6

Everyone else saw it before I did. Day after day, Joe and I left the office within five minutes of one another and returned at the same time over an hour later, laughing, loudly talking over one another, and carrying matching coffee cups. But when the office manager pulled me aside and asked if Joe and I were dating, I was genuinely surprised.

Sure, I often came back to my desk flushed and giddy after our coffee meetings, feeling more alive than I ever had in my life. Joe seemed to enjoy hanging out with me as well, as I had concluded after the approximately ten thousand hours I’d spent wondering about it. I decided that he probably was not just being nice when he said I was “an insightful person” that time that we were at the coffee shop by the 360 bridge when I put too much sugar in my coffee and was wearing the yellow-and-black striped shirt (not that I had etched every last detail into my mind or anything), if nothing else because he was not the type of person who would waste time hanging out with people he didn’t like.

Despite all of that, my belief that we could never be anything other than coworkers—friends, at best—was unshakable. In fact, the longer we spent time together, the less likely it seemed that anything would come of this acquaintanceship. Any time I was in Joe’s presence, I felt like I had to make the most of these moments before they were gone. Joe carried with him an aura of someone who was perpetually about to move on to something else—something bigger, something better than what was here. Each Monday I was a little surprised that he was still in the office; I always expected to hear that he’d been lured away by another tech startup and didn’t work here anymore. He gave me his full attention at our coffee meetings, but the moment he returned to his desk, his focus was back on his plans for world domination.

It seemed clear that Joe would only date someone who could keep up with him. I imagined him with a woman who went to business school at Harvard and had used the millions she made from her work as an investment banker to invent a new line of microprocessors. One time we were talking about our college accomplishments, and it came out that Joe had graduated from Yale in three years, with honors. Unfortunately this revelation came to light after I’d revealed that one of my biggest accomplishments from college was that some buddies and I almost got on the Jerry Springer Show after a friend’s boyfriend traded her car for a quarter bag of weed. I was sure that he looked at me as someone who would hold him back.

When he took me out to dinner at an elegant steakhouse, just the two of us, I didn’t think there was anything between us. When he came with me to a Roots concert I assumed he was just a fan of hip hop neo soul music, even though he didn’t seem familiar with any of the songs. We began going to parties together on the weekends, and finally, at a Hyde Park bungalow at four o’clock in the morning on a cold winter night, we kissed. And the next day, I wrote it off as a fluke.

It wasn’t until we’d been dating for a month that I actually believed we were dating. We’d arranged our work schedules so that we could both attend a product strategy meeting at our company’s San Francisco office, and we attended a Stanford GSB event while we were there. When Joe introduced me to his business school friends as his girlfriend, it finally sunk in that this was real.

I started taking time off work to join him when he visited clients in other cities, and soon I quit my job to work as a freelancer. When Joe traveled, he could easily get me a ticket with his frequent flier miles, usually with an upgrade to first class. All of our expenses except my food would be covered while we were there, and I could toss my laptop into my backpack and do client work in coffee shops. Our schedule became so packed with travel that I had to keep a calendar for the first time in my life. Sometimes we’d return from San Francisco in the morning and would have only a few hours to repack our bags before we rushed back to the airport for a flight to New York.

Spending so much time together only strengthened our relationship. We’d known we were compatible, but Joe and I were both surprised by just how well we got along. Loud arguments would erupt on rare occasions, but we eventually realized that they always happened when we were drunk and up too late, so we solved the problem by agreeing not to talk about anything controversial when we were drunk and up too late. Other than that, we almost never argued or even disagreed about much.

There was only one potential source of tension in our relationship, and it was a big one: Joe mentioned a couple of times that he believed in God. Inexplicably, he also said something about considering himself a Christian. I tried to tell myself that he meant it in a medieval way, like to indicate that he was a non-Muslim citizen of Christendom, but I’d seen a few clues that indicated otherwise. On the one hand, he hadn’t gone to church once since I’d known him, he didn’t talk about having any kind of faith, and I never saw him pray. On the other hand, he did own a Bible, and he mentioned that he’d been trying to remember to say dammit instead of the version of the word that included God’s name.

