"No, sir."

I put a hand in my pocket. "Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."

A few minutes later, dazed at the idea that Vivian had most likely gone with Spannerman to his penthouse, I was in my car and on my way back to Charlotte.

I arrived half an hour after London got back from school and when I opened the door, she came running.

"Daddy! Where were you?"

"I had to work," I said. "I'm so sorry I couldn't pick you up."

"That's okay. Auntie Marge was there. She drove me home." She put her arms around me. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too, baby."

"I love you."

"Ditto," I said.

"What does ditto mean?"

"You say 'ditto' when you want to say the same thing. You said I love you, so I said ditto, meaning I love you."

"That's neat," she said. "I didn't know you could do that."

"It's just a crazy world, isn't it? Did you learn anything fun in school?"

"I learned that spiders aren't insects. They're called arachmids."

"You mean arachnid?"

"No, Daddy. Arachmid. With an M."

I was pretty sure she was wrong, but she'd figure it out eventually. "That's cool."

"It's because insects have six legs and spiders have eight legs."

"Wow... you're pretty smart, you know that?"

"But I still don't like spiders. I don't like bees anymore either. Even though they make honey. But butterflies are pretty."

"Just like you. You're pretty, too. Prettier than any butterfly," I said. "Can I go say hi to Auntie Marge for a minute?"

"Okay. I have to check on Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. Did you remember to give them water?"

Oops.

"No, I didn't. But they had plenty yesterday. I'm sure they're okay."

"I'll go make sure."

I kissed her cheek and put her down. She ran toward the steps and vanished from sight. Marge, I noticed, had been watching us from the kitchen.

"You're a good dad, you know that?" she said when I reached her.

"I try. How was she?"

"You mean in the hour I've had her? I had to drive her home and get her a Popsicle. And then, Mom showed up with a ton of food and I had to deal with that, too. I put some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer, by the way. Let's just say that you really owe me for this one. I'm exhausted. What a day! I'm not sure I can take any more."

My sister had a flair for sarcastic melodrama, obviously. "I didn't think I'd be back so soon."

"Neither did I. And when you did get home, I thought you'd resemble a pile of mashed potatoes. What happened? Was she even there?"

"I saw her," I said. "Well, kind of." I told her what had happened. While I spoke, she poured two glasses of ice water and handed one to me.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Why didn't you just wait for her?"

"After they went to Spannerman's place, I realized I didn't want to see her after that."

"Because?"

"She was... with him. Probably at his penthouse or whatever. And..."

"And what? She left you. She told you she was in love with him. You do know she's sleeping with him, right?"

"I know that," I said. "I just don't like to think about it... I don't want to think about it."

Marge offered a sympathetic expression. "That makes you perfectly sane."

I hesitated, realizing I was utterly exhausted. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to take care of yourself. And you're going to continue to be a good father to London."

"I mean about Vivian."

"For now, let's just worry about you and your daughter, okay?"

I never should have gone to Atlanta.

On Tuesday, I tried to bury myself in work on Taglieri's commercial, but it was hard to stay focused and I thought endlessly of Vivian. I would see her in the Bentley, Spannerman in the seat beside her; whenever I imagined her expression, it was the same one I'd seen on the patio.

Those images haunted me, bringing with them a sense of inadequacy. Of inferiority. I hadn't simply been rejected; I'd been replaced by someone wealthier and more powerful, someone who had the ability to make Vivian laugh and smile in a way that I could not.

She had left me, not for reasons of her own, but because of me.

I said as much to Marge on the phone the following day, and when she wasn't able to talk me out of funk, she and Liz showed up at my home after work. It was Tuesday night and I'd fed London one of the meals my mom had made; as soon as they walked in the door, Marge and London headed off to watch a movie in the family room while Liz and I sat on the back patio.

I recounted everything that had happened and the way I'd been feeling. When I was finished, Liz brought her hands together.

"What did you think would happen if you talked to Vivian?"

"I guess I was hoping that she'd make the decision to come back. Or at the very least, we'd discuss how we could work it out."

"Why? Has she given you any indication that she wants to come back? Or try to work it out?"

"No," I admitted. "But she's my wife. We've barely spoken since she left."

"I'm sure that the two of you will have a sit-down when she's ready. But I can't promise that you'll like what she tells you."

It wasn't that hard to read between the lines. "You don't think she'll come back, do you?"

"I'm not sure my opinion is any better than anyone else's. Or that it's even relevant."

