Page 13 of Engineering a Love Story

Manish agrees. His response is assured, though no vendor will ever admit to softening demand.

After that, Manish is apparently completely done discussing online banking, though I haven’t yet gathered enough info to publish a research note on Aurelian or to have that call with Russ Boyer. For now, I let the sushi occupy me and hope I can direct the conversation back to PayNow later.

Manish tells me he and Seth grew up together in Southern California, where they were debate team partners in high school.

“Ah, so the cool kids?” I say, battling another roll.

“Definitely,” Manish laughs. “Though Seth was much cooler than I was.”

I glance up to see Seth shake his head.

Manish goes on to explain that he, Seth, and Vitalik live together in San Francisco’s Mission District. I’d seen mention of this in one glowing magazine article or another, and now I question why. They have to be nearing thirty, and I wouldn’t have thought they’d be claiming poverty, not as executives at a VC-backed start-up. But maybe I’ve misunderstood. “Or can you just not get enough of each other? At work.”

“It’s easier,” Manish says with a wave of his chopsticks. “We’re never there. Rents in San Francisco are obscene. What’s the point of renting three apartments that sit empty?” He chews and reaches toward a board of rolls. “Honestly, four years ago? It was difficult to get the place we have. Netscape had just gone public and the gold rush was on.”

“Three personal references, a credit check, and a pay stub,” Seth says. “And I was still sweating when the landlord called to confirm.”

“Is it the same in Boston?” Manish asks. “Impossible to rent?”

I confess I’m not up to speed on the rental market in Boston since I live in the suburbs, though a shot of anxiety races through me. Three references?

“Are you from Boston originally?” Manish asks. “Your name, Lefevre, it sounds French.”

I explain about Western Massachusetts and its large French-Canadian population. “People came down to work in the mills, whenever it was, a hundred years ago.”

“Chelsea too? Is that French-Canadian?” Manish asks. I say that it isn’t, at least not as far as I know. “And you share a name with our First Daughter.”

“Yes.” With my chopsticks, I grasp at a small piece of tangerine-colored sushi. “Though the story I’ve heard is that Bill and Hillary chose the name because of that Joni Mitchell song, “Chelsea Morning”? My mother named me after a character on One Life to Live.”

Seth snorts. “That’s fantastic.” His gaze goes to my face and his eyes gleam, some kind of green-gold color. “Though let’s be real. I bet the Clintons made up that shit about the song. Hillary probably watched the soap, too, but thought it was beneath her to say so.”

When Seth pops an eyebrow, I lose the thread for a moment, but I can’t let his comment go without remark. “Careful now.” I defend Hillary, though not as adamantly as I might have if she’d seemed less like a politician during that thing with the intern. Though I’m not in a position to judge anyone’s marriage.

“Probably best to steer clear of the Clintons,” Manish says.

I agree, happy to change topics. At this point, even once-avid Bill fans like myself are tired of the saga, the dress, his non-apology, all of it. Though that poor woman. Both of those poor women.

“Sorry,” Seth says. “I didn’t mean to bring up politics. Let’s talk about something else.”

Manish glances around, as if visibly casting for a new topic. After a few moments, he gestures at my hand with his chopsticks. “You’re married,” he says. “What’s that like?”

“Jesus,” Seth says. “That’s not really what I meant.”

I look at my plate, wondering if I can bring our talk back to online banking. Or even the Clintons. I scold myself for not yet removing my wedding rings, but Ash still had his ring on when I left a few days ago, and I hadn’t wanted to add any more insult to his injury by removing mine first. The last two weeks were bad enough.

“Sorry,” Manish says, when I don’t immediately respond. “Maybe I veered into something less appropriate than politics.” Seth nods but doesn’t look up. “My parents, you know,” Manish continues in a soft, surprisingly confidential tone. “They want to have a lot of say. I’m dating a woman now, not their choice, and that’s okay. But I wonder how you’re ever sure. I kind of idolize it, you know? The certainty.”

I blow out a puff of air. “You definitely should not be idolizing me.” I’m unsure how much of my mess, if any, to share. These guys are polished. The way those sushi words rolled off Seth’s tongue?

But I also think: it’s happening. I have to figure out how to at least share the headlines.

Briefly, I say that I’m actually in the process of splitting from my husband.

Manish, chewing, barely pauses. “Did something happen? Or did you just always know it was a mistake?”

“I’m going to say the obvious out loud,” Seth says, his eyes on my face. “You do not have to answer any of these questions.”

Sensing I’ve already said the most difficult part, I thank Seth, say it’s fine, and then tell them a little more about my situation. The three of us end up in a conversation about marriage and life’s big decisions. The semi-seclusion of our booth lends our talk intimacy, and after a while, it’s almost a relief to discuss it all with these neutral parties, ones who know nothing about my life with Ash and seem in no hurry to judge me.