I maneuver the Testa around the streets like a man with the devil on his back. If I lose my license, so be it. The most important thing right now is getting to London as quickly as possible. I arrive at the apartment she shares with Marko in record time, and leave the bike haphazardly at the curb, throwing my helmet onto the seat. I couldn’t care less if neither of them is there when I come back. Nothing matters except reaching London.

I lean on the button with all my body weight, banging on the huge, solid door with my other hand.

“London! London! Open the door! Come on! Please? London! Londo—”

Her apartment window flies open, and Marko’s head appears in the frame.

“Man, you need to calm down and shut the fuck up before somebody calls the cops on your ass.”

I’m almost blind with fury, but a small, surprisingly sensible part of me tells me he’s right. I have to play this at least a little cool. I want to speak to London, not end up in lockup for the night, thus screwing things up between us even more and giving the paparazzi and gossip press fuel for their front-page fire. Drawing more attention to myself publicly right now is not a smart move. At all. I take my hand off the buzzer, turning my palms up toward Marko in a gesture of surrender.

“I want to see her.” My voice comes out in a rush, and I stop to take a few steadying breaths. I’m not so far gone that I don’t realize I’m in danger of making a total fool of myself. Correction: I already am.

“I know. Come up.”

I jump the stairs of the brownstone four at a time until I arrive winded at their apartment door. As I wait for the door to open, my mind flashes back to the first time I was here. It was just a few weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime away—so much has changed since then. That day I was Prince Charming, rescuing the drunken princess, saving her from herself. Today I’m the reformed villain, begging for forgiveness.

I was never fond of the idea of London having a male best friend at the best of times—especially one she once slept with—but Marko went a long way down in my estimation that night for standing by and watching her get so drunk she puked in my car on the way back to my place. Drinking accidents aside, these days I’m pretty sure he genuinely has her back, but that still doesn’t mean he’s on my list of favorite people. Probably never will be.

No matter how much I know their relationship is 110 percent platonic, I can never quite silence the green-eyed monster within me when I think of the two of them together. Even though I know it’s not sexual, I resent how easy things are between them. They’re close in a way she and I maybe never will be. She trusts him unconditionally, and they don’t even seem to need to work at it. We’re far from there. Who knows if we’ll ever get there. It fucking kills me. Still, Marko has been playing along with my demands since the shit hit the fan, and I know he’s looking after London. There’s no way she’ll let me do the same right now, so I guess I need to be grateful and hold my temper. Easier said than done when my emotions are running wild.

The door opens as I approach, and I’m standing face-to-face with Marko. I was hoping it would be London in front of me, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t be. We stand there, on either side of the apartment’s threshold, staring each other down for the longest time. One thing I know about Marko is he’s as much of an asshole as me. Bullheaded, overprotective of London, with a reputation as a beast in bed and in business. He’s the best at what he does, but the worst to deal with. The only difference is he dominates the dance world while I kill it in the music industry. Basically, he’s me in a jockstrap and tights. If I didn’t hate him, I’d probably kind of like him, or at least respect him. Right now, I would happily rip his face off and throw it in the Hudson.

He yields finally, moving sideways to let me through the door. Their apartment feels eerily empty and quiet. My footsteps echo off the triple-height ceilings as I walk down the parquet hall to the living area. Marko’s outstretched hand guides the way. As much as I don’t want to believe it, I know instinctively that London isn’t here. I feel it. Or more accurately, I feel nothing. When she’s near me, I feel her.

I turn on my heel to confront Marko. Surprised, he comes to a stop sharply to avoid crashing into me. I guess ballet gives you good reflexes.

“Where is she?” I spit angrily.

“Gone.” He shrugs noncommittally, and my blood runs dangerously hot. This could end very badly if he doesn’t play it right.

I clench, then loosen my fists. I desperately need to stay in control. He’s the only source of information I have about London right now, so the last thing I can afford is to piss him off and have him shut me out. Not that he needs a reason, I’m sure. Regardless, I need to keep him sweet, or I’ve got nothing. Refraining from tearing him limb from limb is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I wait a beat or two before answering, buying myself more time to simmer the fuck down and start behaving like a civilized adult.

“Gone where?”

“Australia.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” I growl. Who am I trying to kid? When it comes to London, I’m anything but civilized. Or adult. I swear to God, I’ll kill this son of a bitch where he stands and not even look back.

