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That good old London rain is falling in sheets by the time I leave to meet Roland, and Spike insists he can make it home intact. There are texts on my cell phone, and messages. I type a hasty reply to keep Willow at bay.

All good, CU soon, luv to T & girls.

California feels a world away, and I guess it is, technically. Willow’s been careful to sound un-judgey in her messages, but I’m not fooled. She’s against my romance, and if she knew what I knew about where Spike was before he came to me last night?

She’d be over here with holy water quicker than you can say Jonathan Harker.

***

Wells is playing LL Cool J when I roll into the shop that afternoon. What’s worse, he’s singing.

“Shadow boxing when I heard you on the radio … oh, hey, Spike.”

I scowl, and he frantically pushes buttons until an old Wreckless Eric track comes on.

Truth is, I don’t much care about what he plays. Well, except for that time I caught him with the Britney CD. But mostly I just like scaring him.

What can I say? I’m a rude, bad man.

There’s a customer browsing in electronica, his back to us both. Wells grabs a receipt book and scribbles a note.

He’s looking for you. Anyanka sent him over.

“Can I help you?”

He turns. No … could it be?

“So you’re the new guy?” he asks.

I examine him. Buffy used the phrase pale imitation to describe him, and I get that now. He’s what happens when a tortured misfit adolescent grows up into a handsome man and figures out how to make all that angst into lemonade. Professionally speaking.

I’m what happens when the same guy gets killed in an alley.

I unpack all of my swagger and malice and meet his eyes. “Wrong, mate. I’m the old guy.”

“I’m her husband. I think that gives me …”

“Not gonna quibble ‘bout monikers. Just sayin’ I knew her first.”

He scowls, and I realize he suspects this is true. “She’s not in her right state of mind. This is just a … a reaction to grief. A childish over reaction. Running away.”

“Not tellin’ her to stay or go, mate.”

“I’m not your mate.”

I catch something in his eye – pain. The pain Buffy insists is missing. I dial down the testosterone and step back. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

“I want her back,” he mumbles, looking at the toe of his practical Camper slip-on walking shoe.

“Not gonna work like that, and I think you know it.”

He swallows, and I feel a rush of emotion that takes me back to my last few hours with a fully functioning heart.

“Why don’t you stop wasting your time on me, and go find your wife?”

He nods, and leaves without another word.

Wells is staring at me, mouth open like a codfish.

“What a wanker,” I say quickly.

My employee accepts my show of bravado and gets busy dusting the countertop.

And me?

I watch Buffy’s husband cross the street and head towards the tube.

***

Roland is showing me around the latest offering. He’s finally gotten wise to the fact that “Southern exposures, lots of sunlight” isn’t for me, and this place has some character. Original wood paneling and molding is unspoiled, dark and rich. Lots of leaded glass, nice and opaque. Hemmed in by two larger and more remodeled townhomes, it feels like it could be a vampire’s love nest. Until we get up to the master suite, and wouldn’t you know it?

French doors.

But there is a huge bed in the center of the room, a real antique with draperies surrounding it on all four sides.

I remember the last time – the time after we’d showered, and ended up back on our backs anyhow. He’d flipped me over to my belly, pushed me into the mattress, flat, and covered me, entering me from behind.

“Pinned like a butterfly,” he’d whispered into my ear.

Roland is saying something, and I shake my head, clearing out thoughts of fucking Spike in that huge canopy bed and focusing on matters of real estate.

“The owner is quite motivated,” he’s telling me. “He inherited from a great aunt, I believe. She hasn’t made many modernizations, and I’m told he isn’t eager to embark on a course of home improvement.”

I’m still staring at the bed.

“And I’m sure he’d be amenable to including some of the furnishings in the sale.”

For the first time during my home search, I smile.

***

My smile carries me all the way back to my temporary digs, and then crashes off my face as I see him standing there.

“Owen?”

“Buffy!”

He tries to hug me, but I sidestep him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to say, to say …”

I wait.

“I came to say that I want us to have another chance.”

Night is gathering, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the north. Owen is dressed for a much warmer day, and I feel a shimmer of pity. “Let’s go inside,” I tell him.

But as he climbs the stairs behind me, I know that there is nothing he can say.

***

“Willow told me. Where to find you. I was at LaGuardia, all ready to hop the red eye to LAX when she called me back and said I was headed in the wrong direction. I didn’t believe her at first. Buffy, what are you doing in London?”

I shrug. “Working. Moving on.”

“To the living dead?”

“Gee, you and Willow had a nice long chat, didn’t you?”

“She’s worried. We’re all worried.”

“All two of you.”

“We can try again, Buffy.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about our marriage or a baby, but I shake my head. “No. We can’t. I’m done. And if that’s what you want, well … I’m sure you can find someone.”

“And leave you to do what?”

“To do whatever I want.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Actually, that’s divorce, Owen.”

“You’re throwing your life away, sweetheart. We had something. We were good together. The poet and the photographer – a modern day fairytale.”

“You’ve kind of lost me, there, Owen.” In more ways than one, I add silently.

“I flew all this way.”

“Great. See the Tower of London. Maybe the V&A.”

“Buffy, I’m worried about you.”

I force myself to pause and think. He’s flown all this way. Maybe I ought to … and then I realize he hasn’t told me he loves me.

Then again, neither has Spike.

I sigh, a world-weary sigh, and head towards the door, swinging it open. “Thanks for your concern. But I think we both know this isn’t going to work.”

He begins to protest, but something in my face gives him pause, and instead he settles for storming out, dignity in tatters.

***

I sit in my dark basement hovel and tell myself that she’ll be leaving soon. Maybe this time, I’ll get the note from the courier.

What with all this emotion, I’m off my feed. But it is midnight, and the time of year when London teems with reckless tourist types, backpacking their way to my dinner table.

Before I can think it over any more, I’m out in the night, trying not to imagine the happy couple fumbling together in Buffy’s dirty bedsheets.

***

“You sent Owen to me?”

“Gee, Buffy. I thought you’d broken all your dialing fingers.”

“Willow, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“He’s your husband, Buffy. And you’re the one who ran off to London.”

She says some more hateful things, and I respond in kind.

***

Instead of snacking on any one of the many mobile Happy Meals that cross my path, I find myself in front of her building, standing in the shadow of a shade tree.

I can see her clearly. She’s talking on the phone, and she looks desperately unhappy.

With considerable effort, I extend my predator’s senses, looking for any sign of a second person – a heartbeat, a scent, the sound of footfalls.

Hard to be certain in such a crowded neighborhood, but I believe she’s alone.

Joy floods me, and I turn, a spring in my step.

All of a sudden I could devour a dozen Starbuck-swilling Americans.