They say pride comes before a fall. In a move I will hopefully never have to repeat in this lifetime, I take my mother’s advice and call London. As cryptic as that whole conversation was, she was so certain that London will want to see me that I decide to just roll with it. I want to see her, and I’m full of pride, but have nowhere further to fall.

I’m poised to hang up, expecting the call to go to voice mail, as ever. Instead, I hear London’s voice on the line after only two rings.

“Hello?”

I’m caught totally off guard. There’s no way I thought she would pick up.

“Arlo?”

Fuck. I have to say something or she’ll think I’m pranking her, or that it was a butt call.

“Hi.”

“Hi…?”

I guess she has a right to be hesitant.

“How are you?” I genuinely want to know. Despite the daily updates from Marko, I want to hear her tell me in her own words.

“I’m fine.” If she sighs any more heavily, she’s in danger of deflating.

“You don’t sound it. Wanna talk over coffee?” Might as well make the most of the opportunity—it’s too good to pass up.

“Coffee?”

I’d be dubious too if I were her. Scrap that, I am dubious, and I’m the one doing the talking.

“Today?” I didn’t expect her to agree so readily. Why do I get the feeling that this is all too easy, that there’s got to be a catch?

“If that works. I can work around you.” I feel like a fucking teenager again, asking the most popular girl in school to prom.

“Yeah. Okay. Now.”

She’s not about to win any awards for her small talk, but I couldn’t complain about the result.

“Sure, I’ll come to you. I can be there in twenty.”

“’Kay. See you at Bean & Bloom.” She hangs up without waiting for my response. Maybe she’s more like me than I first gave her credit for.

It takes all my willpower not to break the land speed record on the way to the cafe. Of course today, every light in the city turns red if I come anywhere near it. Why? I’m like a raging bull. I swear there is actual steam coming from my nose and ears.

I almost dare someone to cut me off, flip me off, or piss me off in some other way, just to give me a “legitimate” reason to epically lose my shit. Luckily for all concerned, nobody does. I arrive with time to spare and my anger in check. Kinda.

As I walk into the coffeehouse, I look around for somewhere to sit. I guess I didn’t think this through properly before making plans. I’d offered to come to her as I figured she wouldn’t want to come to my place. On the other hand, I can understand why she wouldn’t want me in her space, so somewhere public seemed like the best option to her. At the time I was too stunned about the fact that she’d agreed to meet anywhere to think too much about the logistics of her choice. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’m in a goldfish bowl, providing the perfect vantage point for the circling press vultures to stalk their prey.

I already gave them a penalty shot with the photos of me on the phone with Mom; I’m not about to hand them the scoop of the century—photos of London and me talking under current circumstances would buy one of those gutter rats into early retirement. Walking into a public place for this conversation—or any conversation involving London—is playing right into their hands. Not much I can do about it now, as she’s already on her way. I’m just going to have to roll with it.

The only good thing about being here instead of Starbucks or somewhere is that the Bloom in the name of the place refers to a flower and vintage bookshop out back. It’s a windowless room, the air heavy with the sickly smell of flowers and thick with the dust of ancient books, but at least it’s private. There’s nobody else here, and most importantly, there’s nowhere for the paparazzi to shove their cameras. Maybe London was more clear-headed than I was in choosing the venue, after all. I pull my baseball cap down and head to the counter, ordering a triple espresso with four sugars for me, and an extra-hot latte for London. While I wait for our drinks, I fire off a text.

Me: Here. Grabbing coffees and heading out back.

Her response is almost immediate.

London: Decaf please.

That’s new, but then glancing at my watch, I figure that for some people, drinking coffee at this time will fuck them up for the rest of the night. That’s never been the case for me. With the hours I keep, coffee has been a nighttime staple for years and never gotten in the way of a good crash out when I need it. I correct the order with the barista and knock back mine like a tequila shot. Fuck, I really wish it was tequila, but in the absence of Mexican morphine, I order another coffee for me and carry both to the back of the store. I settle at a table in the corner of the room and sit facing the door, idly flicking through my phone.

I feel London before I see her. When I look up, she’s at the threshold of the room, leaning against the doorjamb, and I get the impression that she’s been there for a little while. She’s studying her shoes as though she’s never seen them before, but now realizes they hold the answer to all the world’s questions. I wait. For someone as impatient as me, I’m getting pretty fucking good at it.

When she’s ready, she raises her eyes to meet mine. As much as I love her body, and I really do love it, her eyes have always done it for me. Even when she won’t speak to me with words, her eyes do all the talking, always. I’m not sure if she’s aware how much. I look into them now, and a thousand unspoken words play out in their amber depths. I remove my sunglasses so she can see my eyes also. I want her to see what I’m feeling. What I’ve been feeling since she walked out of my house and into Marko’s arms.

We stay that way for a little while, reading each other. The look in her eyes slays me—hurt, grief, something else I can’t put my finger on at first. Defeat? That crushes me more than anything. I’d rather anger, or hatred, than for her to just give up. On me. On us. A heavy sense of doom hits me as she walks across the dusty room, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

As London approaches, I drink in her appearance. She’s beautiful, of course, but today she looks frail and tired. Spent. Marko wasn’t exaggerating when he told me as much on our nightly calls. Her eyes are darkly circled, and her usually bright velvety skin looks ashen. Her clothes—a sweater I’m guessing belongs to Marko, jeans, and a long scarf—hang from her body, almost as though she’s not inside them.