"You're right. It's not relevant. But you've seen situations like this before, and you know Vivian. I'd still like to know what you think."

She exhaled. "No," she finally said. "I don't think she's coming back."

I wanted numbness; I didn't want to feel or think about Vivian, but it seemed that the only time I could find oblivion was in the hours that London was in school, when I buried myself in work. On Wednesday, I continued to bury myself in Taglieri's second commercial before finally sending it off to the editor for polishing and finalizing. After that, I worked on the presentation for the surgeon on Thursday afternoon. I was proposing a different campaign than I'd recommended for Taglieri a much higher online presence and user-friendly website, a heavy emphasis on patient testimonials on video, direct mail, social media, and billboards and even though I was far less than a hundred percent during the presentation, I left the meeting the following day with a handshake agreement knowing I'd landed my second client. Like Taglieri, he'd committed to a year of services.

With those two clients, I realized that I'd replaced nearly half of my previous salary, not counting bonuses. It was enough to meet my monthly obligations with a few trims here and there, and made it significantly easier when I picked up the phone and canceled our joint credit cards.

I let Vivian know via text.

Vivian called me later that night. Since my ill-advised adventure in Atlanta on Monday, I'd allowed London to answer the phone as soon as I saw Vivian's image pop up on the screen. London let me know that Vivian would be calling me back later. As she headed up the stairs to get ready for bed, I wondered whether she'd figured out that things had changed between her mother and me, or that we were no longer going to be a family.

While I waited for her call, I didn't want to get my hopes up, but I couldn't help it. I would imagine hearing her apologize or say that she was coming home, and yet, like the turbulence of my emotions, those thoughts would be replaced with the memory of what Liz had told me, or that the only reason Vivian was calling was because I'd canceled the credit cards, and she wanted to let me know how angry she was.

The push and pull left me exhausted, and by the time the phone finally did ring, I had little emotional energy to expend, no matter what she might say.

I let the phone ring four times before finally connecting the call.

"Hi," I said. "London said you'd be calling."

"Hi, Russ," she said. Her voice was calm, as if nothing had changed between us at all. "How are you?"

I wondered if she really cared or was simply being polite; I wondered why I felt the need to try to read her, instead of letting the call simply unfold.

"I'm fine," I forced out. "You?"

"I'm okay," she said. "London sounds like she might be coming down with a cold."

"She didn't say anything to me."

"She didn't to me, either. I could hear it in her voice, though. Make sure she's taking her vitamins and maybe get her some orange juice in the morning. She'll probably need some children's cold medicine, too."

"How can she get a cold? It's almost ninety degrees outside."

"She's in school. New kids, new germs. It happens in every school at the beginning of the year."

"All right," I said. "I'll have to run out to get some orange juice and the medicine, but she's been taking her vitamins."

"Don't forget," she said. "And anyway, I was calling for a couple of reasons. First, I'm coming to Charlotte this weekend. I really miss London and if it's okay with you, I'd like to spend some uninterrupted time with her."

But not me.

"Of course," I said, keeping my voice steady. "She'd love that. She misses you, too."

"Good. Thank you." I could hear her relief and wondered why she'd anticipated any other reaction. "But here's the thing. I don't think it's a good idea for me stay in a hotel. I think that would be very strange for her."

I frowned. "Why would you stay at a hotel? You can stay at the house. We have a guest room."

"I think she'd notice if I slept in the guest room. Even if she doesn't notice, I don't think we should put her in the position where she asks the three of us to do things together. I would really like it to be just the two of us, for her sake. So she doesn't get confused."

"What are you saying?"

"Would you mind staying with your parents? Or maybe with Marge and Liz? On Friday and Saturday night?"

I could feel my blood pressure spike.

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, Russ. I'm not. Please. I know I'm asking a lot, but I don't want to make things any harder on London than they already are."

Or maybe, I thought, you'd rather it not be any harder on you.

I let the silence crackle between us.

"Yeah," I finally said. "I guess I can ask Marge. My parents are going to be out of town."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Remember that London has dance on Friday night, and then art class on Saturday morning, so you probably won't have time to do yoga."

"I've always put my daughter first, Russ. You know that."

"You've been a great mom," I conceded. "Oh, for art class, you'll need to bring the vase she made last week. This weekend, she'll be painting it."

"Where is it?"

"I put it in the pantry. Top shelf, on the right."

"Got it," she said. "Oh, one last thing."

"Yes?"