I can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wi...
I know you probably all want to shake me. I'm an idiot. Owen is gorgeous, sweet, smart, and great fun . . . And he's into me. I wasn't even surprised when he said he thought he was in love with me.
But I'm scared to say those words myself.
The last time I said "I love you" to someone, it wasn't right. I wasn't certain if I actually was in love . . . And I know now that I truly wasn't. But the pressure to say it back was smothering me. It hovered, unseen but present, in every interaction after Donnie first told me he loved me all those years ago.
Why aren't you saying it back? The silent question seemed to lurk behind every other word he spoke. Don't you love me too?
I didn't know. I wasn't sure.
And I'd frequently doubted his feelings were love anyway. How could he love me when he criticised pretty much everything about me? My weight, my clothes, my life choices? He was subtle about it, of course, and it crept in gradually over our time together . . . But I noticed it.
The problem with gaslighting, though, is that it's clever. Cunning. It plays with your mind. There's part of you that actually recognises it for exactly what it is, but somehow, there's still that seed of doubt that grows inside you like a poisonous plant and gets tangled with the knowledge that you're actually being manipulated. The toxicity spreads into your own sense of self, and ultimately, you're unable to separate the two in your brain. In the end, you can only blame yourself.
That's how it happened with me anyway.
So I said I loved Donnie when I wasn't sure, and then he used that against me, too. I wound up believing he was all I deserved. So, anytime I found the guts to call time on the relationship, he'd manage to lure me back in. And it was only when I realised he'd been cheating on me that I was finally brave enough to cut the cord.
I feel far more certain of my feelings for Owen already. Because I think, in some ways, what we had ten years ago was already the closest I'd ever veered towards falling in love. The year of getting to know him when we were essentially merely pen pals had already sent me down that path. That metaphorical wall blocking the way through to a potential future may have taken a decade to be torn down, but my feelings poured out as soon as that blockage was removed.
And so when Owen says those words, I nearly parrot it back to him. I want to. I feel it.
But I'm not quite ready to voice it.
And, to be fair to Owen, he puts absolutely no pressure on me. He chuckles ruefully after he speaks. "I probably shouldn't have said that." He smooths a hand along his scruffy jaw, that adorable flush of pink tinging his cheeks. "But I'm not taking it back either."
Then he kisses me like his life depends on it, before slipping his clothes back on, and going out to get us what he calls "a hotel room picnic".
He returns armed with various meats and cheeses, a massive hunk of fresh bread, and a bottle of red. He's also somehow convinced a member of the hotel staff to lend us some cutlery and plates. "This is a slightly classier affair than my usual room picnic on these tours," he laughs. "Usually, it's a Pot Noodle and a bottle of beer in my boxers."
"Well, if you want to strip back down to your undies again, you're more than welcome," I say with a deliberately sleazy wink, and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me back into a kiss that sends my world into freefall.
I've eaten some incredible food this week, but this Tesco haul somehow tastes better than everything else. I think it's because I feel like I'm exactly in the place I'm meant to be, and it's been a long time since I felt that way. Also, I really just love charcuterie. I layer a slice of bread with prosciutto and brie and sigh with delight as I bite into it. Owen watches me eagerly, hazel eyes bright and full of warmth.
"Good?" He prompts me, as if he's waiting to be rated in the foodie round of The Great British Boyfriend. I briefly imagine myself holding a scorecard with his name at the top and marking him up as a prime example of "excellent boyfriend material".
Owen, on a scale of 1 to 10, you rank somewhere around infinity. You'vewrecked the curve.
And probably spoiled me for any other man.
I meet his gaze. "Perfect," I whisper. And I'm not just talking about the food.
He smiles. "I'm glad." I melt further.
He's bought salted caramel cheesecake for dessert. Like he wasn't already amazing enough.
"How did you know I'm obsessed with all things salted caramel?" I prod him suspiciously.
"I asked Nessa what your weaknesses were," he replies. "Punctuality, salted caramel, and Idris Elba, apparently."
"She knows me well," I giggle.
"Your friends all really care about you," he says softly.
"They do." I nod. "Their behaviour this week has been a bit much at times, but I understand why they've been meddling." I swallow hard, a lump forming in my chest. 'I'm really lucky."
"They've got your best interests at heart, even if they haven't always gone about things in the best way," he agrees. Then he grins. "And they've always been more than happy to tell me embarrassing stories about you."
"They haven't?" My mouth drops open. "Please tell me you're kidding." He shakes his head. "What have they told you?" My brain immediately revisits all the most mortifying moments of my life, flicking through them montage style - like an episode of You've Been Framed showcasing my life's many humiliating events. Or out-takes from The Mirren Show that didn't quite make the cut, but end up shared on a YouTube clip years later accompanied by the Benny Hill theme tune.
He smirks. Adorable. "My lips are sealed."
I push him down on the bed and straddle him. He doesn't even pretend to struggle. "I'm sure I can unseal them pretty quickly," I threaten, my mouth millimetres from his. I'm fully aware I'm not remotely threatening, but it's fun to play.
"Go ahead," he laughs. "But I still won't tell." In one swift move, he rolls over, so he's now on top of me. Joy emanates from him like light from a Christmas tree, and I realise it's infectious. I feel like I'm glowing, too, as his lips find mine. My mouth parts involuntarily, inviting him in. Salted caramel kisses are unbelievably sweet. Even better than cheesecake.
The night is still young, so later we go for a walk. Pop into the pub and join my friends for a quick drink. Then the two of us return to my room just as the sun is finally beginning to set. A swirl of beautiful pastel colours swirl and transition dramatically in the sky outside as we tumble onto the bed, tearing at each other's clothes, desperate to touch and be as close as possible.
And still, I don't say it back.
But I know I will.
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