When I’ve finally trudged into the house where I’m staying, I’m relieved to see that Mrs. Hudson has left me a note, which means she’s not lying in wait, hoping to prod my brain with pointy sticks. She’d ask where I’ve been, who I’ve been with, what I’ve been doing, whether my parents would approve, whether my sister would think me a total whore, that sort of thing.

The note simply reads:

I did leave her a message two days ago, saying I was visiting a friend for a day or two. “Visiting” is the least sexy euphemism for “repeatedly getting laid” that I’ve ever used, but whatever. It’s none of her business, after all.

Once I’ve made my way upstairs to the flat, I pull open my laptop, slam my butt down on the couch and try to focus on my blog. I need some way to take my mind off what I’ve just done.

But all I can think about is the number of steps I achieved while stroking Galen off. Or straddling him. Or while he…

Okay, stop thinking about sex. Stop thinking about him. He is now an official memory. You had a fling. It’s over. Good-bye, English lover.

I never wanted him to be a rebound. But I certainly never wanted to ache like I’m aching now, either.

The only thing I want to do right now is call him and hear his voice. I’m in serious withdrawal mode, and I feel like he’d calm me down. But that’s just the problem. I know in my heart of hearts that I shouldn’t see him anymore. At all. I shouldn’t talk to him, text him, email him. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Because the thing is, I think I know what’s happened. I’ve turned into reverse Julia Roberts.

I’m a girl, standing pretty fucking far away from a boy, asking him not to love her, because if he does she’ll have no choice but to love him back.

I’m basically fucked, and not in the amazing, tender, sensual Galen way. I’m fucked in the my head hurts and I want to curl into fetal position and lie in the woods for six months way.

When the words for my next blog entry don’t come to me, I pick up the phone and text Katherine. I think I’ve figured out what I need: To get the hell out of London right now. I need to escape this place, which was supposed to be my escape from everything else. My own stupidity has created a twisted vicious circle.

Hi Katherine, I write, when we last spoke you mentioned a place outside of London where I could run away for a couple of days. Does that offer still stand?

A few minutes later she writes back.

Yes—you’re welcome to my house in the Cotswolds. You just need to find the hidden key. I’ll email you instructions. There’s a train up from Paddington Station, then you can catch a taxi into town.

Great, thank you.

Everything all right?

Fine. I just want to get out of London and see a bit of the rest of the country. I’m sort of itching to run away to some hilly spot and get away from buildings for a bit.

God, I’m such a liar.

Right—okay. Sending you an email with details now. Let me know if you need anything else.

This is good. This is what I need. To run away and avoid further temptation. Galen will understand, I’m sure.

If this doesn’t cure me of my addiction to a certain beautiful man, then I’m screwed. But with a sinking realization, it hits me that if it does cure me of my Galen addiction, I’ll be crushed.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, I’m on a train to the town of Moreton-in-Marsh, which I think must be the most British-sounding name that’s ever existed.

As per Katherine’s instructions, I grab a taxi that takes me into a quaint little town called Chipping Campden. It’s the most idyllic place I’ve ever seen. It’s all peaked roofs, weather-worn limestone façades worn by years of rain, and friendly-looking locals. Warm window displays are all set for winter in the tiny shops that line the High Street. The windows themselves are divided into square, leaded panes and look out onto the street invitingly, calling out to me with their Christmas trees and promises of gifts. Leather boots, teapots, wool coats all say “You need me. Buy me. I’ll make your imperfect life perfect, I promise.”

Liars, all of them. No boots could fix this hole in my heart. No teapot, however sweet. Not even chocolate can cure what’s ailing me at the moment.

When we’ve turned onto Essex Road, I ask the driver to let me out at number twenty-three. He pulls up to a pretty little stone cottage, hidden away behind brambles and an old wooden fence that seems to be strategically falling apart in such a way that it somehow manages to look exquisitely beautiful. Somehow it doesn’t surprise at all me that a house of Katherine’s would be so freaking pretty.

I find the key hidden precisely where she said it would be, under an old vase in the side garden. When I make my way into the house, I pull off my boots, toss my backpack aside and drag myself into a sitting room. A beautiful, large window opens up onto the street, and a fireplace sits in wait for a fire.

In the distance I can see a little town square, and beyond that, a small general store. I make a note to head over later and grab some supplies when I’ve summoned the energy, namely wine and chocolate.

I glance down at the Stepbitch. It’s 4:18 p.m. Apparently I’ve done twelve thousand steps since midnight, but I know better than to believe it. Those weren’t steps. That was my time with Galen. There is literally a record of our love-making on my wrist right now, reminding me what I left behind. Reminding me what I could have had tonight, instead of this wretched return to solitude.

As I stare into space, I ask myself what would make me feel better. And the only realization that comes to me is that he would. I miss him. I wanted more of him and I got scared, so I ran away from him as fast as my legs would carry me.

Isn’t that insane? I’m so scared of how I feel that I needed to let him go. So scared that I’ve pushed it too far, too fast. Scared of losing him by being reckless, so I deliberately sabotaged us. I deliberately made sure we’d lose one another.

None of it makes sense, now that I think of it. Maybe I should talk to him. Sort through my feelings, open up about how frightened I am of ruining things for us both. Galen is a great listener. I know he’d understand. I know he’d want to hear my voice.

Resolute, I pick up my phone, formulating the words in my mind, preparing myself for our difficult but necessary conversation.

But I stop, my heart pounding fiercely when I spot a text message from him.

Riley—have to head out of town tomorrow. I guess it’s for the best; we should spend some time apart.

Hoping you’re okay.

xo,

G.

Fuck. It’s too late.

No, G. I’m not okay. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.