Two by Two

by Nicholas Sparks

  But assumptions are only as accurate as the person who makes them, and I was wrong about virtually everything. My first major promotion had somewhat coincided with my marriage to Vivian; my second promotion had occurred two weeks after Vivian had come to the office to drop off my car after it had been in the shop, one of those drop-ins that could go catastrophically wrong but in this case had caused the boss to join us in my office before eventually taking us to lunch. The third promotion came less than a week after Peters and Vivian spent three hours talking at a client's dinner party. Only in retrospect did it become clear that Peters was less interested in my work performance than he was in Vivian, and it was that simple truth that had kept him from zeroing in on me all along. Vivian, I should note, bore a striking resemblance to both of Peters's former wives, and Peters, I suspected, wanted nothing more than to keep her happy... or if possible, marry wife number three, even if it cost me my own marriage.

  I'm not kidding. Nor am I exaggerating. Whenever Peters spoke to me, he never failed to ask me how Vivian was doing, or comment on what a beautiful woman she was, or ask how we were doing. At client dinners--three or four times a year--Peters always found a way to sit beside my wife, and every Christmas party included the sight of them, heads together in a corner. I probably could have ignored all of this, if not for Vivian's response to his obvious attraction. Though she didn't do anything to encourage Peters, she didn't do anything to discourage his attention either. As terrible as he was as a boss, Peters could be quite charming around women, especially beautiful ones like Vivian. He would listen and laugh and offer just the right compliment at exactly the right time, and because he was also as rich as Midas, it struck me as possible--even likely--that Vivian was flattered by his interest. His attraction toward her was, for her, par for the course. Guys had been vying for her attention ever since she'd been in elementary school and she'd come to expect it; what she didn't like, however, was the fact that it sometimes made me jealous.

  In December 2014--the month before the most fateful year of my life--we were getting ready for the agency's annual office Christmas party. When I expressed my concerns about the situation, she heaved an aggravated sigh.

  "Get over it," she said and I turned away, wondering why it was my wife seemed so dismissive of my feelings.

  To rewind a bit on Vivian and me:

  As rewarding as motherhood had been for Vivian, marriage to me seemed to have dimmed in its appeal. I can remember thinking that Vivian had changed in the years we'd been married, but lately, I've come to believe that Vivian didn't change so much as simply evolve, becoming more of the person she'd always been--a person who gradually felt to me like a stranger.

  The shift was so subtle as to barely be noticeable. In the first year of London's life, I accepted Vivian's occasional moodiness and irritation as something normal and expected, a phase that would pass. I can't say I enjoyed it, but I grew used to it, even when it seemed to border on contempt. But the phase never seemed to end. Over the next few years, Vivian seemed to grow more angry, more disappointed, and more dismissive of my concerns. She frequently grew angry over even minor things, hurling insults I could never imagine even whispering aloud. Her aggression was swift and pointed, usually aimed at getting me to apologize and back down. As someone who disliked conflict, I eventually reached the point where I nearly always retreated as soon as she raised her voice, no matter what grievances I might have held.

  The aftermath of her anger was often worse than the attack itself. Forgiveness seemed unobtainable, and instead of continuing to discuss things or simply putting them behind her, Vivian would withdraw. She would say little or nothing to me at all, sometimes for days, answering questions with one or two words. Instead, she would focus her attention on London, and retreat to the bedroom as soon as our daughter was tucked in, leaving me alone in the family room. On those days she radiated contempt, leaving me to wonder whether my wife still loved me at all.

  And yet there was an unpredictability to all of these things, rules suddenly changing and then changing again. Vivian would be in her anger forthright, then passive-aggressive, whichever seemed to fit her mood. Her expectations of me became increasingly fuzzy and half the time, I wasn't sure what to do or not to do, rehashing events in the wake of a blowout, trying to figure out what I might have done to upset her. Nor would she tell me; instead, she'd deny that anything was wrong or accuse me of overreacting. I often felt as if I were walking through a minefield, with both my emotional state and the marriage on the line... and then suddenly, for reasons that were equally mysterious to me, our relationship would revert to something approaching normal. She'd ask about my day or whether there was anything special I wanted for dinner; and after London went to bed, we would make love--the ultimate signal that I'd been forgiven. Afterward, I'd breathe a sigh of relief, hopeful that things were finally returning to the way they used to be.

  Vivian would deny my version of these events, or at least my interpretation of them. Angrily. Or she'd cast her actions and behaviors as responses to things I'd done. She would say that I had an unrealistic view of marriage, and that I'd somehow expected the honeymoon to last forever, which just wasn't possible. She claimed that I brought work stress home, and that I was the one who was moody, not her; that I resented the fact that she'd been able to stay at home and that I often took my resentment out on her.

  Whatever version of events was objectively true, in my heart what I wanted more than anything was for Vivian to be happy. Or, more specifically, happy with me. I still loved Vivian, after all, and I missed how she used to smile and laugh when we were together; I missed our rambling conversations and the way we used to hold hands. I missed the Vivian who'd made me believe that I was a man worthy of her love.