In the six months that we’d been dating, the subject had never come up in any substantial way. Like Joe with whatever his beliefs were, I didn’t hide the fact that I was an atheist, but I didn’t volunteer it either. When we were at a Houston rodeo event that began with a prayer, I didn’t bow my head or say amen. Another time I wondered aloud what someone meant when she referred to another person as a “prodigal son”, and Joe seemed to find it remarkable that I didn’t know that the expression was from the Bible. Aside from these minor instances, we had an unspoken agreement not to put a damper on all the fun we were having with the dreary topic of spirituality.

* * *

Our first serious conversation about the subject of belief occurred thirty thousand feet above the New Mexico desert. Our flight out of Austin had been delayed, and I was drowsy from a gin and tonic I’d downed in the airport to pass the time. I pushed my back deep into the soft leather seat, ready to dream about the awesomeness that was in store for me on this trip. First we would spend a long weekend at a resort in Palm Springs where Joe’s department was hosting a client retreat, then we’d head up to San Francisco for another week. I had recently finished a nightmare of a freelance project with a client who reminded me vaguely of Mussolini, and I was ready to do a whole lot of sleeping and sitting by sparkling hotel pools while Joe worked.

The lights flickered out in the cabin, and I closed my eyes, not sure whether I was trying to sleep or just simmer in bliss.

Joe nudged my arm. “Wow. Look at that.” I opened my eyes and followed his gaze to the window. When I saw what awaited me outside the plane, I gasped.

A giant cumulonimbus cloud filled the sky to the right of us, its top towering probably forty thousand feet over the ground below. It was taller than Mount Everest and diffused the last rays of the sun so that it glowed like a child’s nightlight. Between us and it was another plane, its lights blinking silently. Lightning illuminated the entire cloud every few seconds, turning the plane into a tiny black silhouette. It baffled me to think that there were other people on that plane, maybe even people I’d met before. How utterly unique in human history to pass by someone you knew, up among the clouds.

“I don’t see how anyone could look at that and not believe in God,” Joe said, his voice lowered as if out of reverence for this masterpiece of nature.

Maybe it was the influence of the gin and tonic, but I figured that now, when we were both happy and calm, was as good a time as any to have this discussion. “You know that I don’t believe in God, right?” I said.

Joe kept his eyes on the cloud. “Yeah, I think you said something about that once.”

I waited for him to elaborate on that statement; I’d expected more of a reaction. He remained silent, so I asked, “Does that bother you?”

“Nah,” he said casually. “You’re reasonable, so you’ll get over the atheism thing eventually.”

I turned to face him. “Excuse me? You’re saying that being an atheist is unreasonable?”

“Yeah. Of course. I mean, what, you think the universe brought itself into existence?”

I didn’t respond. I was debating whether to turn this into an argument about the fact that he had essentially just called me unreasonable in a backhanded way, which would be satisfying but would derail the conversation.

“Hey, did you hear that nobody built this plane?” Joe said. “It’s the craziest thing—they just found it in a field.”

“What?” Normally I would have seen where he was headed, but I was distracted by my righteous indignation.

“Yeah! They think that water washed over some aluminum ore and formed it into the hull, then a tornado came along and blew it all together in the shape of a plane,” he said, waving his hands dramatically at the “blew it all together” part.

“Oh, I see. I see where you’re going with this.”

He was on a roll. “Then a meteor landed right by the plane, and the debris hit the side of it so that it etched out the word Delta!”

“You can stop now.”

“But wait! Don’t you want to hear about the earthquake that turned the sand into glass, then . . . I don’t know . . . bounced it onto the front of the plane?” He broke into laughter.

I exhaled a loud sigh to express my weariness.

