Page 2 of Engineering a Love Story

“Right,” I say, startled into remembering that I booked the early return to Boston this morning so I’d arrive home with enough time for Ash and I to drive to his family’s place on Squam Lake tonight. Just a few weeks ago I arranged these details, so sure I was then of my plans for this weekend—and my life.

For a moment, I let myself have the image of the Kelseys’ expansive lake house and the lovely cottages that dot their property. I remember the afternoon I first realized that when Ash and his family spent hours water skiing or playing golf, I could lounge undisturbed, reading on a sun-warmed quilt, enwrapped in piney air and a peacefulness I’d never before known.

“Something’s happened,” I say, the words echoing in my chest.

“What’s that?” Ash stands, lifts his bike, and bounces it twice against the cement.

“While I was away … this week, I—”

“One sec.” Ash walks to the back of the garage and digs in a toolbox, leaving my story stalled on my lips. I reach for my phone, then clutch it in my lap.

Walter caught me by an elbow after we collided in the hotel hallway, both of us in identical conference polos. “Whoa, easy there,” he said. And then, after releasing me: “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” In my brief Gilroy tenure, I hadn’t yet encountered Walter, a charming American colleague ten years my senior and now based in Amsterdam. He put a hand out, delighted to learn this was my first time at The Symp. Walter escorted me to the event’s opening reception and ensured I had a glass of white wine in my hand. Then he leaned close, sharing bits of gossip about the people around us, his gaze making me suddenly conscious of my body even as it sat lost in the bulky polo.

As Ash returns to his bike, he briefly catches my eye, his face again tilting into his half smile. It’s generous and relaxed, the smile of someone who’s never before been given much reason not to smile.

On the plane, I convinced myself Ash would agree with me, once I spelled it all out. Maybe he’d admit frustrations of his own, possibly even express relief I was finally forcing our issues into the light.

But now, seeing Ash’s smile in this sunny garage, I know that isn’t going to happen. Just because I went away and knocked against a harsh reality, nothing has changed here. Ash is the same as always, smiling, fixing his bike, thinking everything is fine, as it has been for years. And I’m about to announce that it isn’t?

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say, though it feels now like I’m squeezing the words out, as if they’re the final blobs in a tube of toothpaste, one reluctant word after another.

“What you got?” Ash squats again at his bike.

All my life I’ve seen people do foolish things, making half-baked decisions that invariably create chaos. I thought marrying Ash was an antidote to all that. But after a week spent frolicking and flirting with my colleague, whose unceasing attention swirled with my relief at not being pregnant, I realized I was no different. Going with Walter to his hotel room was lazy, a cowardly attempt at the easy way out because I haven’t been brave enough to do what needs to be done.

“I’m not right,” I say.

“Bummer.” Ash examines the mechanics nestled deep in his bike. “Rough flight?”

“No, that’s not what I—” I grip the milk crate. “I’m not feeling right about us.”

For the first time since I entered the garage, Ash looks directly at me. He rests an elbow on a knee, and he’s squinting slightly, as if trying to make me come clear. His face doesn’t hold confusion exactly, and I don’t think it’s surprise. Is he angry? Maybe. Mostly I think Ash’s look is a silent plea. He’s asking me not to say this thing out loud. “Come again?”

“There should be something more. Don’t you think?” My eyes roam his face, then the stacked shelves of our garage. “Is this really all there is?” I force my gaze back to him, my head moving slowly side to side. “I don’t think it’s enough. Not for me. Not anymore.”

I lean forward, ready to release my full confession, but Ash gives his head one quick shake.

Then he stands abruptly. Lifting his bike up and over my head, Ash positions himself so he’s facing the open garage door. His back is to me when I hear his toe clip onto a pedal, and without another glance, Ash rides away into the sunny afternoon.

Two

Ash doesn’t return until the long light of the May evening is nearly gone. I go to our bedroom and after standing dizzy and disoriented for several moments, I unload smelly clothes from my suitcase. I pull a few fresh things from our closet and carry these to our guest room. This room has a bed, but we haven’t yet purchased other furniture for it, and I’m piling clothes on the floor in one corner when I hear the clack of Ash’s bike shoes in the hallway.

He stops and places a hand on each side of the guest room’s doorframe.

Rangy and tall, Ash’s blond hair is tousled now from his ride and his high cheekbones are flushed. He’s an attractive guy. Objectively. His eyes go from my face to the clothes pile and back again.

“Please,” I say. “If we could just—”

But Ash pushes from the door and clicks away.

I spend a restless night repeatedly jerking awake with kernels of panic popping in my abdomen. The sun is nearly up by the time I grab a few hours of sleep. When I wake, long shafts of daylight pattern the bare hardwood floors. I take a moment to place myself in the guest room, the memory of yesterday settling on me.

The house is silent. After descending the stairs, I enter the kitchen cautiously, unsure what either Ash or I will say this morning. When I see through the kitchen window that his car is gone from the driveway, I exhale, relieved to have a little time alone with my thoughts before I have to share any more of them.

I make coffee, then take a mug and wander our rooms. On the plane yesterday, I began calculating how we’d divide their contents, mentally listing the things I’d take and the ones I thought Ash might want. This hadn’t seemed overwhelming then, particularly as this four-bedroom we moved into a year ago on Boston’s moneyed North Shore is only half furnished. Our living and dining rooms are functional, but our study only has one overflowing bookshelf and there are two empty bedrooms upstairs.

I’ve been so absorbed by Gilroy this year and traveling almost constantly, we haven’t settled in here properly. I’d thought we’d just been too busy, but now the house feels lifeless, like a half-built stage set for a play that never ran.