“Remember the tour? You saw for yourself that I was all about you. I went to bed either with you or alone every night for months. You know that. Everything I said to you, everything I did. Remember Paris? Don’t you know me well enough now to trust me on this?” If the roles were reversed, I’d believe her without a second thought, but she’s not me.

“I told you it’s not that. The fact is we just don’t have strong enough foundations of a relationship to weather this kind of storm. What we had was three sweet, sex-filled months on the road together, but that wasn’t real life. When you really look at it from that perspective, we barely know each other. I told you at the end of the tour that I was afraid the bubble we were living in wouldn’t translate in the real world, that our lives are too different, that we’re too different to make it. The things that have happened over the past few weeks have confirmed my hunch. When all is said and done, we don’t have enough to build on to go forward, Arlo, we just don’t.”

Bullshit.

“That’s bullshit, London, and you fucking know it. You don’t even sound like you believe it yourself. Three months is three months. People get married and stay together forever on the basis of a lot less—my gramps and grandma being a case in point. We toured the world living in each other’s pockets, we were together 24/7, and it worked. Trust me, the stress of that shit can break even established relationships and friendships, but not us. We thrived, and it brought us closer. Just like with me and the rest of band, our thing just works. What more do you need?”

“I need someone I can rely on to always be there to catch me, and I’m not sure I have that with you.”

Her throwing my words back at me hurts, more so because I know she’s wrong. When I made that promise, I meant it, and I always will.

“So you lied to my face in Paris?”

“Lie? What do you mean?” Confusion reigns on her face.

“You told me you trusted me. I asked you outright, and you said you did. Now here you are, and at the first sign of shit hitting the fan, you default to acting like I’m the big bad wolf. Like you never knew me at all. So answer my question. Did. You. Lie. To. Me. In. Paris?” I know hounding her isn’t going to improve the situation, but I can’t keep a lid on my frustration right now.

“Well… no. I mean, not really. I do trust you. I did trust you, with my life, but maybe not with my heart.”

“What the fuck does that even mean, London?” I’m truly stupid, or she’s not making much sense. I can’t tell which. At this point, it could go either way.

“It means I was so scared of doing this”—she waves her hand back and forth between us—“with you. Scared of going all in, making myself vulnerable and giving you the opportunity to break me into a million tiny pieces. I was terrified, but I told myself it was time to move on, that I couldn’t stay wrapped up and shielded from the real world forever. I knew I had to be open to getting involved with someone, taking a risk. And boy, is being with you a risk. But in the end, you convinced me that I should. I mean, I wanted to, but you know how hard it was for me to make the leap. Then I did, and look what happened. The minute I gave in, finally let all my walls down with you, it blew up in my face, epically.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. In some ways I get what she means. Taking the step with her wasn’t easy or natural for me, either, but somehow I trusted my gut, and more to the point, I trusted her enough to just do it. I guess in the end, I thought I had more to lose by not doing it, even if it was scary as fuck––nothing is as bad as the thought of life without her in it.

“I know that’s how it seems, but it’s not like that. It’s just really bad fucking timing. I don’t know what else I can say or do to convince you that I haven’t done anything wrong here. You have my word. You know I’m not religious, but I’d swear on a stack of Bibles if I thought it would make a difference.”

“It’s not about that.” Her voice is flat. She sounds so lifeless, so worn down by everything right now. It’s such a contrast from the happy, smiling, glowing London at the gallery showing. That London was walking on air. She had the world at her feet, and she knew it. She was so full of energy and positivity for the future. What a difference a few weeks makes.

“What is it about, then? Tell me, because I really don’t understand what’s going on here.” I feel like I’m missing a major piece of the picture.

“It’s about the fact that I’m not built for life with you. I’ve been strong in so many ways for so long, I think I’ve lost the energy to battle anymore, and why should I have to? Life isn’t meant to be a series of trials and tests to be fought against. I’m not saying I want hearts and flowers. I’m not naïve enough to think that’s possible with someone like you, but I’d be happy with plain old simple real life. I don’t want to have to fight like a gladiator just to make it through the day. But that’s being with you, Arlo. It’s a fucking roller coaster, and there’s always a new drama.”

I know she’s right in many ways, but that doesn’t stop this from feeling like a string of excuses, not a real and concrete reason she’s prepared to walk away from what we have. I’m no expert. In fact, I don’t know shit about relationships, but I’m sure that’s part of it. Taking the rough with the smooth, or whatever the fuck? Life isn’t all unicorns and rainbows, but if you want someone, if you love them enough, none of that crap should matter. Right? The thoughts swirl in my head as she carries on.

“You said it yourself in Paris. It’s a three-ring circus. Case in point, less than twelve hours after I poured my heart out to you, telling you I love… loved you, the rug was pulled out from under me. It’s too much. You’re too much.”

“You still love me.”

