A Love So Tragic (10 page)

“So, how
are
you dealing with it? Honestly?”

Those words, the sincerity in his voice, it causes my heart to crumple. It feels so natural and I can’t stop myself from opening up to him in ways I haven’t even opened up to Isaac. I know Isaac cares, but the truth is, he didn’t know my mother the way Nicolas did.

“I’m not dealing with it,” I say. “I miss her. I miss her laugh. I miss talking to her. I’m angry.”

“I know. Losing someone you love that much…” His breath blows across the line. “That’s pain in its rawest form, and honestly, I don’t believe anything makes it better.”

I sit on the phone with him for over an hour, and the longer I talk to him, the more I forget that it’s been years since we’ve had any type of relationship. The more I forget about how sad I really am, and I actually, for the first time in months, find myself laughing.

“Fuck,” he says. “I thought we were all going to jail for sure. Fucking Jason turning the Pizza Hut delivery sign on at two in the morning to ‘ward off the cops because no one can be high and deliver pizzas’.” He laughs. “Fucking idiot.”

I giggle reminiscing about the stupid things we had done as teenagers.

“Oh, shit!” he says. “It's ten o'clock. I got to go.” He hesitates. “It was really good talking to you, Peyton.”

“Yeah, it's nice hearing your voice.”

There's a long pause. “You gonna to tell Isaac?” he asks, and when he says his name, I swear I can hear resentment.

Am I going to tell Isaac?

“No.” And then I feel like I need to make an excuse as to why I’m not. “I just don’t think there’s any reason to. If I say something, it will make it seem like it’s something it’s not, and well...” I swallow hard. “It’s not.”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to mess up your marriage. I’m not that kind of guy, and you know that.”

“I know. And it won’t.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Peyton.”

“Bye,” I whisper before hanging up the phone.

Just friends. That’s what I tell myself, but that’s not what I feel.

The entire time we were on the phone, I had that giddy feeling, that butterfly in your stomach tingling all over. I sank when he said he had to go. That’s not friends. That is yearning. That is desire, and that is absolutely why I shouldn’t talk to him again.

I am not one of those people. No matter how much I like to daydream and pretend that Nicolas will come in and sweep me off my feet, I know that’s not realistic, and I know that could never happen. I made a mistake four years ago, but I also made a commitment, and by doing so whatever could have been, should have been, well, all that needs to remain a daydream. A place to escape and wallow in my regret.

I hang up the phone and stare at the ceiling. I couldn't help it. Friends? Bullshit. 

How can you be friends with someone you were once in love with...still in love with? I haven't done a damn thing wrong yet, but, already I feel like a bastard. If Lindsey finds out I've been calling Peyton, she will kill me. And the last thing I want to do is hurt Lindsey because I know how bad that sucks.

I hear the front door unlock. “Mr. Snuggles?” Lindsey calls out before the door shuts. I groan, I hate that stupid pet name. “Hey, baby, you home?”

Glancing down at my phone, the guilt eats away at me. That part of my life is over...why is this hard to let go of?

“Hey, Nic...”

“Yeah, in the bedroom.”

“Oh, naked I hope,” she says with a girlish giggle as she pushes the door open. “Damn,” she smirks. “Well, the shirts off, why are your jeans still on?”

I shrug and she walks to the bed, lying down next to me. “When is that auction your company is putting on?”

“Next Friday.”

“Shit.” She sighs, tracing her finger over my bare chest. “I told Lynn I'd work the unit for her. It's her daughter's birthday and they're going to dinner. Why did I think it was Saturday?”

“Don't know.” I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my chest, combing my fingers through her soft hair. “It won't be much fun anyway.”

She snuggles up to me, her hand slipping beneath the waist of my jeans. “I love you, Nicolas.”

I hate when she calls me that. “Love you too,” I say, then swallow because it doesn't feel right, and I blame Peyton for that.

Momma looks at me with her sympathetic eyes. “Honey, you’ve got to do what your heart is telling you.” She pulls me close to her, hugging me tightly. The soft scent of White Diamonds is everywhere. That smell so very her, so comforting. I drag that deep into my lungs, and all the tension in my body melts away. I’ve missed her so much.

She pulls back and looks at me with that stern mothering glare she has. “Your mind can tell you a million different things, Peyton, but your heart, if you really listen to it, is always telling you one.”

I wake up, my pulse hammering inside my chest, covered with a sheen of sweat, and my pillow soaked with tears. The dreams I have of her seem so real. Part of me wants to believe the state of unconsciousness is a gateway to another realm, one that allows me to talk to her and hold her. I take a deep, staggered breath as I wipe the cold tears from my face. My mind whirls with thoughts, and I know I’ll never get back to sleep. The soft blue backlight on the clock illuminates 5:03 AM. Of course, Isaac is still sound asleep, snoring. I kick the down comforter off, grab my robe from the foot of the bed, and slip it on as I make my way out of the bedroom.

I groggily stumble down the stairs, through the foyer, living room and dining room to the coffee pot. I plop a pod of Hazelnut Cream in and press the start button. It’s been two days since Nicolas called me. It was just a conversation between old friends I tell myself, but I know that’s a fucking lie. If that’s all it was, I wouldn’t feel the need to hide it from my best friend. I tell her everything but haven’t breathed a word about any of this mess, and why? Because I feel guilty, which should tell me something.

I’m careful not to bang the pots and pans around when I grab the skillet. Several minutes later the kitchen is filled with the smell of sausage. I cook eggs and pancakes, and just as I am setting the table with the plates, Isaac walks in.

