Page 5 of Engineering a Love Story

“It’s awful. I’m too awful. This is Ash. I’m not sure I can do this to him. Who am I to want more than this? Who decides to end their marriage at a tech conference?”

Bethany laughs softly but says, “You’re making light. You need to be honest with yourself. And Ash. Why do you think you don’t deserve something more?”

I can’t say out loud to Bethany that it’s always seemed to me that ending up with some guy you’re crazy about is only good fortune. Luck. Not something people spend precious time and energy seeking out, not when there are so many other things to worry about.

Besides, Bethany has Gus. After college, she lived for several years in a tiny Beacon Hill apartment with three other women, all of them out partying all the time. I lived with Ash by then, and she’d report back: the guys who hit on one roommate when leaving the bedroom of another; the one who stole money from her wallet after sleeping with her; and worst of all, the guy who was so disconcertingly attentive, she changed her phone number and feared she’d have to move.

Gus was different from the start. At first, I thought it was only the newness of the thing. That once they were together a while, they’d slip into the platonic companionship I knew with Ash. But when Bethany got pregnant unexpectedly, they married and moved to the Cape near where Gus works for the Oceanographic Institute. There have been new stresses since she gave birth to Madison, but her cheeks still go pink whenever Gus enters the room, as if she’s lit from within at just the sight of him. Her hands are on him as often as she can manage it, even now with a baby nestled between them.

I’ve always wanted to ask her if they’re as good as they seem, but I worried what this question might reveal. Now, I don’t hold back. “Like, for real?”

Bethany hesitates, as if weighing the consequences of her response. Then she sighs and says, “Yeah.” I hear the smile in her voice, even as Madison begins fussing. “It’s different now. But it’s still … he’s away this weekend, out on a research vessel, and I sleep with one of his t-shirts by my pillow. Like, not a clean t-shirt.” She laughs again, but her confession hits me like a kick in the gut.

Madison’s fussing has increased, and Bethany’s voice speeds up; I can tell she’s readying herself to go, but before she does, she mentions that Gretchen, a woman we’d shared an apartment with during our senior year of college, is also struggling with her marriage. “Though she’s only been married a year and a half. Not nearly as long as you and Ash.” I can’t decide if this makes me feel proud for having stuck it out as long as I have or embarrassed for not admitting my problems sooner.

Gretchen and I didn’t stay in touch after college. While Bethany was solidly middle class in a way that still surprised me when we first became roommates, Gretchen was another level, a girl who grew up riding horses and summering on Martha’s Vineyard. She and I argued once, just before graduation, when I wanted her help cleaning out our apartment before we moved, insisting that if we didn’t clean, we’d lose the security deposit. “Who cares about the security deposit?” Gretchen asked. And then she laughed at how much I cared.

“Gretchen’s going to spend the summer in India,” Bethany says. “To find herself. Or do yoga or something. Says she won’t live without joy.”

At this, I can’t contain a piffling noise. My tech conference thing is stupid, but at least I’m not saying stuff like that.

“I know,” Bethany says, sounding as if she’s moving now, crossing her sunny living room maybe, baby Madison in the crook of her arm. “But you might also try to figure out how you got here.” Madison lets out a squawk. “Will you see this guy again?”

“Walter? Not if I can help it.”

“That’s good,” Bethany says. “Take it slow, okay?”

After we hang up, I sit for a while in this bedroom I’ve shared with my husband. I think of how Ash and I stood here just a few months ago discussing his wish for a family. In some unexamined crevice of my mind, I had the half thought even then that if I had those children, I’d never leave. This pleasant, friendly marriage would be the only relationship I’d ever know.

In that tangled moment, when I wondered how I’d bumped up against the edges of my life so quickly, I saw a man who was … tweedy. That’s the word that always accompanies this daydream, though I’m not sure what tweed is exactly and I’ve certainly never known anyone to wear it. This dreamy, tweedy man is often seated—inexplicably—in the swaying seat of a passenger train. I’m there too, chattering about the sights hurtling past outside. We arrive at some exotic station and wander intricate streets until we find our hotel. And our hotel room.

That morning with Ash, I buried this daydream—or hallucination—which mostly seemed like a vision of some unattainable future anyway. A great love? That’s what someone like Gretchen might say. To me, it was a silly-girl idea of romance. One that didn’t warrant throwing over a perfectly solid life.

Three

By Monday afternoon, I’ve nearly grown accustomed to the quiet house. I lie on our overstuffed sofa watching baseball and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and any other program that comes on. Periodically, I dig in the cupboards for cans of soup and stale crackers, pretending I’m tucked away in a little oasis where I don’t have to think too much about the past or the future, which is convenient because everything in both directions is hazy.

When I hear a car in the drive and then the click of our front door, I stay reclined on the sofa, childishly wanting to delay confrontation and remain in my cocoon a little longer.

But then it isn’t Ash’s voice I hear. “Chelsea?” It’s my mother-in-law’s.

Rushing to stand, I brush cracker crumbs from my baggy t-shirt. I haven’t showered since Saturday, and I hate for Boops to see me in this disheveled state, though I don’t imagine my cleanliness is going to be her primary concern.

Boops appears at the living room’s entryway, her prep-school windbreaker swishing, though this sound ceases as she halts on the far side of the room. When she makes no move to hug me as she normally would, I’m certain she and Ash have discussed what I said in the garage. I suspect not much time even passed between those two events—that’s how things roll with the Kelseys.

“Such traffic,” Boops says, referencing her Memorial Day trip down from the lake. I ask if I can make her a drink, and she nods. After she uses the bathroom, we meet in the kitchen. I hand her the drink, and she sips, then gestures toward the dining room. “Shall we sit?” We take seats at the massive table that dominates this room. With scalloped edges and seating for ten, this dining room table is a seriously grown-up piece of furniture. A housewarming gift from the Kelseys a year ago. I perch at it as I often do, with an arm wrapped around my knees, the chair’s green silk upholstery cool beneath my feet, until I notice Boops eyeing me, and I lower both my feet to the floor.

Boops lifts her glass and looks at me over its rim. “I was surprised to hear how you’re feeling.”

The strength of my discontent startled me at The Symp, but hearing of it must be a total shock to the Kelseys. I’ve always done my best to emulate Boops and fit in, something that’s surprisingly easy to do with people and places whose traditions are so well established. You simply go along.

As Boops watches me, her practical gray bob just grazing the collar of her windbreaker, I’m unable to contain my tears. Maybe I’ve been in shock. All weekend my face has felt stone-cold and tight, but now my cheeks are wet and warm. I wipe at them, mortified by my mess—by all this mess I’m bringing the Kelseys.

Boops sips her drink. Then she lowers her glass. “I’m not sure I ever told you, but not long after I married Ashton’s father, he began selling shoes.” She pauses, a small smile on her lips.

I suspect I’m supposed to understand the importance of this, but I don’t. “Shoes?”

“That’s right.” Her voice holds a nearly gleeful tone, one I want to relax into. “He almost didn’t finish college. He took a year off and his father was furious, refusing us financial support. And your father-in-law ended up selling shoes.” Her eyes pop slightly as she allows me to absorb the magnitude of this statement. When I don’t respond, she continues. “My point is it didn’t take him long to realize that sort of thing wasn’t for him. Of course, he finished college, went to business school, joined the firm—all the rest you know. A little lapse, that’s all it was. We all have them sometimes.”