Love Was Never the Problem
People assume the hardest part of that life was the risk.
It wasn’t.
It was the people you loved.
I didn’t lie the way people think.
Not directly.
When I said it, I meant it.
That was the problem.
I used to say te amo.
Spanish.
It felt lighter somehow. As if saying it in another language made it less binding. As if it didn’t
quite count in the same way.
Or at least that’s what I told myself.
I didn’t invent my feelings.
They burned like Scotch bonnet chillies.
I was overwhelmed and underprepared.
In the Bolivia years, I was in love with three women at the same time.
Each of them I loved deeply. Each of them knew about the others—not fully, not in detail, but
enough. Separated by thousands of miles, each believed, quite reasonably, that she was the
one who mattered most.
At different moments, she was.
That’s what made it possible.
And that’s what made it impossible.
There were moments that should have ended it.
Helen arrived at the door one afternoon while I was with Gail.
No drama. No attempt to hide anything.
Just the reality of it, sitting there in the open.
Helen cried that night. Asked me not to leave. I promised I wouldn’t.
And I meant it.
The next day I saw Gail.
I promised her the same.
And I meant that too. I still smell the pine trees where we walked hand in hand and made
plans.
That’s the part people don’t understand.
It wasn’t calculation.
It was conflict.
When Helen was pregnant, I didn’t tell Gail until after the birth.
When she was pregnant with my son, I didn’t tell her until after the birth.
They forgave me.
All of them.
Except me.
And I still don’t.
That’s the part that doesn’t heal the same way.
Writing these books has forced me to look at things I had postponed for decades.
Not now. I have other things to deal with.
Tomorrow, maybe.
If I stop, everything changes.
If I end it, what happens next?
So you keep moving.
Being in different countries helped.
Or made it possible.
Which isn’t quite the same thing.
You learn small things when you live like that.
How to avoid names.
“Princess.”
“Treasure.”
It sounds charming.
It isn’t.
It’s practical.
I was straight in most things.
Business, risk, decisions—I didn’t pretend.
But here, I did.
Or perhaps I didn’t.
Perhaps I was just telling the truth in pieces.
The hardest part wasn’t the danger.
It was having your heart pulled in different directions at once.
Conscience.
Desire.
Loyalty.
Permission.
A kind of self-righteous anger that told me I was justified.
All of it felt real.
All of it was real.
For a while, three made it easier.
Strangely.
Because the pressure wasn’t focused in one place.
Until it was.
Love wasn’t the problem.
It was the inability to carry it properly.
If you want to understand the decisions, that’s one thing.
If you want to understand what it feels like to live with them—stay with me.
Read next → Trust Was Always Conditional
Read next → What People Get Wrong About the Smuggling World
Why this series exists → Why I Wrote This Series
Start the story → The Alchemist’s Hotel
If you think the risk is the hardest part, you’re looking in the wrong place.
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