Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 47

The Costa Rican sun beats down on my shoulders as I trudge along the port, my hair still damp from my disastrous attempt at surfing. My legs are screaming, my ego is in shreds, and I’m pretty sure I swallowed half the Pacific Ocean. But it’s not just the physical exhaustion weighing me down. It’s been two days since I received Liam’s letter, and my emotions are still in turmoil. Every word is etched into my brain, playing on repeat like a broken record.

I pass by a couple on one of the boats, wrapped up in their own bubble of PDA, and I feel a stab of jealousy so sharp it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I quickly look away.

The port’s buzzing with fishermen hauling in their catch, tourists with their cameras and cross-body bags, boats bobbing in the water. It’s giving me flashbacks to weekends with Liam.

I’m not paying any real attention to it, too wrapped up in my own melodrama. I’m so out of it, I nearly bulldoze some poor tourist. As I’m stumbling through an apology, something catches my eye.

A boat name: Rán’s Voyage.

Rán. The sea goddess from Liam’s tattoo. The name of his boat at the Regatta.

Lately, anything that reminds me of him feels like a punch straight to the gut. I could probably find a connection to Liam in a damn turnip if I tried hard enough. Every time I spot a couple walking down the beach, if the guy has broad shoulders and dark hair, I have to do a double take. Every time I smell the sea, it’s like he’s there.

He’s always on my mind.

This is just another painful pang. When will it end? When am I going to stop thinking about him?

God, I miss him. The realization crashes over me like one of those waves that unceremoniously dumped me into the sea earlier. It’s been simmering for days, ever since I read his confession, but now it’s just too loud to ignore. It’s like my heart is flinging memories of Liam everywhere.

Maybe I should just pack it in and go home early. Cut this “find myself” trip short and face the music. Face Liam. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. What would I even say to him? “Hey, sorry I called you a cheating bastard, ruined your billion-pound deal, and then fled to another continent. Want to grab a coffee?”

Yeah, that’ll go over well.

Damn you, Liam McLaren. Even from thousands of miles away, you’re still messing with my head.

I pass Rán’s Voyage and stop dead in the middle of the walkway. That’s strange. My heart skips a beat.

That hat. That fucking hat.

That distinctive hat with the albatross, the one that looks like it’s been through a war. Skipper Magee’s. Is it a freak coincidence that someone owns the same hat? A sign from the universe or maybe Michael the yoga instructor’s cosmic energy following me all the way to Costa Rica?

My palms start to sweat, and it’s not because of the tropical heat. A weird feeling settles in my gut, a mix of hope and fear and anticipation. Before I realize what I’m doing, my feet are carrying me toward the boat.

I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a random boat. Rán is probably plastered on a thousand boats. What am I expecting here? That Liam suddenly developed a flair for grand romantic gestures and sailed across the ocean to Costa Rica just to sweep me off my feet, like some kind of pirate Fabio?

But I can’t stop myself. I have to know who owns this boat.

As I get closer, my heart is doing its best impression of a construction drill. I climb the ramp between the dock and the boat, my legs feeling like jelly. I peer onto the deck, fully aware that I’m basically trespassing at this point. The deck is empty, save for some fishing gear and a cooler. But there, perched on the bow like a beacon of promise and mindfuckery . . .

Is the hat.

It has to be Skipper Magee’s. It’s identical, right down to the frayed edges and the questionable stains.

Am I going mad? Are these the actions of a madwoman? Probably.

I deflate. It’s just a hat. Not a message from the universe. Just a piece of fabric with a bird on it.

I spin on my heel, ready to drown my embarrassment in something fruity with an umbrella, when—

Holy. Freaking. Crap.