  Yet, with the exception of our Friday evening date nights, our relationship continued its gradual evolution into something I didn't always recognize, or even want. Vivian's contempt began to hurt me. I spent most of those years being disappointed in myself for constantly letting her down, and vowing to try even harder to please her.

  Now, fast-forward back to the night of the Christmas party again.

  "Get over it," she'd said to me, and the words continued to play in my mind, even as I dressed. They were sharp, dismissive of my concern and devoid of empathy, but even so, what I remember most about that evening was that Vivian looked even more stunning than usual. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, pumps, and the diamond pendant necklace I'd given her on her last birthday. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and when she emerged from the bathroom, all I could do was stare.

  "You look beautiful," I said.

  "Thank you," she said, clutching her handbag.

  In the car, things were still tense between us. We stumbled through some small talk, and when she discerned I wasn't going to bring up Peters again, her mood began to thaw. By the time we arrived at the party, it was almost as though she and I had come to an unspoken agreement to pretend that my comment and her response had never been uttered at all.

  Yet, she'd heard me. As annoyed as she'd been, Vivian stayed by my side virtually the entire evening. Peters chatted with us on three separate occasions and twice asked Vivian if she wanted to get something to drink--it was clear he wanted her to join him at the bar--and on both occasions, she shook her head, telling him that she'd already ordered from one of the waiters. She was polite and friendly as she said it, and I found myself wondering whether I'd been making too much of the whole Peters situation after all. He could flirt with her all he wanted, but at the end of the night she would head home with me, and that was all that really mattered, right?

  The party itself was largely forgettable--it was no better or worse or even all that different from any other office Christmas party--but after we got home and let our teenage babysitter go, Vivian asked me to pour her a glass of wine and check in on London. By the time I finally made it to the bedroom, there were candles lit and she was wearing lingerie... and...

  T
hat was the thing about Vivian; trying to guess what she was going to do next was often pointless; even after seven years, she could still amaze me, sometimes in blissfully tender ways.

  Big mistake.

  That's pretty much the way I think about that evening now, at least when it came to my career at the agency.

  Jesse Peters, it turns out, wasn't pleased that Vivian had avoided him, and by the following week, a distinct cooling breeze began flowing from his office toward mine. It was subtle at first; when I saw him in the hallway on the Monday following the party, he walked past with a curt nod, and during a creative meeting a few days later, he asked everyone questions but me. Those types of minor snubs continued, but because I was buried in yet another complex campaign--for a bank that wanted a campaign centered on integrity but that also felt new--I thought nothing of it. After that came the holidays and because the office was always a bit crazed at the beginning of a new year, it wasn't until the end of January when I registered the fact that Jesse Peters had barely spoken to me for at least six weeks. At that point, I began swinging by his office, but his assistant would inform me that he was on a call or otherwise busy. What finally made me understand the depth of his peevishness with me came in mid-February, when he finally made time to see me. Actually, through his secretary, and then mine, he requested to see me, which essentially meant I had no choice. The firm had lost a major client, an automotive dealer with eight locations throughout Charlotte, and it had been my account. After I walked him through the reasons I thought the client had chosen another firm, he fixed me with an unblinking stare. More ominously, he neither mentioned Vivian nor asked about her. At the conclusion of our meeting, I walked out the door feeling much like the executives I used to feel superior to, the ones I'd seen teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I had the sinking feeling that my days at the Peters Group were suddenly numbered.

  Even harder to bear was the fact that it wasn't because of anything I did or didn't do for the auto dealer--a man in his late sixties--that made him leave. I've seen the print ads and commercials from the agency that took over the account and I still believe that our ideas were more creative and more effective. But clients can be fickle. A downturn in the economy, change in management, or simply the desire to cut expenses in the short run can lead to changes that affect our industry, but sometimes, it has nothing to do with business at all. In this case, the client was going through a divorce and needed money to pay for the settlement; cutting advertising for the next six months would save him more than six figures, and he needed to hoard every penny, since his wife had hired a notoriously cutthroat lawyer. With court costs rising and a nasty settlement in the making, the guy was trimming every expense he could, and Peters knew it.

  A month later, when another client pulled the plug--a chain of urgent care clinics--Peters's displeasure with me was even more evident. It wasn't a major client--frankly, it barely classified as even a medium client--and the fact that I'd signed three new clients since the beginning of the year seemed to matter to him not at all. Instead, after again summoning me, he ventured aloud that "you might be losing your touch" and that "clients may have stopped trusting your judgment." As a final exclamation point to the meeting, he called Todd Henley into the office and announced that from that point on, we'd be "working together." Henley was an up-and-comer--he'd been at the agency five years--and though he was somewhat creative, his real skill was navigating the political waters of the agency. I'd known he was gunning for my job--he wasn't the only one, but he was the most sycophantic of the bunch. When he suddenly began spending more time in Peters's office--no doubt claiming more credit than he deserved for any ad campaign we were working on--and leaving with a self-satisfied smirk I knew I had to start making plans.

