Page 74 of Engineering a Love Story

I hear Seth’s muffled voice speaking away from the phone. “Sorry.” He’s back in my ear. “I’m at the airport. Flying to Tucson. Have I told you Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday?”

“You have. Your mom is making her feast?”

“Yes. She’ll have been cooking for a week already.” Through the phone, I hear the announcement that the flight to Tucson is boarding.

“Should you go?”

“I have at least ten minutes before they close the gate.” He’s quieter now, and I picture him standing there, waiting to board until the very last minute, undoubtedly annoying the agents behind their podium. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, I’m home.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m staying here in Cambridge.” I attempt to keep my tone light. “Thanksgiving is a holiday I used to spend with Ash’s family. I haven’t been home to my father’s for this holiday in years.” I trail off, not wanting to explain further.

“I see. And did you buy yourself any actual food?”

“I did.” I laugh grudgingly. “I’m fully stocked.”

Seth makes a skeptical noise. “I can imagine what that means.”

“Honestly, I’m fine. I don’t even like Thanksgiving, as you might remember. I prefer the Fourth of July? Lying hot and quiet in the grass, no need to bring food or even provide much small talk.” I burrow beneath my new blanket. “This is perfect. I am going to stay in all weekend reading about dimpled chads and keeping my fingers crossed for our vice president.”

He exhales a laugh and we’re quiet until he says, “It’s good to hear your voice.”

I hesitate but have to answer truthfully. “Yours too.”

“Do you think … maybe next year? I don’t know. There might be changes for me at work, maybe we can—”

“There have been changes here too,” I interrupt, suddenly wanting Seth to know. Bethany thought I was being generous, but maybe I’ve been too stingy—with Seth and myself.

I hear a gate agent announce a final boarding call for Tucson. All confirmed and ticketed passengers must be on board the aircraft.

“What? Shit. I have to go. Can I call you this weekend?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to spend the next few days listening for my phone. “How about I call you?”

Forty-Five

Thanksgiving dawns frigid and bright. Waking early, I peer over four inches of fresh snow piled on my window ledge. Ice creeps again across the glass, and condensation pools on the interior panes. The cold spell has arrived.

Still, the roads are clear. There will be almost no traffic, and I want to be out in all that sparkling white. If I can start the day with a ride, even a short one, I can return to the apartment and not feel restless for the whole the day.

I go even before coffee, donning my thickest tights, a heavy fleece, a winter hat, and gloves. The bike path will be snow covered, so I head down Mass Ave toward the river. A few cars whiz past, delivering an icy spray, but there’s space for me, and I turn left onto Memorial Drive, which is nearly carless, as it is on summer Sundays when the city closes it to create a bike-and-pedestrian promenade.

My pace is slow. I’m just stretching and allowing the cold to clear my head. I think of calling Seth this weekend and recognize the fizzy anticipation I always felt when I was about to see him, though it seems even better now that it’s not laced with guilt and fear.

I wonder if we can restart. There’s no reason not to now, other than the fact that he lives on the other side of the country. Yet somehow this doesn’t seem like a huge hurdle. Who knows where I might live next? Anything is possible, I think, and a visible, surprised puff of air escapes me with this thought.

When I reach the Longfellow, I loop back and head through Central Square, coasting the last two blocks and gazing at the quiet houses and buttoned-up apartment buildings, imagining where people are and what they’re doing today.

When I round the corner onto my own block, I see someone standing on the steps by the mailboxes of my building.

There he is. For weeks—maybe months—I’ve had this thought, thinking I see Seth everywhere, at the airport, on the T, or even nonsensically in my neighborhood market. I want everyone to be him.

But, no. There he is.

“Seth?” I stop and climb off my bike.