Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 46

I lie in the hammock, my body aching in ways I never thought possible. When I signed up for this farming gig, I was sitting on my couch, sipping a glass of wine, thinking I was about to embark on some sort of spiritual journey back to nature. Ha. If only I’d known that farming is basically an extreme sport.

It feels like I’ve been run over by a tractor, and then the driver decided to reverse to make sure the job was done. It’s a good ache, though. A satisfying ache from a hard day’s work under the Costa Rican sun, elbow-deep in cow shit. The view of the endless trees across the mountain is breathtaking, almost enough to distract me from anything else on my mind.

But hey, it’s better than drowning my sorrows in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with Winnie and cyberstalking my ex-boss. That’s what I keep telling myself as I pluck yet another unidentified creature out of my hair. The insects here have apparently decided that I’m their own personal buffet, and they’re not shy about helping themselves. I’m starting to think they have secret meetings to discuss which parts of me taste best, because it’s always the same damn spots they go for.

I’ve been here for a month now, volunteering on a local farm in the Osa Peninsula, southern Costa Rica. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, with lush rainforests that make me feel like I’m in a scene from Jurassic Park. The beach is just twenty miles away, and I’m planning to head there in a few days.

I miss living with Winnie and Lizzie, though. I miss London. At least Lizzie’s sending me regular photos to prove that Winnie is still alive. I appreciate the updates, even if half of them are just blurry shots of Winnie’s butt as she runs away from the camera.

Keeping myself occupied with something foreign has been a great distraction. I’ve even tried zip-lining and white-water rafting.

Every morning, I wake up at an ungodly hour to the sound of roosters crowing and the fresh smell of dew. Then, I drag my sorry ass out of bed, my muscles screaming in protest, and stumble my way to the activity center to meet with the project coordinator for a rundown of the day’s tasks. Which usually involves helping with planting and maintaining trees and shrubs, with the occasional heart-stopping encounter with a spider the size of my face.

The work is brutal, back-breaking even. Hours spent bent over, planting, weeding, with the sun beating down mercilessly. Sweat stings my eyes, mixing with the dirt to create a lovely mud mask.

But as exhausting as it is, there’s something satisfying about the work. It’s a tangible accomplishment, unlike the endless paperwork and office politics of my old job. No more pushing papers, now I’m pushing seeds into the ground and navigating cow pats.

I’m staying in a house with six other volunteers, a crew of gap year students and lost souls like me. I’m the oldest of the bunch, feeling like a granny as I listen to the youngsters chatter about their big plans and even bigger dreams. Four of them are fresh out of university, taking a break before diving into the real world. Then there’s Jake, thirty-two, on a sabbatical from his job as a software engineer, here to “find himself” and “reconnect with nature.” I’m pretty sure nature is just a fancy way of saying smoking a ton of weed, but I’m not judging. He confided in me that his girlfriend recently dumped him, and I’m pretty sure the others are whispering behind our backs about the two sad, lonely old folks trying to recapture their youth in the jungle.

It’s interesting, hearing everyone’s stories and seeing the different paths that led them here. It gives me a new perspective on my own life, a bird’s eye view of the choices I’ve made. I realize now how narrow my focus was, how much emphasis I put on my career at the expense of everything else.

I never took a gap year, never spent time faffing about to figure out what I wanted from life. No, I was the driven one, hell-bent on proving myself. But now, in the clarity of this lush, green purgatory, I see the pressure and stress I felt at Ashbury Thornton weren’t entirely Liam’s fault, or anyone else’s. It was my own doing too—my inability to say no, to set boundaries, to prioritize my well-being.

I put forward this facade of hardworking, perfectionist Gemma, until that’s what everyone expected, including myself. I never gave myself permission to make mistakes, to take a bloody break occasionally.

I open my iPad. It’s liberating, being free from the constant barrage of emails and notifications. But there’s also a weird sense of dread that comes with loading up your inbox after a digital detox.

I take a deep breath and dive in. Messages from old coworkers, Robbie, Lizzie, my mom. One from a recruiter. I delete it without reading, my finger hesitating just a moment before making the decision. I hate that I have no way of getting in contact with Jimmy though.

Before I can stop myself, I find myself googling Liam. It’s like picking at a scab—I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. It’s unhealthy, I know. But that raw, bruised part of me needs to have that contact.