She looks away, suddenly fascinated by the spines of the dusty old books on the opposite wall.

She still loves me.

“Whether I do or don’t is immaterial—”

“You do, and it’s not immaterial at all.” Fuck, I’m an overbearing bastard. Even at times like this, when everything is hanging in the balance, I just have to keep on pushing. I can’t just sit here and let her peddle these lies, or let her think I believe them, or that I’m under the impression she believes them. She’s spooked, I get that, but I’m not going to lie down and play dead and let her off the hook. If I’m breathing, I’m fighting. For her.

She looks back to me, meeting my gaze directly, but again, keeping her normally expressive face carefully neutral. I hate that she doesn’t even trust me enough to let me see what she’s feeling. It’s so alien for us, like I’m speaking with a stranger.

“The point is that I can’t live this way. I can’t be on edge every day waiting for the next nasty surprise, the latest unexploded land mine to blow up in my face. Whether it’s rumors, videos, or I don’t know what else. I told you before we started that I wanted to focus on me, my career, my emotional well-being, remember? I was stupid. I thought I could be with you and still do those things, but it’s obvious that life with Arlo Jones is all about Arlo Jones. I can’t afford to get lost in all that. After everything I’ve been through, the one thing I’ve learned I can rely on as a constant is me. If I lose that, I have nothing. That’s not a sacrifice I’m prepared to make. For anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to get lost in me, or even with me. I want us to create something together that’s stronger than either of us on our own.” I need her, and I know she needs me.

“Maybe you’d understand better if you’d had to rebuild everything from the ground up like I had to after the accident—to learn how to walk again, how to live without the love of your life….” I wince. Why do I always feel like I’m competing with a dead guy when she talks about her ex-fiancé?

“It’s not the same, but I know what it’s like to piece together your life again after losing someone you love. When Dad died, it was like I had been smashed into a million little pieces, and like a human puzzle, I had to try to slot them all back together. Only there was no picture or instruction manual. I just had to do my best to figure it the fuck out by myself. Even worse, it was a race against the clock—like someone had pressed the fast forward button on my life. My childhood ended abruptly, and I grew up overnight.” There’s a flicker in her eyes, but it’s gone before I have the chance to make out what it means.

“The thing is, I knew all of the bits weren’t put back right, but I had no idea how to even begin to start fixing it, so I left things as they were. Broken. Incomplete. Messed up. It’s only when I met you that I felt things start to naturally slide back into place. The right places. That’s all down to you.” She continues to stare at me blankly, even as the tears roll down her cheeks again. I should probably stop speaking, but can’t. The words spill out of me, almost against my will.

“I know my life is crazy. I know it takes some getting used to, and that this is all new to you, but you’re it for me, you know that, right? I give literally zero fucks about what’s happening with the rest of the world. It’s all about you. You’ll always come first, no matter what.”

I can tell she’s made up her mind, but I can’t just give up without one last attempt to reach her.

“Come home with me. To our place.”

She shakes her head.

“Everything happened so fast when we were together last. I didn’t say goodbye. If this is the end of the line for us, I want to hold you in my arms one more time.”

She smiles weakly, and I know I have her. For tonight, at least. She nods slowly, hesitantly, as though she isn’t completely sold on the idea but is going along with it anyway.

When we arrive at Rosemond House, we step into the elevator and I punch the button for the second floor. London looks at me suspiciously, raising her eyebrows in question.

“No offense, Tog”—she winces at the use of my nickname for her. It seems to piss her off, just like it did the day we first found out about the video. I forgot she feels we’re no longer at the terms of endearment phase of our relationship—“but you look exhausted. I’m fit to drop also, so I figured we could both use some sleep. Nothing more. I said I wanted to hold you, remember?” She nods, eyeing me suspiciously, but whatever her objections are, she keeps them to herself. When we reach the bedroom, I start toward my walk-in closet. “I’ll just grab you some—”

“No. It’s okay. I mean, I’ll be fine.” With that, she begins undressing, and before I know it, her clothes are discarded in heaps on the floor and she’s pulling back the covers, climbing into my bed. I want to jump on her, but I made a promise and I’m determined to keep it. I turn my back while removing my clothes and recite the elements of the periodic table under my breath. It has the desired effect, buying me some time to let my raging hard-on subside a little. Who knew that high school science would come in useful in the most unlikely of situations?

When I think I can be trusted not to behave like an animal, I move toward the bed, sliding in close to London, but not touching. We lie like that, not speaking, not moving, just listening to the hypnotic inhale and exhale of each other’s breath, until London breaks the silence.

“Hold me?”

