Page 155 of Love to Loathe Him

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 raceeven 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 wonderI 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.