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called out, his voice echoing in the hallways.
    He ran up the stairs, heard whimpering from the bedroom. He didn’t want to go in there, didn’t want to be so close to that empty space.
    “Come on, girl. I’ll get you a treat,” Luke called from the top of the stairs.
    The dog didn’t fall for it. Luke headed into the bedroom.
    Sweetpea was trying to stuff herself under the bed, moaning from the strain.
    “Get out of there, old girl,” Luke said, going to her side and pulling her back. He leaned down and scanned the underbelly of the king-size bed. A slipper. Emily’s slipper.
    Luke reached for the furry thing and passed it on to his dog, who snatched it between joyous lips.
    “Lucky you,” Luke told her, half-smiling.
    And then he was crying, tears covering his face faster than he could wipe them off with his flannel sleeve.
    “Let’s get out of here, girl,” he said, but Sweetpea had plopped herself down at the side of the bed—Emily’s side—and was happily chewing on the slipper.
    It was then Luke noticed the difference, noticed how the room had changed since he had left it three months before. The top of the dresser was bare, stripped free of jewelry box, photographs, comb and brush. He threw open drawers, now empty of lingerie, of T-shirts and tank tops, of bathing suits and running clothes. He pushed the closet door open—dresses, shoes, pants, blouses, gone. When she had left him, she had filled a suitcase, perhaps. Not much more. And he had waited for her to come back—if not for him, then at least for her clothes. Now she had done that. When? A week ago? Months ago? Had Dana called her, wherever she was hiding, on the day he left town? Told her the coast was clear. Come and get it.
    The emptied bedroom was somehow more real than the note on the refrigerator door. What did it mean that she left without a word? That she couldn’t talk to him, fight with him, make up with him?
    He remembered a rip-roaring fight. Six months ago, the director of
The Geography of Love
had invited Luke to work with him in L.A., on the set—but Luke was already writing a new script and didn’t want to be distracted. Emily begged him to take her to L.A., to let her watch production, go to parties, take lunches. He hated all that and chose to live in San Francisco, away from Hollywood, so that he could do what he did best—write. When he turned the director down, she was furious. She raged, accusing him of being selfish. This was his career, wasn’t it? he countered. She left the house, slept at Dana’s for a night, came back the next morning and they fell wearily into each other’s arms. Her mouth at his ear, she had murmured, “I know you. I won’t ask again.”
    So why, in the end, had she left without an argument?
Tell me you’re lonely,
Luke thought.
Tell me what you need. Scream it, cry it, slam doors in my face. But don’t leave me like that.
    He sank down on the bed.
I need a slipper to chew on,
he thought. And he rolled over, his head on her pillow. Still, after all these months, he could breathe her in.
    An hour later, he awoke, feeling drunk and hungover at the same time. He dragged himself into the shower, found fresh clothes to wear, poured himself another bourbon. He needed food, but he could wait for that.
    Sweetpea didn’t want to follow him out of the house—she was home now, dragging the slipper from room to room.
    “Stay here, girl,” Luke told her finally. “I’ll be back.” What he wanted was to head to his cabin in the woods and never return. First he’d talk to Dana. Then he’d fetch Sweetpea and flee the city.
    He drove across town to Pacific Heights. Dana and her husband lived in a pink Victorian, tucked between a sky blue Victorian and a mauve Victorian. Suddenly San Francisco seemed candy sweet, and Luke wondered how he had ever loved the city. He rang the doorbell and glanced at his watch, 9:45 P.M. Saturday night. And he knew when the door opened that he’d be falling into a