Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 43

“I can’t believe you booked a trip to Costa Rica,” Lizzie says, watching as I dig through my closet, pulling out bikinis that haven’t seen daylight in years. It’s depressing—a reminder of how much of my life has been swallowed up by work, by Ashbury Thornton, by . . . him.

“Yeah, well, believe it,” I mutter, tossing the bikini aside.

It’s been ten days since I stormed out of the office. Or since Liam kicked me out. Depends on who’s telling the story.

The first five days were spent in a haze of chocolate and endless job applications. But then it hit me—I can’t just jump into the next corporate role, not if I want to keep what’s left of my sanity.

Luckily, the day after the showdown, I got a letter from Ashbury Thornton saying I’m on “gardening leave,” which is just a fancy way of saying they’re paying me to fuck off. You could say it was Liam’s way of being nice, of softening the blow. But I know better. He’s buying my silence about our affair. Yes, he could have fired me for the stunt I pulled with Sir Whitmore. But he was also sleeping with me, and I could have stirred up a shit storm if I wanted to. So he’s paying me off, buying my silence and complicity, just like we’ve done to countless others before me.

And now, here I am. Jobless, aimless, but with a tidy nest egg to my name.

I hold up a particularly skimpy number, eyeing it with a mix of nostalgia and dread. I’ll probably look like a potato in this now, my ass having taken on a permanent desk chair shape from all the hours spent glued to my seat at Ashbury Thornton.

“This is so spontaneous for you! Who are you and what have you done with my Gemma?”

I snort, holding up another bikini I think I’ve worn once when there was a heatwave in England. “What has Ashbury Thornton and Liam done to me, more like,” I say, my voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that’s become my default setting lately.

Lizzie rubs my arm sympathetically as I pull another bikini from the meticulously labeled Swimwear section of my closet.

“I’ll never get over how organized you are,” she says wistfully, staring at the clothing bags, each one marked with its contents.

Clothes, I can compartmentalize. Feelings, on the other hand . . .

Going to Costa Rica is my version of running away to the Himalayas, like marketing-manager-turned-yoga-guru Michael did. My “Eat, Pray, Love” moment.

Eat, Pray, Don’t Fall for Another Asshole. That’s the plan.

I’m going to spend two months volunteering, planting trees, and helping on a sustainable farming project.

I’ll admit, swapping spreadsheets for farming screams midlife crisis. But if Julia Roberts can do it, why can’t I? Although I’m more likely to pull a Bridget Jones and end up in a prison than find my inner Zen.

I’m not sure my HR skills are transferable, but it’ll be nice to just have someone else tell me what to do, to be outside and hopefully helping toward something worthwhile. Instead of, you know, enabling corporate greed.

Then, I’ll spend another month traveling around Costa Rica by myself.

I need to do this to mend my soul. My heart. To actually help someone else other than financial people who wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.

Maybe I’ll find myself in the rainforest. Or maybe I’ll just find a lot of creepy-crawlies and regret. Either way, it’s got to be better than staying here, drowning in self-pity and withering under Winnie’s judgmental gaze.

It’s clear she’s fed up with my moping. Her actions speak louder than any meow ever could. She’s started leaving passive-aggressive hairballs on my pillow, like little presents of feline disappointment. I’ll think she’ll be glad to see me off for a while. Lizzie has promised to keep her alive and away from tomcats.

Last night, I swear I caught her trying to swipe right on Tinder for me. With her paw. On my phone.

I pause my packing, a sundress dangling forgotten from my hand. “I just can’t believe it’s over between me and Liam,” I say, my voice small.

Lizzie’s face softens. “Oh, honey.”

“Sometimes I have to stop what I’m doing and just ask myself, what the hell was all that about?” The words tumble out of me now, a dam breaking. “A few weeks ago, we were playing house, acting all loved up. He can say what he wants, but we were. He was. Like I mattered to him.”

I sink onto the bed, sundress clutched to my chest like a security blanket. “How can he just turn his feelings off and on like that? Can he really act like that with me, then head out to sex clubs and sleep with Alastair’s wife?”

Lizzie sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “He’s a sociopath who doesn’t deserve a kind heart like yours, babe.”

I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. “Yeah, maybe.”

Winnie saunters over, butting her head against my leg.

“See?” Lizzie says, scratching behind Winnie’s ears. “Even Winnie agrees.”

I let out a shaky breath, trying to take comfort in the steady rhythm of her purrs.

“I’m so stupid,” I mutter. “Because of course he can turn it off and on like that. I always saw that side of him, even when I was trying to ignore it. He even told me, right from the start, that this was just a casual arrangement. And I saw him get his PA to send the standard flowers to his other lady friends. I just conveniently forgot everything I knew about him. What a fucking idiot I was.”

Lizzie shakes her head, her eyes fierce with protectiveness. “You’re not stupid, Gemma! You just fell for someone and trusted them.”

