing there, babbling about Florida when the tally of votes is nearly tied. I sit down hard on the floor and fiddle with my stereo, attempting to find the latest news.

Bush takes me again to thinking of Seth, and my resolve melts. Damn Seth too for tangling me all up, speaking of love—maybe using me? And then unleashing that article and walking away. I haven’t heard from him since. I offered to quit my job for him. Had he sacrificed anything? Ever even cared at all?

I scramble back to my coat and find my phone. Calling him is a decision that even while I’m making it, I know it’s terrible, but I’m relieved the alcohol is blurring my restraint.

And I’m unrestrained when Seth answers on the first ring, his voice warm and a little surprised. I ask where he is.

“San Francisco. In my apartment.” I hear Seth moving, his breath in the phone and even the soft click of a door. I imagine he might have been sitting on that dirty sofa, maybe with Manish, watching the election news. Now he’s moved into his bedroom to take my call. “I’m sorry about how the election is going down.”

“No, you’re not.”

Seth laughs softly. This makes me angrier, though I stick to venting about W initially. He isn’t qualified, Dick Cheney gives me nightmares, why is Bush acting like he’s won when it isn’t over yet?

Seth doesn’t engage with any of that. “It’s late there. Were you out?”

“Yes. Watching the returns with Travis and a few others. Goddamn Lars, wanting me to watch footie when I don’t care for it.” I’m trying, and failing, to keep my thoughts straight and my voice steady.

“Footie?”

“I’m not perfect. He probably says that to all the girls. Or maybe that comment was tailored for me. Which is way worse. I can’t help it. Just because Ronald Spillane … that does not make me a perfect girlfriend. It should be the opposite, you know?”

“I don’t actually know what you’re talking about. Are you someone’s girlfriend?”

I shake my head, though of course Seth can’t see me. “No. It’s only Lars.”

“Well, I don’t know who this guy is, but I hate the idea of him there with you. I just have to say that. And I don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re not perfect. I mean, you can’t cook at all. And you’re an Al Gore fan, though I don’t have the heart to give you shit about that right now. And maple syrup cake? For real?” Seth laughs, a warm low rumble. “None of that is perfect.”

At his words and the sound of his laughter, my anger softens. There’s something else I want to ask, but I can’t quite grasp my thoughts. I tip to the floor and curl on my thin rug, my phone tucked beneath my ear. “I didn’t call so you could catalog my imperfections.”

“Why did you call?” Seth asks gently.

And I arrive at sad. Everything goes fuzzy after that. I tell him things. I want to set the record straight. Clear the air. The blue and green patterns in my rug swoosh away from me, leaking from their predefined placements. My eyes blur and burn.

I wake a handful of hours later still on the floor, my face crusty with the salt of dried tears and the imprint of my phone’s tiny buttons on my cheek. As memories from the night before eke in, a low groan escapes me. Kissing Lars. Calling Seth. Did I really call Seth drunk in the middle of the night and cry?

When I manage to pull myself upright, I know I will be sick. I’m in the bathroom after three quick, unsteady steps, and vomit splashes electric blue against the white porcelain of the toilet bowl. I squat in front of it and rest my head on my forearms. My hands smell of cigarettes and my stomach seethes. I’m well past the age when any of this is appropriate—if it ever is.

NPR is still droning from the living room, and once I’m able, I crawl back to lie on the floor and listen to the latest election updates. Eventually, the news circles around enough for me to understand that sometime after two, the networks called Florida—and thus the whole election—for Bush. Gore even conceded. But then, just before dawn, Bush’s lead was down to only a few hundred votes, and Gore retracted his concession. With a tally that close, Florida law requires a recount. It isn’t over yet.

Forty-Two

Seth calls that morning before I even leave for work. Somehow, I take a wobbly shower, nibble dry toast, and drink a great deal of water. I throw on jeans and a sweatshirt, not the kind of thing I usually wear to the office, but it’s all I can manage, and I imagine I won’t be the only person recovering from a late night.

My phone rings as I’m shoving my laptop into its bag. I see Seth on the caller ID. He’s likely calling to let me know that phoning him (drunk!) in the middle of the night isn’t something that can happen. He was with Manish. I was out of line. But he can leave that message on my voicemail. I don’t need him to tell me. I drop the phone into the sleeve with my computer.

The TVs in Gilroy’s lobby are tuned to CNN and people cluster around them all day, taking in the news. Though there really is no news. The election is in limbo until Florida figures itself out. As the morning rolls on, we’re introduced to a new lexicon: dimpled chads and Broward County, stylus pens, voting machine errors, manual recounts.

I check my phone at lunch and see Seth has called three times. He left a voicemail once, saying he wants to check on me. Won’t I call him back?

No. No, I will not be doing that.