Confessions About The Affair

1

Gemma's POV

MY HANDS are stuffed into the pockets of my jacket, as I walk over to the bench that he's sitting on. My chest is tight, and I don't want to be here, but I can't turn back now. I'm surprised that he even remembers me after all of these years. I haven't seen him since he was eight years old. Back then, he was almost like a son to me, but time has a way of changing things.

"Thanks for coming," he breaks the ice.

I nod and sit beside him. He doesn't look at me, and continues to stare aimlessly in front of him. I inhale a deep breath, and sit back, hoping that it won't take too long—whatever it is that he wants from me.

I have nothing against the kid. But I've moved on, and I'm sure that he's going to make me relive the past in some way or another.

I say, "you look alot like her, you always have," he finally looks at me and smiles, but it doesn't seem too genuine, "you look alot like him too."

He definitely resembles both of his parents. I can see his mother's misguiding smile, and his father's devious eyes.

"You've told me that before—when I was younger," he answers, then exhales a breath, and leans back, still looking at me. His gaze is almost alarming, "you look the same somehow. I don't know how that's possible."

"Jack, you're being kind. But I'll take it as a compliment."

"Well, you look wiser—uh, mature," is he trying to find a way to not call me old? "And you've always been beautiful."

Okay, I'll take it as a compliment, but let's not get off topic, "why do you want to talk to me, Jack?"

My chest tightens even more. Sitting here with him, I'm thinking about things that I haven't thought about in years.

"You," he mumbles. What about me? "and my mom."

I swallow. She's the last person that I want to talk about, "what about your mother?"

He rubs the back of his neck with the palm of his hand, "you and her—you know, what happened between you two," he isn't clear on exactly what he's referring to, so I try to play it off.

"We were good friends, Jack. She—"

"I know it was more than that, Gemma," my body freezes. I don't have a response for that. I feel as though he can see that all the blood has drained from my face, and I'm as white as my french tipped nails, "it was always obvious."

I bite down on my bottom lip, "Jack, I don't know what you're—"

"Did you love her, Gemma?" The blood rushing to my heart stops. I clench my teeth and swallow. Love. I haven't tasted that flavor upon my lips in ages. I've grown old, and also cold. I don't trust anyone with my heart—not anymore, "it was strange when you left. It was as though something was missing—you were missing. You became such a big part of our lives so quickly—you were like a second mother to me—or more like a father, when mine wasn't around."

My mind begins to reminisce. I can remember the times that we'd go to the waterpark, and by the end of the day, our fingers and toes would be wrinkled to a prune. Or when I'd help him with his English homework, because he didn't know enough adjectives to write an interesting story. We did a lot of things together.

And he thought that I was just his mother's friend—her best friend.

"Leaving is the best thing I've done for myself. But I never meant to hurt you, Jack. I know that it was selfish of me to leave like that," and I'm being selfish now, by not telling him the truth, but I can't admit to his mother's secret. It isn't mine to tell.