My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with yet another message from the HR team. They’ve been blowing up my phone for days now, their messages a mix of concern and undisguised shock. I guess years of being a professional people-pleaser makes it hard for them to compute my sudden departure. Gemma Jones walking out? Inconceivable.

“Apparently, Liam’s in an even fouler mood than usual,” I say, reading the latest text. My heart does a tap dance of pain, and I let out another sob. I don’t even like seeing his name written down on text message. It’s like a punch to the gut, like the mere mention of him can wound me all over again.

I hate that I’ve left them in the lurch at work, but after five years of putting everyone else first in that company, I need to put myself first.

At the end of the day, you’re just a number to a company. And I’m just a number to him. Another notch on his bedpost.

“This is the start of a new life for you. A new you. I can feel it.” Lizzie smiles at me, her optimism almost infectious. “Maybe you’ll even meet a hot guy traveling. Ooh, you could end up shacking up with a surfer!”

I open my mouth to retort, but instead of a witty comeback, I drop my face into my hands and cry. Winnie, fed up with the emotional theatrics, slinks away to find a quieter spot. The pain that’s been simmering below the surface for days finally boils over. This has to stop. I need to get my shit together. We weren’t even “together” that long and I’m weeping at any opportunity.

He betrayed me. I betrayed him. There is no going back. It’s over. Finished. Kaput.

“Oh, Gem.” Lizzie pulls me in, her arms wrapping around me.

“When will it stop hurting?” I sob into her shoulder.

“I don’t know when, but I know it will, love,” she murmurs, rubbing my hair with soothing, familiar strokes.

Winnie meows from her perch on the dresser, her tone clearly saying, She’s bloody well at it again.

I know I need to pull myself together, but right now, all I want to do is curl up in a ball until my heart decides to start functioning normally again.

Ten days. That’s how long it’s been since I booked my trip to Costa Rica. Ten days of packing, planning, and trying not to have a complete mental breakdown every time I think about why I’m running away to the jungle in the first place.

Which means twenty days since I last saw Liam, all that anger etched on his face. Hopefully, soon, I’ll stop counting the days since I last saw him.

I’m all packed. Ready to go. I’ve got my Spanish guidebooks and translation books, and I’ve even done some crash-course classes in Spanish. I’m only confident about asking for the bathroom, but that’s a start. I’ve got all my clothes and everything I could possibly need for emergencies. Jaw exerciser, obviously.

I fly tomorrow evening. Tomorrow morning a courier is coming from Ashbury Thornton to get my company laptop.

And I feel like there’s something I need to do before I go. To give me closure. To put the final nail in the coffin of my Ashbury Thornton career and my disastrous not-quite-relationship with Liam.

They’ve probably already disabled my account, so I can’t log in. But it’s worth a shot.

I open my work laptop, enter my username and password with my heart hammering in my chest, and . . . shit, bingo, I’m in. Well, well, well. Looks like someone dropped the ball on the IT front.

That’s because HR handles the joiners and leavers process, and I’m not there doing it. I would never have let that slip.

I navigate to the folder I need, my heart lodged firmly in my throat, and create a new document titled: Gemma’s Goodbye.

Dear Diary, I type.

My therapist tasked me with writing down all the things that pissed me off, to get my feelings out on paper so I can let go.

And I am so, so ready to let go.

I made a big mistake. I fell in love with a guy who never existed. What I felt was real but the situation was far from it.

I lost myself over a guy who thought it was okay to lie to me. Who thought it was okay to sleep with other people when he was sleeping with me.

I gave him five years of hard work, and he couldn’t even respect me enough as a person to treat me with basic human decency. I get more respect from my cat, and she poops in a box I have to clean.

He betrayed me, and I was devastated. Because I felt like I was falling in love with him.

I betrayed him, and the only pain he felt was losing his precious deal. Which probably isn’t even lost, just stalled. Because let’s face it, no one listens to HR anyway.

Well, I’m not sorry. I did the right thing. I told the truth when it needed to be told.

He didn’t. He lied to me, over and over again.

And you know what? I’d rather be me, even though I’m the only one who seems to care. I can’t compartmentalize like him. I can feel love and hurt, unlike his cold, dead heart.

Speaking of Liam, I hope you’re reading this, you lying, cheating bastard. I trusted you, I cared for you, and you threw it all away like it meant nothing.

But that’s on you. I’m going to move on with my life. I’m going to Costa Rica for a very long time, where the men are . . . well, I don’t know what they’re like, but they must be better than you.

So, goodbye, Ashbury Thornton. Goodbye, Liam. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but we both know that’s a lie. And unlike you, I don’t do lies.

Here’s to new beginnings, and to never seeing your handsome, lying face again.

Cheers (and go fuck yourself),

Gemma

I hit save, a sense of finality washing over me. It’s done. It’s over.

Now, all that’s left to do is get on that plane.

Costa Rica, here I come.