Fuck. Her voice is a hesitant whisper, and even knowing I’m setting myself up for a disastrous fall, I can’t not. I slide closer to her across the cool sheets, with my chest against her back. Slipping my arms around her, I pull her closer still. Motherfucker. I’ve missed this so bad. I never want to let go. Knowing that I’m going to have to, I silently chant the periodic table once again. With her glorious butt this close to my dick, it’s going to take a whole lot of willpower and nerves of titanium to make it through this without getting hard again, but I’m willing to at least try. I pull the sheet up over us, slip my arms back around her gorgeous body, and let myself succumb to the wave of sleep that washes over me.

When I come to again, it’s clear I’ve failed in my attempt to keep my cock under control. It takes me a moment to work out why. London is rubbing her butt against my junk slowly, her intention more than clear. She’s killing me. Against my better judgment, and almost against my will, I unwind my arm from around her torso, placing my hand on her hip to still her. I whisper into her hair. “You sure?” As much as I need what she’s offering, I want to make sure she’s 100 percent on board. If this is to be our last time, I don’t want either of us to have any regrets.

“Yeah. I want to say goodbye.”

I hesitate a moment. This is so bittersweet. I wait a beat or two, a thousand thoughts circulating in my mind.

“Okay.” It’s barely audible, but I know she hears me. “Turn over.” I want to see her face. I want to read every emotion as she feels it, and commit it to memory. I don’t want to miss a thing. She rolls over on her side to face me.

“Look at me.” I don’t know if it’s because, like me, she wants to savor the moment, or because she’s simply lost the will to fight, but she slowly raises her eyes to mine and holds my gaze as I read her face for clues. The look in her eyes guts me like a fish. She looks so… broken. The responsibility for making her feel that way weighs on me heavily.

Moments pass, and eventually London moves forward to brush her lips gently against mine. I don’t move a muscle. Sensing my hesitation, she presses a little harder, coaxing me to engage. When I do, slipping my tongue inside her mouth, a soft moan escapes her lips. I swallow it with mine. I feel like a desperate addict finally getting my fix. Not wanting to spook her, or to hurry things toward our inevitable end, I take my time, gently deepening the kiss with every stroke of my tongue.

When I feel like I may just about lose my mind, I pull back a little, wanting to see her better. I love looking at her body at the best of times, and now that I know this may be the last time, it’s even more important to me than usual. Jesus. She’s beyond beautiful. I cup her breasts; they feel fuller than I remember, or maybe it just seems that way in contrast to her smaller frame. I suck on each in turn as though they are juicy ripe peaches, just how she likes. She bucks beneath me, and I smell her arousal.

Always so wet and ready for me, even under these circumstances. The feeling is most definitely mutual. I almost don’t know what to do next. While the foreplay between us is always glorious, I’m literally aching to be inside her. On the other hand, the sooner that happens, the sooner it will be over, so I’m tempted to hold back, to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. Sensing my hesitation, London takes the initiative and decides for both of us.

“Scooch to the end of the bed.” Her voice is firm, and she doesn’t break eye contact. Fuck.

I move quickly, sitting up and placing my feet on the floor. London climbs astride me, sitting in my lap, facing me.

Like me, she clearly wants to see every emotion we’re about to share. My rock-hard cock lightly grazes her pussy, and we both shudder. No matter what happens between us, the chemistry is electric. Always. I wrap my arms around her waist, and in turn, she slips hers around my neck. We brace against each other like that for a while, clinging to one another and to the remnants of our relationship.

I slip inside her one last time, reveling in the feel of her wrapped around me. I rock my hips, pushing deeper every time. In answer, London rotates her hips, tightening around me as I claim more of her. I’m reminded of something else I learned in high school science: for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Our movements are opposite and equal, taking us on our shared road to climax. As I feel mine building, my movements becoming faster and more desperate, my grip on London increases as though somehow I can hold her tight enough to keep her from leaving.

I feel her quickening around me, spiraling toward her release, milking me and taking me with her. I come epically, climaxing so forcefully as to almost be painful. To say I’m spent is an understatement. As I release my final burst of pleasure and collapse backward onto the bed, pulling London down with me, I growl out, “Don’t go.”

In my heart I know that she already has.

I wake up hours later—after the first decent sleep I’ve had in weeks—with a crick in my neck and air between my arms, like every cliché romance out there. I’m fuzzy with sleep, but not too addled to remember that London was here, and to know immediately that she’s gone. For good.

I crack my neck—I hold tension there more than anywhere else, and right now, there’s plenty to hold onto. Stretching out my limbs, my hand grazes against something on the pillow next to mine. It’s a piece of paper; I guess it’s London’s Dear John letter. I pick it up. May as well rip the Band-Aid off now, then work out what the fuck to do from here. I look down at it, bracing myself for the emotions it will bring out in me.

What. The. Fuck. It’s not a letter at all. Far from it. It’s an ultrasound photo. At the bottom is a handwritten note.

Arlo,

I’m sorry to tell you this way.

It’s cowardly, and I’m not proud of it, but right now this is all I can handle.

Don’t hate me.

L

We were always so right, the two of us, so how the fuck did we go so wrong?