by MV Ellis
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.
Chapter Nine
“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 bubbl
e 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?