“You heard me. She’s gone to Sydney to be with her folks.”

I pace the living room like a prizefighter before a big bout.

“You’re lying. Where is she?” Despite my own gut feeling, I sweep my eyes around the room frantically, looking beyond Marko, hoping to work out where in the apartment London’s room is. I hear rustling coming from behind him, and my anger bubbles over to full-on rage. I’ve never been much of a footballer, but from nowhere, I shoulder charge Marko like an all-star linebacker. A raging bull has nothing on me. Luckily for him, but not so much for me, Marko’s reflexes are on point once again—damn that ballet training—and he jumps sideways as soon as he sees me lunging for him. I connect, but the majority of the impact is taken by the doorframe as I slam painfully into it. Fuck. I think I screwed my shoulder.

To his credit, Marko doesn’t punch my lights out like I probably would have if the roles were reversed. Instead, he reaches out to help steady me on my feet before putting both hands on my shoulders. Ouch. I’ve definitely fucked myself up properly.

He looks straight into my eyes.

“Listen, man, I’m not lying. She’s. Not. Here. Look.” He retrieves his phone from his back pocket, holding it out toward me. I reach for it.

“She knew you wouldn’t want to believe me, so she sent me this from the airport.” I look down at the handset and see that what he’s showing me is a photograph of London’s boarding pass. Photographic evidence. She’s gone.

“You’re lying. I just heard her moving around back there. You’re both fucking lying. You just don’t want me to see her.” Eyes wild, I get the strong urge to break something. Marko’s nose, for example.

Possibly reading my mind, Marko presses down harder on my shoulders—Jesus, that hurts—continuing to look me square in the eyes.

“You need to calm the fuck down, dude. Losing your shit isn’t going to help matters, not for you or for her. I’m holding back because she wouldn’t want me to hurt you, but if you carry on, I can’t promise not to take you out, okay?” I’d like to see him fucking try. He eases his grip a little. Thank fuck, because my shoulder hurts like a bitch.

“She’s gone. The sooner you accept that, the better.” His hold on me may have loosened, but he maintains a firm but even tone of voice.

Easy for him to say. He’s not the one whose baby she’s carrying. He’s not the one she left to wake up to an ultrasound photo on his pillow while she boarded a plane to the other side of the fucking world. He may have a point, but it doesn’t make me any less hell-bent on wringing his perfect neck.

Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I know I’m sure as shit not hearing things. Yet. I’m about to question him again about the sound from behind him, but he beats me to it.

“Jourdan!” he calls out in the direction of the noise. “Jourda—”

“Yeah?” A redhead pads toward us from one of the rooms down the hall. She’s wearing only an oversized shirt I’m guessing belongs to Marko, as it positively drowns her. When she reaches the living area, she stands at Marko’s side, looking indifferently between the two of us. She has sex hair, and a slight sheen to her skin and puffiness to her lips that screams “freshly fucked.”

Marko sighs. “This is Jourdan.” Oh. I vaguely recall London mentioning something about Marko and someone called Jourdan. The merest hint of a smile graces her lips for a fleeting moment, while she continues to look between us like a spectator at a tennis match. She’s so different from London. In fact, her air of aloof detachedness reminds me of Marnie. I ignore her.

“She’s pregnant. With my baby.” Fuck. It feels so… monumental to say those words. It’s fucking surreal.

“I know, man.” Of course he does. To find out I’m going to be a father after her best friend is an extra slap in the face. I get that they’re close, but this feels like a betrayal, pure and simple. I hate that this fuckstain knows more about my life right now than I do.

“She left this on the bed, then took off.” I pull the ultrasound photo from the inside pocket of my leather jacket and hold it toward Marko. He doesn’t look at it, so I guess he’s already seen it.

He speaks as though reading my thoughts again.

“She had to tell me. I was the one holding her hair back and bringing her soda water while she puked herself inside out for weeks on end. She’s been majorly sick. She could barely hold anything down. You saw how thin and frail she was, right? Now you know why.”

Oh man. With hindsight, that explains so much. Not just her appearance, but also the vomiting at various points, and even the sudden switch to decaf—I remember Jake telling me once that women can’t drink coffee when they’re knocked up, and that his wife, Kris, was extra cranky through her pregnancies as a result. I can’t say I blame her; I would be the same without jitter juice in my life.

