Page 8 of Engineering a Love Story

“It’s just because you have this job now,” Ash says, his face pinched. “You think you’re someone different. But you’re not.”

Briefly, I wonder when Ash was last denied something he wanted. I stare at him, willing him to move. He returns my stare.

Turning back to my car, I assess the grass that flanks both sides of our drive, wondering if there’s a way I can pull out and around, maneuver past Ash, and make it to the street. I imagine the muddy ruts this stunt will leave in our lush lawn, the one I’m supposed to care about though I never have. It’s the kind of scene that might occur in my hometown, not in this neighborhood, but Ash’s obstinance has thrown me off course.

Reaching for my car door handle, I analyze the angles. But the lilac hedge is too close; I wouldn’t make it. I let my hand drop.

Maybe I should go inside and call Howard, explain I can’t come in this morning. My stomach seizes with this thought, imagining that after last week, if I fail to deliver today’s presentation, Howard might simply tell me to not bother coming in ever again. I close my eyes.

“I don’t get it,” Ash says. “Why would you want to go back out there? And be alone again?”

Opening my eyes, I stare at my reflection in the car window. I don’t want to be alone—does anyone, truly? Isn’t that how we ended up in this situation in the first place?

It occurs to me then that maybe Ash did make a pact of his own.

“And why now?” he asks, his voice rising. “All of a sudden?”

I turn toward Ash again, knowing I should confess as I’d planned. Tell him about Walter and my apparent inability to maintain my grip. I can’t behave as I should.

But he’ll want details, maybe a blow by blow of what did and didn’t happen, and I don’t have time for that now.

“You deserve more than this friendship,” I say, taking a step forward. “We both do. There should be joy.” The word rolls oddly in my mouth. I’m aware I’m parroting my old friend Gretchen, but she’s more of Ash’s world than I am, and maybe her words will resonate. “You’ll have those children someday. With someone who loves you as you should be loved, someone who makes you feel seen and alive. And those children—all of you—will be so lucky. You should at least have that chance.”

Ash looks at me quizzically. Tilting his head back, he stares at the sky. “Fine,” he finally says, without shifting his gaze back to me. “Go to work, move out, sell the house, I don’t care. But you’ll have to do it all on your own.” Now he looks at me. “This is my busiest time of year, you know that. I’m out.”

For a moment, I’m floored he’s agreed so quickly. But then it’s not really surprising. Our relationship has always been tame. It wouldn’t make sense for it to end in a fiery confrontation.

I wonder too if life’s biggest changes often happen this way, with so much churn and smoke on the approach, and then it’s like going over a speed bump, and you’re on the other side.

“Of course.” I’m willing to agree to almost anything if Ash moves his car.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his full height. He opens his car door and slips behind the steering wheel. Then he sits for a few moments, looking at me or the house, I can’t tell. In a panic, I wonder if he’s going to continue to intentionally block me. But finally, he backs out and drives away.

Five

Traffic is murder. An accident on I-95 South and a mile-long backup on the Tobin Bridge nearly double the length of my commute. Inching along, I wonder why I ever let Ash convince me that this would work, a house on the North Shore, so far from my office.

Anxiety nearly propels me out of my seat. I try to recite the words of the presentation I will hopefully deliver this morning, if I can get myself to the office on time. Before The Symp, we had endless rehearsals, but I’m still worried that in my sleepless and now harried state, my mind will go blank when I stand in front of a room that will inevitably be full of men.

Finally, I pull into Gilroy’s parking garage ten minutes after the scheduled start time of my talk. Gilroy has offices all over the globe, but its headquarters sit on this last bit of land in Kendall Square, just before the Longfellow Bridge spits its salt-and-pepper spires up and over the Charles. After riding the elevator to the building’s top floor, which is entirely taken over by Gilroy’s customer briefing center, I grip my laptop case in one hand and sprint down the hall.

The stadium-style briefing room is encased in glass, and I sag with relief when I see that the analyst speaking before me hasn’t yet finished his talk. Leaning against the opposite wall, I let my head tip back and say a private thank you that these things so often run behind schedule.

My young colleague Evan Feinberg is also in the hall. He bounces on his toes, his laptop hung loosely in a few fingers and tapping at his side. Giving me an up-and-down once over, he says, “I was wondering about you.”

Evan’s words seem loaded. He might just be referencing my tardiness, but Evan was also at that table in the pub with Travis the other night. I feel like my drama from the last few days is written in the dark circles under my eyes and the haphazardness of my outfit.

But I can’t worry about Evan right now. Besides, technically, he works for me, though we’ve mostly been muddling through together these last few months. Evan is in Gilroy’s research associate program, which recruits bright kids from good schools, no matter what they know about tech. He’s still in training, to whatever degree that’s possible with me, though he doesn’t like either of us to mention this.

“No need,” I say, keeping my gaze steady on the briefing room. The analyst still speaking is an older guy, one I don’t know well, and he looks the part of an analyst in saggy khakis and an old-school blue oxford. When he finally finishes, everyone rises. Evan and I watch as several men exit the room. They stand near us making calls or lope off in search of the rest rooms.

Drexel Baxter, who manages Gilroy’s account with State Street, comes out to greet us. “You ready?”

I nod and follow Drexel inside, stiff with the buzzy nerves that always come with events like this one.

Drexel turns me sideways and attaches a mic pack to the back of my slacks, while I let myself take in the view. Through the windows that bank the briefing center on three sides, the Charles River ripples in the sun, tiny white sailboats bobbing, and the bricks of Back Bay glow rust-red. After my years coding in back rooms and even in basements, this view still fills me with surprised awe every time I see it. By car, Boston is two hours from where I grew up, and I never once visited the city as a child.

Facing front again, I take in the room. Only half its one hundred seats are in use today.