Atlanta was four hours away.

I’m not sure how I imagined my surprise visit might go. In the car, one prediction replaced the next. All I knew was that I had to see Vivian; there was a part of me that hoped the hard-edged exterior she offered to me on the phone would melt away in my presence and we would find a way to salvage our relationship, our family, the life I still wanted to live.

My stomach clenched in knots as I drove, evidence of a simmering anxiety that made the drive more difficult than it should have been. Thankfully, traffic was relatively light, and I reached the outskirts of Atlanta at a quarter to twelve. Fifteen minutes later, with my nerves jangling hard, I found the new Spannerman building and pulled into the parking lot.

I found a space in the visitor section but hesitated before getting out of the car. I didn’t know what to do. Should I call her and tell her I was downstairs? Should I enter the building and show up at the reception desk? Or storm past the reception and confront her in the office? The countless variations on our conversation that I had imagined on the drive always began with me sitting across from her at a table in a restaurant, not with the steps that led up to that point.

My mind, I knew, wasn’t quite up to par these days.

Vivian would certainly prefer that I call; that way she could perhaps put me off entirely. For that reason, showing up inside seemed preferable, but what if she was in a meeting? Would I leave my name and sit in the waiting room, like a kid who’d been called in to meet the school principal? I wanted to head straight for her office, but I had no idea where it was, and something like that would cause a scene, which might even be worse.

I forced myself from the car as I continued to ponder my choices. All I knew for sure was that I needed to stretch my legs and use the restroom. Spotting a coffee shop across the street, I jaywalked through the stalled traffic to reach the other side. When I left the coffee shop and crossed the street again, I made the decision to call Vivian from the building lobby. That’s when I saw them – Spannerman and Vivian in a brown Bentley, getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, onto the street. Not wanting them to see me, I edged closer to the building and ducked my head. I heard the roar of the engine as it finally pulled out, inching its way into traffic.

Even though I didn’t have much of a plan in the first place, the little I did have was going up in smoke. Despite the lack of appetite, I supposed I could grab a bite to eat and try to catch up with her in an hour or so, which seemed preferable to waiting around, and I started back to my car.

Pulling out of the lot, I noticed that the traffic had barely moved and I could still see the Bentley about eight cars ahead of me. Beyond it, I saw there was some construction going on; an eighteen-wheeler loaded with steel girders was backing onto a work site and the traffic on the street had ground to a halt.

When the truck cleared the road, traffic started moving again. I followed along, conscious of the Bentley in front of me, watching as it made a right turn. I felt like a spy – or rather, a creepy private investigator – when I took the turn as well, but I told myself that since I wasn’t going to confront them at lunch or do anything crazy, it wasn’t a big deal. I just wanted to know where they were eating – I wanted to know something about the new life my wife was leading – and that was normal, something anyone would do.

Right?

Nonetheless I could feel my anger growing. Now there was only a single car between us, and I could see them up ahead. I imagined Walter talking and Vivian responding; I pictured the same joyful expression she’d worn when on the phone with him after her argument with London and my anger transformed into feelings of disappointment and sadness at all I had lost.

Why didn’t she love me?

They weren’t on the road long. They took a left, and then quickly turned into a parking garage beneath a splashy high-rise called Belmont Tower. It had a doorman out front, the kind you see in New York, and I drove on, finally pulling into a restaurant parking lot just up the block.

I killed the engine, wondering if there was a restaurant inside the high-rise. I wondered if it was the location of the corporate apartments. I wondered if this was where Walter Spannerman lived.

Using my phone, I found the information: Belmont Tower was a Spannerman project, and there was also a video link. I clicked it and saw Walter Spannerman boasting about the building amenities; as his final selling point, he proudly announced to viewers that he’d chosen to live on the top floor.

I stopped the video, but like a man choosing to march unassisted to his own execution, I stepped out of the car and made for Belmont Tower. I signaled to the doorman when I was close and he approached.

“It’s a beautiful building,” I said.

“Yes, sir. It really is.”

“I was wondering if there’s a restaurant in the building? Or a dining club for the tenants?” I said.

“No, there isn’t. However, the building has a relationship with La Cerna next door. It’s a five-star restaurant.”

“Are there any apartments for rent?”

“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.”