Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

My car was too small to load my bike in the trunk, but I squeezed London’s bike into the back. Someone had leaned the bikes against the mailbox. I drove London’s bike home, put on my running gear, and ran back to the same mailbox. It was while grabbing mine that I saw the blood that had dried on the asphalt and my stomach did a flip-flop. I rode my bike home, went for a run, and took a cooling shower. Both London and Vivian were still sleeping, so I went back to the bedroom for a nap. I drew the shades and slept like the dead.

When I awoke, I found Vivian and London watching a movie in the family room. Though wearing the same clothes she’d arrived in, Vivian had showered, the tips of her hair still wet, and London was curled up next to her on the sofa. On the coffee table were the remains of London’s snack-turkey and pear slices-most of which she had eaten.

“How are you feeling, London?’

“Good,” she said, without looking up.

“How did you sleep?” Vivian asked.

I was struck by how ordinary she sounded.

“Well. I needed it.” I motioned to the plate. “I know London just had a snack, but what are you thinking for dinner? Do you want me to make something?”

“I think it might be easier if we just order something, don’t you? Unless you’re really in the mood to cook.”

I wasn’t. “Chinese?”

She squeezed London closer to her. “Do you want Chinese food for dinner?”

“Okay,” London said, still absorbed in the movie. The bandage on her head, along with the splint on her arm, made me wince.

Though I wanted to visit with London-part of me wondered whether she was angry with me for what had happened-I didn’t want to do anything that might upset the détente that seemed to currently exist between Vivian and me. Instead, I went to the kitchen and ate a banana, then wandered to the computer in the den, trying to lose myself in work but feeling distinctly unfocused. In time, I called the Chinese restaurant and went to pick up the food.

We ate on the back porch, just like old times. Afterward, London took a bath and dressed in her pajamas. As bedtime approached, Vivian and I slipped into our familiar roles-she read first, followed by me. But when I finally came back downstairs, Vivian had already shouldered her handbag and was waiting near the door.

“I need to get going,” she said. Did I detect a hint of resignation in her voice? I reminded myself again that it was pointless to read anything into it.

“I figured.”

She adjusted the strap of her handbag, as if stalling would help her find the words she needed. “I noticed that you rearranged the house and took a lot of the photos down. The ones that included me, I mean. I was going to say something earlier, but I didn’t think it was the right time.”

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to admit that I’d done so in a fit of anger. But I didn’t feel I was wrong, either; I knew I would do the same thing again.

“Like you, I’m just trying to move forward,” I stated. “But I put some of the family photos in her room. Because we’ll always be her parents.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“I put the other photos in a box if you want to bring them with you. There are some fantastic ones of you and London.”

“That would be great.”

I went to the closet and retrieved the box; as I held it beneath my arm, her eyes flashed to the photos. I felt acutely, perhaps more than ever, that our era as a couple had really and truly come to an end, and I had the sense she was thinking the same thing.

“Let me get my keys and I’ll put this in the trunk,” I said.

“I can carry it,” she said, reaching for the box. “You don’t need to drive me. There’s a car waiting out front.”

I handed it over. “A car?”

“It’s not like we can leave London here alone, right?”

Right, I thought, wondering how I’d overlooked something so elementary. Being around Vivian-a Vivian who reminded me of the woman I had married, the very same Vivian with whom I had no future-seemed to have thrown me.

“All right, then,” I said. I put a hand in my pocket. “About this weekend,” I started, “and me having to stay at Marge’s or my parents’…”

“You don’t have to,” she said, cutting me off. “I realized today that there’s no reason for you to do that. It’s not fair to you. I’ll just stay in the guest room if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“But you know I still want to spend as much time with London as I can. Just the two of us. I know that may not seem fair, but right now, I really don’t want to confuse her.”

“Of course,” I said. “That makes sense.”

She shifted the box beneath her arm and I wondered whether to offer a hug or a kiss on the cheek. As if anticipating my action, she turned toward the door.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” she said. “And I’ll call London tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” I said, opening the door for her. Behind her, idling on the street, was a limousine. Vivian started toward it and I watched as the driver quickly exited the car to help her carry the box. He opened the door and put the box on the seat. Vivian waited for him to move aside, then got into the car. I couldn’t help thinking that it all seemed as natural as breathing for her-as though she’d always had a car and driver, had always been the lover of a billionaire.

I couldn’t see her through the darkened glass of the car and I wondered whether she was watching me, but in the end, I simply turned away. Stepping into the house, I closed the door behind me, feeling strangely sad.

For a moment I hesitated. Then I reached for my phone.

Emily answered on the second ring.

We were on the phone for nearly two hours. Though I did most of the talking, working through my sense of loss, she managed to make me smile and laugh more than once. And every time I wondered aloud if I was a good person, she assured me that I was blameless. I needed to hear that, somehow, and when I finally turned in for the night, I closed my eyes wondering how I’d been lucky enough to rediscover Emily, who was exactly the kind of friend I needed most.

I love autumn,” Emily said to me. “It ‘wins you over with its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.’”

“Excuse me?”

“I was talking about autumn,” Emily said.

“I got that. I’m just trying to understand what you said.”

“Not me. Robert Browning. Well, kind of… I might have gotten a few words wrong here or there. He was an English poet.”

“I didn’t know you read poetry.”

It was October 2002, a few months after Emily and I had been stuck on the Ferris wheel. It was also less than a few weeks after the Great Mistake, the one involving the woman I’d met in the bar. Marge had already warned me more than once not to say a thing to Emily, but I was still agonizing over my terrible secret.

We were, in fact, on a double date with Marge and Liz. We’d taken a trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville, which was for a long time the largest private home in the world. I’d been there before as a child but had never gone with Emily; it had been her idea to go, and also to invite Marge and Liz. When Emily had begun to quote Browning, the four of us were savoring wine from the Biltmore winery.

“I majored in art, but I had to take other classes, too,” Emily pointed out.

“I did, too. But I never took one that included poetry.”

“That’s because you majored in business.”

“Exactly,” Marge cut in. “Just because you botched your education, there’s no need to put Emily on the defensive.”