Do you want me to say I’m sorry? That I regret what I did? That I somehow did it on purpose to hurt you?

You know that’s not the answer, that’s not the reason it happened. You know I could never hate you, would never want to intentionally or unintentionally hurt you. Even so, despite my past pain I can’t wish it had never happened.

But it’s not about what happened today at the press conference, is it? Just as much as it’s not about the fact that I fell for him. It’s the fact that you can’t bear to see him because I know how much you really miss him.

And I’m the only person who understands you.

If you got the impression that I was embarrassed at your little performance in front of the cameras, okay I admit it. I was slightly, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to do. But then again, I’ve never seen you cry openly before, although I know you have on your own, locked away in hotel rooms where prying cameras can’t dissect every emotion and splash it on the back pages of the world’s newspapers. And I know why you cry. You miss him, despite what he’s done. Despite the fact that you loathe to see him, how it tears you up inside when you think what he did.

But don’t you think I have more of a right to hate him than you? After all, I’m the one he fucked and left. Me, foolish, gullible, believing every seductive word he whispered in my ear, that every caress was genuine, that he really meant it when my name left his lips as a frantic moan on the brink of orgasm. Or when his talented tongue pleasured me senselessly while I pleaded and begged for him to take me, undeterred that our shouts and screams of lust could probably be heard through the thin walls of his hotel room.

At least he loved you.

Strangely, I can’t hate him. At first I did, I couldn’t stand the sight of him. But if I’m truthful, I guess a part of me knew that he was trying to get back at you in the most cynical way possible. He wanted you to find out, wanted it to come between us. To make me fall for him and then cruelly cast me aside while you could only watch, helplessly. A stupid desire for revenge.

Or the desperate actions of a crushed man?

And afterwards when you asked me why I didn’t fight back, why I went along with him, I honestly couldn’t answer you.

I wanted him, that’s all there was to it, although I knew you wouldn’t want to hear it. He seduced me mercilessly and I couldn’t resist.

It worked as well, he managed to drive a wedge between us. No longer really speaking during race weekends, keeping our distance. I think I even flaunted our relationship on purpose. Not because I wanted to hurt you but because I was happy. Away from him, we were still close but I couldn’t talk to you about him, maybe because I didn’t think you’d listen but mainly because I knew it would hurt you. I was foolishly playing with fire and I had no idea what I was doing. An easy target, really.

And when the inevitable came and I found myself used and discarded I didn’t think I could come to you. I didn’t want you of all people to see my pain because I knew it would hurt you just as much. That was his original intention, I’m sure of it.

So, I tried to hide my hurt but I couldn’t for long. You soon found out, were the shoulder for me to weep on, told me I wasn’t to blame while you cursed him. I cursed myself for allowing it to happen, for letting you find out because the last thing I wanted was for it to affect you.

But where are we today? Like I said, I can’t say I’m sorry for what happened. I can’t regret it. I know he set out to hurt me, to hurt you, but I think in the end he’s only hurt himself more. He thought it would help but it didn’t, I can see that now and for that I can’t regret it. I even think he began to regret his actions. Maybe we’re wrong and he didn’t want to string me on as long as he did. That one evening in Imola was only supposed to be a one-off, enough to hurt me and you.

But in the end he couldn’t tell me to my face that I meant nothing so he kept it going. In a strange way trying to protect me from the awful truth until the inevitable. Our slanging match ringing through the hotel corridor as I hurled every insult known at him, spitting curses at him through tears and screams as he just stood there silently listening to my rampage. Not saying a word. But he didn’t have to, I could see everything I needed to know in his eyes.

Yet still I don’t regret it.

Whether he meant his words to me or not, we were still together. I can’t forget the memories of our days and nights together, the feel of his toned hard body pressed against mine as we’d become entwined on the bed, his expert hands roaming across every inch of my body, sending ripples of desire through me.

A part of me would go back to him if he asked. Spend another night wrapped around his inviting body, trading demanding kisses as for hour after hour his unbearably deep thrusts would reduce me to an incoherent mass, pleading for him to continue while his hands roughly grip my swollen erection.

But then again I know I’m not the one he wants. It doesn’t take a genius to know who he was thinking about when we slept together or whose name was about to leave his lips when I’d feel his body convulse and come inside me.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s why I can’t hate him. Pity him, yes, but not hate. After everything, he still loves you. You’ve only got to click your fingers and he’ll come running back.

I know you won’t though. You’ll probably never forgive him for this.

I wish you would.

~The End.