Once a day I allow myself this little masochistic ritual. Search for news articles about him—generally all finance-related, then look for pictures, which I immediately hate myself for doing. It’s pathetic, really.

I’m about to close the browser and toss my iPad aside when a new email pops up, the subject line making my heart skip a beat. It’s from Sir Whitmore’s office.

I shift in the hammock, straightening up just enough to block the sun from hitting my iPad. I tap on the email.

Gemma, it reads, and my eyes blow wide in shock that he is personally messaging me. How did he even get my email?

I do hope your travels are doing wonders for you. You’re only young once. When you get to my age, you realize how important seeing the world is.

I can almost hear his voice, that posh, grandfatherly tone, as I continue reading.

I made some inquiries after our conversation in the office. I heard you left Ashbury Thornton. I’m deeply sorry to hear that, but I have no doubt doors will open for you. There are plenty of companies that would be fortunate to have you.

I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in my throat.

I had a chat with your ex-boss recently. I don’t know if you were aware, but he had a sailing accident. He went out during a particularly rough storm. Must not have been in the right frame of mind. Perhaps the guy thinks he’s invincible.

The lump in my throat chokes me with a sudden, overwhelming fear. Liam went out in a storm? He would never do that. He’s all about safety.

Don’t worry, he’s fine. Dislocated his shoulder I believe. Was also concussed. I thought perhaps you’d want to know. Anyway, just know you did a lot of good at that company and with certain people. This was your doing.

My doing? What is he talking about?

And then I see it. A link, innocuous and blue. I click, and it opens to an article—a glossy, well-polished piece about how Ashbury Thornton struck a deal with another property developer. They’re taking over TLS’s coffee cart charities as a joint venture.

And there, staring back at me from the screen, is a picture of a grinning Jimmy standing next to a brand-new coffee cart. I let out a sound in relief. He’s okay.

I read the details with a mixture of emotions swirling in my chest. Liam took over Comfort Cups.

It wasn’t bullshit. It wasn’t a lie. Maybe Ollie was whispering poison in my ear. Maybe I made a terrible mistake about part of it.

Did I ruin Liam’s deal? No, I’m not that important in the grand scheme of things. Those men—they do what they want. Sir Whitmore, especially. He was just waiting for an excuse to pull the plug, and he would’ve found one, with or without me.

I smile despite the tear running down my cheek. Liam screwed me over, but he didn’t screw over the Jimmys of the world and that is more important.

Maybe he’s not a complete bastard after all. Just mostly a bastard.

It’s the most confusing feeling in the world.

I say goodbye to the other people on my tour, feeling a bit like a kid on the last day of summer camp. It’s time to part ways, to exchange goodbyes and promise to keep in touch, even though we all know deep down that we probably won’t.

As I wait for the bus to the coast, all I can think about is sinking my toes into the sand, maybe with a cocktail in hand. I grab a coffee and decide to check my emails, mostly to send some pictures to Lizzie—proof that I’m still alive.

And then I see it. My pulse spikes, my heart slamming into my throat like it’s trying to escape my body. There’s a new email, one with an attachment called “Liam’s diary.”

What the actual . . . ?

With shaky fingers, I tap on the attachment, my breath catching as I wait for it to load. I have no idea what to expect—whether I should even be opening it now, sitting here in this crowded bus station. Maybe it’s smarter to wait until I’m back home in London, where I feel safe and comfortable. What if it’s something I can’t handle? The thought of it unraveling me here, so far from anyone who knows me, makes my heart race even more.

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe I’m doing this. What am I, a lovesick teenager? But here we are. Apparently, spilling your guts onto paper is supposed to be therapeutic or some shit.

And since we’re baring our souls and all that touchy-feely bullshit, let’s talk about Gemma fucking Jones. Where do I even start with that maddening, infuriating, gorgeous woman?

Despite myself, I laugh, even though my heart is pounding so fiercely it feels like it might crack a rib. I can practically hear his voice in my head, that low, rumbling Yorkshire drawl that turns my insides to mush.

All right, enough of this “dear diary” bullshit. This is a grown man baring his soul, so let’s cut to the chase.

Gemma, this one’s for you.

Five years. Five goddamn years I’ve worked with you, always having to keep myself in check, to maintain that professional distance. Because I swore I’d never cross that line with an employee. But have you seen yourself? How the hell was I supposed to resist?