  My experience, position, and current salary didn't leave many options. Because Peters dominated the advertising industry in the Charlotte area, I had to cast a wider net. In Atlanta, Peters was number two in the market and growing, gobbling up smaller agencies and landing new clients. The current market leader had gone through two recent transitions in leadership and was now in a hiring freeze. After that, I contacted firms in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Baltimore, thinking that being closer to Vivian's parents would make the move from Charlotte more palatable to Vivian. Again, however, I couldn't land so much as an interview.

  There were other possibilities, of course, depending on how far away from Charlotte I'd be willing to move, and I contacted seven or eight firms throughout the Southeast and Midwest. And yet with every call, I also grew more certain that I didn't want to leave. My parents were here, Marge and Liz were here; Charlotte was home for me. And with that, the idea of starting my own business--a boutique advertising agency--began to rise from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. Which, I realized, also happened to be a perfect name...

  The Phoenix Agency. Where your business will rise to levels of unprecedented success.

  All at once, I could see the slogan on business cards; I could imagine chatting with clients, and when visiting my parents, I casually mentioned the idea to my father. He told me straight out that it wasn't a good idea; Vivian wasn't thrilled about it either. I'd been keeping her informed about my job search and when I mentioned my idea for the Phoenix Agency, she'd suggested I try looking into New York and Chicago, two places I considered nonstarters. But still, I couldn't shake off my dream, and the advantages began to tumble through my mind.

  As a solo operator, I'd have little in the way of overhead.

  I was on a first-name basis with CEOs and other executives throughout Charlotte.

  I was excellent at my job.

  I'd be a boutique firm, catering to only a few clients.

  I could charge the client less and earn more.

  Meanwhile, at the office, I began running numbers and making projections. I called clients, asking if they were satisfied with the service and pricing they were getting from the Peters Group, and their answers bolstered my certainty that I couldn't fail. Meanwhile, Henley was verbally slipping me into concrete loafers and tossing me overboard every time he walked into Peters's office, and Peters actually began to scowl at me.

  That was when I knew Peters would fire me, which meant I had no choice but to strike out on my own.

  All I had left to do was officially tell Vivian.

  What could be better than celebrating my future success on date night?

  Granted, I could have chosen another night, but I wanted to share my excitement with her. I wanted her support. I wanted to share my plans and have her reach across the table to take my hands while saying I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for you to do something like this. There's no doubt in my mind you'll be a success. I've always believed in you.

  About a year later, when I confessed to Marge my hopes for that night, she'd actually laughed aloud. "So let me get this straight," she'd said to me. "You basically ripped away her sense of security and told her you were about to turn your lives upside down... and you honestly believed she'd think it was a good idea? You had a child, for God's sake. And a mortgage. And other bills. Are you out of your mind?"

  "But..."

  "There are no buts," she said. "You know that Vivian and I don't always agree, but on that night, she was right."

  Maybe Marge had a point, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. On the night in question after we'd put London to bed, I grilled steaks--about the only thing I could actually cook well--while Vivian prepared a salad, steamed some broccoli, and sauteed green beans with shaved almonds. Vivian, I should add, never ate what might be considered unhealthy carbs--bread, ice cream, pasta, sugar, or anything that included white flour--all of which I considered to be rather tasty and indulged in during my lunches, which probably explained my love handles.

  Dinner, however, was tense from the beginning. My intention to keep things light and easy seemed only to put her more on edge, as if she were preparing herself for whatever might be coming next. Vivian had always been able to read me li
ke Moses read the Commandments, and her growing unease made me try even harder to keep things breezy, which only made her sit even straighter in her chair.

  I waited until we were nearly finished with the meal. She'd eaten two or three ounces of her steak and I'd refilled her glass of wine when I started to tell her about Henley and Peters and my suspicion about being fired. She merely nodded, so I gathered my courage and launched into my plans, walking through my projections while underscoring every reason for the decision. As I spoke, she may as well have been carved from marble. She sat as still as I'd ever seen her, not even glancing at her glass of wine. Nor did she ask any questions until after I'd finished. Silence filled the room, echoing against the walls.

  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she finally offered.

  It wasn't the ringing endorsement that I'd wanted, but she didn't storm off either, which I took as a good sign. Silly me.

  "Actually," I admitted, "it scares the hell out of me, but if I don't do it now, I don't know if I ever will."

  "Aren't you kind of young to start your own agency?"

  "I'm thirty-five. Peters was only thirty when he started his agency."

  She pressed her lips together and I could almost see the words forming in her mind--but you aren't Peters. Thankfully, she didn't say that. Instead, she drew her brows together, though not a single wrinkle showed. The woman really was a marvel when it came to aging. "Do you even know how to start your own agency?"