The past few weeks have clearly taken a toll on her. I knew she wasn’t doing well, but to see it with my own eyes is something else. It hits me hard physically, knocking the air from my lungs, and a lump builds in my throat. My Adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably as I attempt to swallow around it.

I try to school my features into a vague look of happiness, but I’m not sure if I succeed, and even if I make it with my face, I know I don’t hit the mark with my eyes. Where London is concerned, they can’t lie. I stand to greet her, and in that moment, I’m not sure how to. As always, I feel an overwhelming urge to protect her. I want to fold her into my arms, scoop her up, and take her home. In the end, I opt for a simple hug, knowing there’s a risk she’ll push me away. But this is London, and there’s no way I can settle for anything less, even under these circumstances.

To my surprise, not only does she let me hug her, she immediately slips her hands around my waist and returns my embrace. I notice how thin she is right away. We stand locked like that for I don’t know how long before I realize that London is crying. Not audible sobs, but feeling moisture on my shirt, I pull her face away from my chest and note the fat, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. She looks everywhere except directly at me, but other than that makes no move to hide her sobbing. I tilt her head back in an attempt to force her to meet my eyes, but she continues to avert hers. This woman.

“London.” It’s a hoarse whisper. “London.” A little louder this time, and she relents, looking at me once more.

“Yeah?” She sniffs loudly.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She laughs bitterly before continuing. “You. Me. Us. Everything. Everything’s wrong, Arlo. It’s quicker to talk about what’s right, because nothing’s right.”

“We’ll fix this.” We will. She just needs to believe it the way I do.

“No, we won’t. I’m done. It’s done. We’re done.” Apart from the tears, which continue to flow freely, her expression is neutral. If it weren’t for the crying, I’d swear she’s already left the building. I don’t know what to say, so I pull her to sit at the table, nodding toward her coffee.

“It’s decaf,” I say, simultaneously wanting to throat-punch myself. She nods her thanks and sits down, picking up her drink and sniffing at it suspiciously. Her features contort into a look of disgust, and she pushes it way as though she suspects foul play. What the fuck?

I regret releasing her from my arms, after all these weeks of wanting to hold her so bad. Now, sitting on the other side of the table, she may as well be a continent away. She stares glassy-eyed at her discarded coffee. I hand her a napkin, and she uses it to wipe her eyes, then blow her nose noisily. I decide to rip off the Band-Aid. I’m the one who asked to meet, after all.

“Look. I know this is a mess, but I’ve never lied to you about how much of a shit human I am. I’ve told you everything, balls out, and never once tried to sugarcoat it. I’ve done some things that, with hindsight, I’m not too proud of, and I know it’s not pretty, but I haven’t pretended to be anything other than who I really am with you. This is me, baby.” I spread my arms out wide. “What you see is what you get. When I told you I was an open book, I meant it. You can ask me anything, and I’ll answer, no holds barred.”

“I don’t need to know anything, Arlo.” Her voice is quiet and thin. “I don’t need anything from you, period. I already know everything I need to. Enough to realize this just isn’t going to work. I’m not even sure why I agreed to see you today. I guess I was just tired of saying no, and I suppose it is better to do these things in person.”

What things?

“Look, I know that video was a shock—it was for me too—but I swear on everything I care about that it was shot before I met you.”

She listens in stony silence, refusing to give me her eyes, and without that, her face is an unreadable mask. I forge on.

“I’m sorry talk and coverage of this mess has overshadowed the publicity around the exhibition and the book. You nailed that gig, and you really deserved your moment in the sun. I hope this whole thing hasn’t tainted your success for you—you’re too good at what you do to let anything steal your thunder.”

I know you’re not taking photos anymore, and haven’t been anywhere near your beautiful studio since this blew up. I keep my thoughts to myself, as this is information I learned from Marko and she has no idea that we talk on a daily basis. Maybe I’m not such an open book to her after all, but these are special circumstances. I need to know that she’s okay; that’s not negotiable. Marko obviously feels the same, or else he wouldn’t be doing it, especially as it involves sneaking behind his best friend’s back. I think we agree that breaking London’s trust slightly is acceptable collateral damage for ensuring she’s okay. Quid pro quo.

“I have no idea specifically when that video was shot. Obviously Marnie does, but she’s been incommunicado since it went live. Luke has been to her apartment several times, and she’s not there. We called her agency, and it turns out that she’s not with them anymore. She won’t answer calls or messages, even from Luke. She’s totally gone to ground. Not that it really matters where she is. I know with 100 percent certainty that whenever it was, it happened before the two of us were together. Even still, as we speak, I have my lawyers and a private detective working on finding her. Not only will they trace her, but she’s going to find herself in court when they do, and it’s not going to be pretty.”

London puts her hand up in surrender. “You don’t need to explain anything to me, Arlo. It’s fine.”

Grrrr.

“That’s just it. It’s not fine, not fine at all. You’re my girl. Of course I want you to know what’s going on. Open book, remember?” I spread my arms—the picture of openness.

“Was.”

“What?”

“I was your girl. Past tense.” She looks at me as though I’m a complete moron.

“London.”

“No, Arlo.”

There’s no way in hell I’m taking no for an answer.