London said she had been more tearful than usual, which was something else I remember from Kris’s pregnancies. Jake tells a hilarious story about Kris crying for hours because he ate the last slice of pizza—still bawling her eyes out even after he had ordered more, and it had been delivered to their house.

I had thought London’s puking had been brought on by nerves or anxiety; with the show, and more recently, all my shit, she definitely had plenty in her life to stress about. But pregnancy definitely makes more sense now that I know. How did I not think of this? Not even a fucking clue. The information on the top of the scan tells me that she’s just shy of twelve weeks pregnant, which means this baby was conceived… in Paris.

Paris, where even though, at London’s insistence, our contracts stated that we were to keep things strictly business, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Paris, where we fucked morning, noon, and night, and where one time, in the heat of the moment, we got carried away and broke my “no bareback” rule.

As London is… was on birth control, we figured we’d be okay that one time, because what are the chances? Even so, we vowed to use condoms from then on, just to be sure, and we stuck to it. Until last night. Last night was a whole different ball game. Obviously she knew we couldn’t get pregnant, because we already are, but I had no idea, and again I hadn’t thought twice about foregoing a condom. In fact, it’s probably more accurate to say that the thought hadn’t even entered my mind. They say rules are meant to be broken, but I hadn’t just broken mine with London. I had taken a dump all over them. For someone who doesn’t trust easily, I went there with London in a heartbeat. I trusted her from day one.

“Look, she had her reasons. I’m not saying I agree with her decisions, but I respect that they’re hers to make, and I support her in whatever she chooses to do.” He looks at me like I’m something he found lurking at the bottom of a sewer. You don’t have to be a genius to read the accusation in his eyes. I guess he’s right—I can’t say I’m currently feeling as supportive toward her as he is, but then he’s her best friend, not her surprise baby daddy.

I think about the different ways I could end him, and how I would dispose of his rotting corpse. He carries on, oblivious to how close he came to being hacked to pieces and ground into pig feed.

“Look, I know I literally just said I respect her decisions, and I do.” He sighs, closing his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was struggling with his conscience. I’m intrigued.

“She’ll probably kill me for telling you this, but…” He glances hesitantly at Jourdan, but if he’s looking for reassurance or reproach, he’s shit out of luck. She’s a perfect vision of bored indifference. If she has any opinion about what Marko is about to say, she’s keeping it well hidden. Shit, her poker face is better than mine. I do remember London saying Marko may have met his match with Jourdan. Good. From one asshole who’s been there to another, it serves him the fuck right. I hope he gets what he deserves, just like me. Karma very clearly is a massive fucking biatch.

“I feel like you should know that she isn’t relocating to Australia for good. She was going half out of her mind here before she left. You saw her. She was run-down, exhausted, and over it. She needed a change of scene, and some home-cooked food will do her good, now that she can keep it down. More than anything, I honestly think she just needed a hug from her mom, and some time to clear her mind. She has an open-ended return ticket, but I’d bet my balls she’ll be back in a few weeks. Let her cool off, rest up, and get her head straight over there, and then the two of you can talk.”

I need to get the fuck out of this apartment before I do something we’ll all live to regret.

I hate hearing all of this from Marko—partially because I suspect he’s right, but more so because he’s not London. The fact that he is so involved and… invested in the lives of my girl and my baby guts me to the core. London hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that our life together was a wild ride. She doesn’t have the monopoly on suffering from emotional whiplash. The difference is that when shit goes down between us, I’m drawn closer to her, while her instinct is to push me away.

“In the meantime, you know how stubborn she can be. My advice is to leave her be. Let her do her thing, work through her ‘process,’ and she’ll come back to you. I’m sure of it. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know what’s going on with her.”

Having to take Marko’s advice is a bitter pill to swallow, but I guess he’s right. She’s gone to Australia at least in part to get away from me, so I need to let her have that, at least for a little while.

I nod my agreement and leave. My shoulder is busted and bruised, but not as much as my ego. Whoever said that mighty things come in small packages was right—London may be half my size, but she has the power to cut me down like a chainsaw to a dying tree.

Outside the apartment, I fire off a text to London, which I know she won’t get for hours—the flight to Sydney is ridiculously long, but I want her to see it as soon as she lands.

Me: Found the ultrasound, and spoke to Marko. I love you and our baby. I’ll always be here to catch you both, even when you push me away. AJ