“No, no, but that’s the thing: You don’t get to do the ‘big sigh at the stupidity of my argument’ routine,” he said, still smiling, “because you believing that the first self-replicating cell was the product of random forces is the same as my saying that this plane is the product of random forces.”

I didn’t take the bait. One of the reasons was that, frankly, I thought the origin of life argument was one of the better ones that the theists had. It was pure craziness to suggest that a man in the sky brought life into existence with some sort of divine magic wand, of course, but I also didn’t think that any of the current theories about abiogenesis were convincing enough to be worth arguing about.

“Honest question,” I said, prefacing my next statement since it might sound like I was saying it just to be insulting. “If you’re going to believe in supernatural beings that there’s no evidence for, why stop with God? Why not throw in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus while you’re at it?”

“I just gave you an example of evidence for God. Be sure to let me know when Santa creates an entire universe out of nothing—then I’ll believe in him, too.”

“Saying ‘something exists and we don’t know where it came from’ isn’t evidence. That’s like saying that Santa must exist because there are bites out of the cookies on Christmas morning.”

“That’s not my argument.”

“It is your argument: You have no evidence for your claim that God created life or the universe or whatever. Scientifically, we can’t—”

“This isn’t about science,” Joe said. “What we’re talking about here is the fundamental question, Why does something exist instead of nothing? Why is there a universe at all? Science can’t weigh in on that either way, because it’s not able to investigate those kinds of questions.”

The lady across the aisle looked from her book to us and cleared her throat conspicuously. I took a breath, then lowered my voice to respond: “But if you don’t root yourself in scientific evidence, there’s no end to the craziness you could believe. Why not believe that there are ten co-gods instead of just one, or that the universe was created by a master race of cats?”

“Are you aware that people have been writing about these kinds of questions for, oh, six thousand years? And that they’ve pooled their wisdom to come up with some pretty compelling conclusions? It’s called philosophy.”

“Yeah, philosophy’s awesome. Take L. Ron Hubbard, for example. . .”

“My point isn’t that all philosophies are right. Obviously. It’s that these aren’t the kinds of questions you answer with material evidence alone.”

I had a headache—in part from the drink at the airport, but mostly from this conversation. I wanted to circle back to the dangers of veering away from an evidence-based view of the world. It was tempting to hit the basics, like asking why God didn’t just reveal himself to us if he cared about our knowing him, or why he’d sit back and let suffering rip through humanity. But, when I thought about it, I realized that I didn’t care that much if Joe held some vaguely theistic beliefs. It wasn’t worth starting my much-needed vacation with an argument.

There was one thing, though, that did concern me enough to be worth talking about. “Okay, fine. I disagree with the whole way you’re thinking about this subject, but whatever,” I began. “But you don’t believe in . . . you know . . .”

“In what?”

“You know. All the other stuff. You’re not into that, right?”

“What other stuff? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He did know what I was talking about, but evidently wanted me to say it. “The Jesus stuff.”

“Are you asking if I’m a Christian?”

I hadn’t expected the question to sound as distasteful as it did, or to be as nervous about his potential response as I was. “Yeah. That’s what I’m asking.”

“Yes, I am.”

I could feel my face flush red, which normally happened during only the most intense confrontations. “That’s . . . surprising.”

“Well, it depends what you mean by ‘Christian’. Obviously, I’m not religious. I haven’t been to church in a year. I’m not going to hit you over the head with my Bible, I’m pro-choice, and I don’t think the children in Africa who have never heard of Jesus are going to burn in hell. But do I believe in Jesus? Absolutely.”

“Can you—” my voice was gravelly; my throat had suddenly gone dry. The stewardess was refilling the wine of the man in front of me, and I flagged her for some water. I coughed and tried again. “Can you explain that? I truly do not understand how someone like you could believe in something like that.”

His tone was lighter now. “Look, I don’t even know how many of the details I believe. Was Jesus totally divine? Did every single thing that’s written about him actually happen? No idea. But do I believe in him? Yeah.”