You’re like something out of my wildest fantasies come to life. That long, flowing red hair that catches the sun like fire. Those cute freckles scattered across your nose that I want to kiss one by one. And don’t even get me started on those big green eyes that see right through all my bullshit.

One weekend, Gemma. That’s all it took. One weekend of seeing you in my world to know that you belonged there. With me.

I tried to fight it, to keep things casual and uncomplicated between us. But who the hell was I kidding? There’s nothing casual about the way I feel for you, Gemma.

It’s no wonder I ended up with your image tattooed on my chest, even if I was too fucking dense to realize it was you at first. I look at that tattoo now, and all I see is you.

You drive me absolutely crazy; you know that? So stubborn. A perfectionist in your work, never settling for less than the best. Funny as hell, with a razor-sharp wit. And so fucking clever. All your sharp insults that never failed to invoke a reaction in me. That’s what you do to me, Gemma, you make me feel.

You’ve got two sides to you, just like me. The consummate professional, all buttoned-up and no-nonsense. And then there’s the wild, carefree adventurer, the girl who’s just as happy sailing off into the sunset or sleeping under the stars. I’ll take both Gemmas. I’ll take any version of Gemma I can get.

But for all your incredible qualities, you’ve got one weak spot, sweetheart—your lack of faith in me.

I did lie to you. Once.

I told you that Jimmy’s cart was getting renovated, some bullshit excuse I can’t even remember now. But it wasn’t true. He relapsed and went to rehab. I knew you’d be upset, and I wanted to protect you from that in the office. And I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson on that. I will never lie to you again.

That is the only lie I’ve ever told you.

But you never asked me all the questions you should have. You never fully trusted me. Not really. Even though I’ve always been straight with you, in the five years of knowing you. If you’d have asked me the questions, I’d have given you the answers.

But you didn’t ask. You just assumed the worst of me and shut me out.

And yeah, maybe I should have volunteered the information. Maybe I should have sat you down and gone through my entire sexual history, every sordid detail and past mistake.

I stiffen as I read those words, blinking away the sudden sting of tears. Is he seriously lecturing me right now? Through a diary entry? I don’t even want to read the rest. It’s too fucking upsetting.

Well, here’s a few truths for you. I’m going to cut to the chase.

Yes, I slept with Vicky. I fucked her to piss off Alastair, to take something he wanted just because I could. But I cared about her too. Maybe not love, but something real, something more than just a conquest.

My lungs forget how to work. Is this some kind of sick joke to get revenge? Because if it is, I’m not laughing.

Why the hell is he telling me this? What twisted part of his brain thought this was a good idea? “Hey, let’s emotionally eviscerate Gemma while she’s trying to find herself in the Costa Rican jungle! That’ll be fun!”

I want to throw my iPad on the ground. But my fingers keep scrolling of their own volition, hungry for more of this cruel confession.

But that was twenty years ago. It’s laughable how long ago it was. I took Vicky’s virginity and Alastair’s never forgiven me for it, but that’s his hang-up, not mine.

And that night you saw me at the Athenæum? I was there to cancel my membership. I went in person to give the staff a final tip.

Should I have told you? Probably. But honestly, I didn’t think it was relevant to us. It was an inconsequential blip, barely a footnote in my night. I never claimed to be a saint, Gemma.

So yeah, I used a high-end sex club, fucked my way through consenting adults in a no-strings environment.

But that was before us.

I never touched another woman while we were together. Not Vicky, not some random hookup, not anyone. Hell, I have zero interest in sleeping with someone now, even with you gone.

Was I livid about the TLS deal falling through? Of course I was. And yeah, I partially blamed you because that’s the influence you have on people. But more than that . . . I was gutted that you betrayed me. That you went behind my back, that you didn’t trust me enough to come to me first. That’s what really killed me. Not losing the acquisition.

But even with all that, none of it changes the most important truth of all. The one thing that’s been staring me in the face this whole time.

I love you.

There it is. Laid bare. No bullshit, no games. I, Liam McLaren, am head over heels in love with you, Gemma Jones. Do with that what you will.

And about that “go fuck yourself” . . . I’m hoping that was just the anger talking.

Always yours (whether you want me or not),

Liam

I feel like I can’t breathe.