His brow wrinkles as his gaze drifts from the table to me. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and walks over, resting the back of his hand against my forehead. “No fever,” he says, smiling.

“Nope. Just couldn’t sleep and thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

He kisses my cheek, brushing his hand over my arm. “It is. I’m such a lucky man.”

He sits down at the table and takes the coffee, bringing the steaming cup to his lips. He stops and arches a brow at me. “There’s no arsenic in here, right?” he asks.

“No.” I take the seat next to him. “Just laxatives,” I say, smiling.

“Mm, that’s sweet of you.”

We sit at the breakfast table silently eating, and when he’s finished, he takes his plate and sets it in the sink. “So, why couldn’t you sleep?”

“I had a dream about Momma.” I shrug. “I just couldn’t go back to sleep after that.”

His hand caresses over my back before squeezing my shoulder. “It’ll be okay.” And then he walks out of the room to get ready.

He knows I hate when people tell me it will be okay.
I allow that comment to dig at me, right down to my core. My fingers curl into fists. “No!” I shout, slamming my hand down so hard on the table the dishes rattle. “It won’t be okay. Maybe for you, it will, but it won’t for me.” I shout. “Stop telling me that!”

He comes back into the kitchen, glaring at me. “What the hell, Peyton? I was just trying to make you feel better. I mean, hell, I don’t know what to say to you about it.”

“No, you don’t!”

All I can think is that Nic knows what to say to me, and Isaac doesn’t. And it makes me want to punch him in his pretty playboy face for not taking me back to his house instead of mine, for letting me fuck him when I was drunk as hell and vulnerable. I'm not saying I'm not to blame because I am, but damn, I just wish it had never happened. I clench my fists so tight my nails slice into my skin. My jaw clenches as I imagine slamming my knuckles into his nose so hard it busts and blood goes everywhere.  I know he can see anger in my eyes because I can feel it burning behind them.

“You want me to tell you it sucks, huh?” he asks, taking a step toward me. “Is that what you want, for me to be insensitive?” He’s mad because he can tell I’m hurting and he doesn’t know how to fix it, but I’m angry because he doesn’t see that telling me it will be okay
is
insensitive.

I’m not a child, I don’t need to be lied to like one. I just want him to acknowledge how badly this hurts, how nothing will ever make it better, and how broken I feel. Yes, I just want him to tell me it sucks!

“I want you to tell me something other than it will be okay,” I scream. He shakes his head, wiping his hand down his face as he stares at me. And then I say it, the thing I’ve been thinking ever since she died, the thing I’ve been too chicken-shit to blast him with. “You didn’t even cry, Isaac. Not one fucking tear. Not for her, not for me.”

That laugh of disbelief he does when he thinks I’m being ungrateful slips from his lips. “I don’t fucking cry, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her, or that I don’t feel sorry for you.” He throws both hands in the air, shrugging. “And I don’t know how to deal with you, so you’re just gonna have to take my word on that.” 

Isaac turns and walks away, slamming the door when he reaches our bedroom. I don’t want someone to feel sorry for me. I want someone who loves me to the point they
feel
how much I’m hurting.

An hour later Isaac’s left for practice and here I sit, alone, in the office staring at the words on the computer screen. The more I allow my mind to go over this morning, the more I think I hate Isaac. That night of the mistake plays through my mind, the gems of everything that went wrong in my life swirling in front of me like brightly colored pieces of pain. I want this out, so I relive that moment in words.

“I want a break!” I shout.

“We're engaged, Peyton.”

“I just...I need to think.”

He looks hurt for a split-second, then his face turns red. “You're fucking immature.”

“Oh, yeah. That's great, Nic. Well, if we’re name calling here, you’re a control freak!”

“I'm not a control freak!” He glares at me.

“You don't get to tell me what I need to do!” I'm angry because I screwed up and he called me out on it. And he's right, I am immature.

His jaw clenches. “I don't want to watch you fuck up, that's all.”

“It's not your business.”

“You know what?” He nods his head. “I think you're right. Let's fucking take a break. Maybe you can get your head out of your ass. Mierda!” He opens the door and stares at me.

And I leave.

I don't call him for two days, and he doesn't call me. I may be stubborn, but Nic puts me to shame. When I finally break down on day three and call him, he tells me he’s out of town, to enjoy our break. I sit, crying because this is stupid. It really is. And I call Jen.

“P! What’cha doing, whore?”

“He told me to enjoy our break. I think we're really over.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Jen says with a sigh. “You two are not over. Nic knows how to handle you. He knows he has to ruffle your feathers. Just give it another day or two. I'm coming to get you and we're going to Madhatters.”

“I don't want to go anywhere.” The whining sound of my voice makes me cringe.

“Too fucking bad.” She hangs up.
 

Nic and I were pissed at each other, that was it. We were both stressed with exams and trying to find a grad school with both our programs. It was a stupid disagreement, and had I just gone home that night, everything would have been fine. My life would be different because a few days later Nic showed up with two dozen roses and apologized for raising his voice, for telling me to fuck off. He told me I was the most important thing to him and he just didn’t want to see me screw up because if I hurt, he hurt. If I ended up disappointed, he would be too, and that he was only trying to keep me from making a mistake he knew I would regret. Unfortunately, in life, there is no redo. We live with the mistakes we make. And that mistake haunts every last beat of my heart. It was so pointless, so thoughtless, so selfish…