“Why?” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to sound so exasperated. It was as if the pressure had been building and building inside of me, and when I opened my mouth it came rushing out.

The stewardess leaned in to hand me a cup of ice water, and Joe seemed to use the time to collect his thoughts. “I was baptized when I was thirteen”, he began, speaking slowly, “in a full-dunk Baptist ceremony. When I came out of the water, I felt this—”

“But see, you’re relying on experience there,” I interrupted. “It’s totally subjective. That’s not good evidence. I was baptized when I was a baby—something my mom’s parents wanted done—and it didn’t impact me at all.”

Joe didn’t respond. The drone of the plane’s engine filled the space where conversation should have been, and it occurred to me that I’d been rude to cut Joe off. It was unlike me to rebuff people when they were trying to share something personal, and it made me realize that I had more lingering irritation with Christianity than I’d thought. “Sorry,” I said. “What were you saying about your baptism?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Before I could protest, he added, “Is any of this really worth arguing about?”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that that was true. I looked out the window, leaning forward to catch one last glimpse of the cloud before it drifted out of view. It was night now, and I could only see it when the storm filled it with light.

* * *

At the end of our trip to San Francisco, Joe proposed. We were meandering along the walkway of the Golden Gate Bridge, and when we got to the middle, he stopped and said he had a question for me. He held a diamond ring in his hand and asked me to marry him. Through tears, I said yes. With the skyscrapers of San Francisco at our backs, the wide-open Pacific Ocean in front of us, and the cold bay wind vigorously cheering us on, he slid the ring onto my finger.

It was the day after Valentine’s Day, and that night we attended a Burt Bacharach tribute concert at the Bohemian Club. The Bohemian Club was an exclusive men’s society that counted multiple world leaders among its members, and, according to the online research I’d done, was an endless source of fascination for conspiracy theorists throughout the world. Joe had attended one of their ultra-exclusive retreats at the Bohemian Grove the summer before, and he was now on the membership waiting list.

We settled into seats in the club theater, the cushions softened by decades of use. While a velvet-voiced gentleman belted out “What the World Needs Now Is Love,” I twisted my ring back and forth, amazed by how it sparkled even in the dimmed lights. We were seated next to Joe’s friend who was his connection to the Bohemian Club; his friend was not yet a member himself, but was sponsored by a bigwig CEO who had recommended Joe for membership as well. The CEO sat on the other side of Joe’s friend, and the three of them frequently leaned in to make brief comments, occasionally chuckling quietly.

For the past week I had been plagued by a lingering stress about the religion discussion. Now, as I soaked in this scene, my worries evaporated. One day I would figure out how someone as sharp as Joe could believe in the supernatural, but in the meantime, it didn’t matter. Regardless of what Joe believed about the creation of the universe, this—this moment, right here—was what he really cared about. The fact that he had the money to accept an opportunity to join the Club if it came up, and the connections potentially to get the offer in the first place, meant that his life was where he’d always hoped it would be.

And in that, we were perfectly united. Since Joe and I had begun this whirlwind lifestyle of endless travel and parties, I no longer felt like I was forever on the brink of an existential crisis. Though I never thought about it in detail, on some level I realized that our lifestyle was the lesson I’d learned in my grandfather’s pickup truck so long ago writ large: My life was filled with wonderful amusements. Hardly a day went by that I wasn’t engaged in some activity that entertained me. My life was one exhilarating rush of happiness after another, each one powerful enough to crowd out the despair-filled thoughts that once lurked at the edge of my consciousness. I hadn’t found any great answers to those morbid questions I’d first uncovered at The Creek, but all these wonderful distractions had relegated them to functional irrelevance.

Joe turned to me and squeezed my hand. “This is great, isn’t it?” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

My throat felt tight with emotion, so I nodded in response. This was great. It was more than great. It was proof that, despite our differences of opinions on some things, Joe and I were in agreement about what we most wanted out of life.