A Love So Tragic (4 page)

Isaac keeps putting his arm around me to console me. But, honestly, I don't want him anywhere near me. I don't want anyone near me.

My gaze drifts over the plaque with 'Mrs. Franks' written in those tiny white letters.  Isaac’s hand rubs over the small of my back as he attempts to guide me through the door, but my feet stop. I stumble forward, taking one step into the room. The smell of the flower arrangements overwhelms me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the white casket and my heart drums into my throat. I feel weak. I want to scream, but instead, I slam my eyes shut, pretending that if I don’t look, it will make all this a little less real, but even with my eyes closed, I'm suffocating. My world is still imploding and I don't want to do this. I pull away from Isaac, turning to leave the room, but he grabs onto my arm.

“Peyton?”

Everything around me smears behind the welling tears. “Please,” I beg as I snatch my arm free from his hold. 

“Peyton, baby...” Isaac starts through the crowd after me, and, as a result, I burst into a full-on sprint down the hallway to the restroom. 

“I just need a minute.” I slam through the entrance of the restroom. The lock clicks and I lean against the door before slumping to the floor. The door rattles behind me when Isaac tries to open it. 

“Peyton, don't do this.” There’s another hard thump as he pushes against the door followed by a growl when he realizes I've locked it.

“Just give me a minute,” I shout, angry that he won't just let me grieve.

  Grief never feels the same. When my father died, all I wanted was Nicolas, but right now, I don't want anyone because no one knows how I feel. As childish as it may sound, I resent Isaac because he still has his entire family, and I have no one. Well, no one except for him.

I don't want to be consoled by people who don't understand this pain. I’m not ready to tell her goodbye, to listen to the people who are going to tell me I have to. I draw my knees to my chest, repeatedly scratching my fingers through my hair as I cry.

Waves of anger and sorrow and fear pummel through me in the matter of minutes, leaving my head spinning. My body is tense, my chest heaving, and I finally just let it go—screaming as loud as I can. That helped, so I do it again. I scream. Loudly. To the point my vocal chords feel like they're bleeding, and then I suck in a deep breath, swallow, and breathe. I grab some tissue and try to clean the streaked mascara from my face before I unlock the door. I slowly push the door open with the expectation that Isaac will be standing right outside, but he’s not.

I'm halfway through the foyer when the soft melody of
Amazing Grace
floats out of the chapel.

“Peyton?”

I hear my name. Evidently I'm losing my mind because why would
he
be here?

“I'm so sorry.” The sound of that faint Argentinian accent paralyzes me, and my heart drops to my stomach.
Nicolas.
 

Four years. I haven't seen him in four years.
My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around to find him right behind me, dressed in a crisply pressed black suit and satin, emerald tie. His fingers comb through his dark hair, his eyes aimed at the floor. The blood drains from my face, the room spins, and I reach for the wall to steady myself.

Even after this long, seeing him hurts more than I'd imagined. His light green eyes lift to mine. “I hope this is okay?” he says quietly.

The minute he takes a step toward me, I break down completely. Nic grabs my arms and pulls me against his firm chest. The scent of his cologne surrounds me, and I draw it deep into my lungs trying to savor the nostalgia, the safety, the once familiar scent of his embrace.

“I'm so, so sorry, Peyton,” he whispers before releasing me and backing away. “ I hope it's alright that I came.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “I felt coming was the right thing to do. I loved her.”

I know he did, but still, that comment hits me hard and I fight back another wave of tears because she loved him too. She loved him so much she told him it was safer for his heart if he let me go—and she was right.

“I'm glad you did,” I manage. “She would appreciate it.”

He nods, dragging his hand through his hair again before an awkward silence falls over us. I want to look him in the eyes, but it’s too uncomfortable, so I shift my gaze to the tissue in my hand. The last time I saw him, I told him I was getting married to someone else and handed back the engagement ring he'd given me. There never was true closure and the wounds are still festering and open, at least for me they are. Seeing him so unexpectedly dredges up every emotion imaginable. The guilt, I expect that, but the relief, that intuitive feeling that he’ll make everything okay, that’s not expected. At all. I try to convince myself I should walk away from him, but my feet remain planted in place as I stare down at the tissue, shredding tiny pieces from it. 

He sighs, and gently rubs his hand over my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks.

Such a simple touch shouldn’t feel so comforting, but unlike everyone else who’s asked me that question, I know he understands what this is doing to me.

Tears prick my eyes and I attempt to force them back. I can feel myself crumbling again, and I don't want to. “No,” I choke on a sob and squeeze my eyes shut.

“I know, Peyton, I know.” He pulls me against him again, and I don’t want him to ever let me go because even four years later, he still has the ability to make me feel better. “It just sucks,” he says, rubbing his hand over my back. “Nothing’s going to change that. I know how much you loved her.”

He knows not to tell me it will be okay because he knows me. All these years later and Nic still knows me better than the man who has lived with me every fucking day since we parted ways.

“Look,” he whispers into my hair, his warm breath blowing against my ear. “As much as I want to walk you in there, you know as well as I do, I can’t.”

“I know.” I use the tattered tissue to dab at my tears. 

Nic shakes his head as he reaches for the box of Kleenex set on a table. He yanks several out and hands them to me. “You’re strong. You always have been.”

There’s a moment of silence again, and all I can say is: “Thank you for coming.” I nod and wipe my face. “It means more than you could ever know.”

The dimple in his cheek pops when he smiles down at me. “She meant too much for me not to.”

And this feels too right. This should feel more forced, more awkward than it does. It shouldn’t feel comfortable.

“Thanks. I’m gonna…” I glance at the room and swallow. “I guess I have to go in there. I should go in there...”

He gives me a slow nod, remaining in the foyer as I disappear into the chapel.

Hushed conversations buzz around me, everyone talking about what a great person my mother was, each telling stories of their fondest memories with her. I can’t focus on any of it, so I block it all out and take a seat on the bench to the side of the room. My best friend, Jen, stands silently next to me, her hand resting on my shoulder to let me know she’s there. Eventually, Isaac comes over, squatting down in front of me. “You okay?”

I nod and he pats my leg. When he stands, I hear him mumble ‘shit’ beneath his breath.

“Oh, whoa.
Nic
…” Jen clears her throat. “Nic is here. Wow.”

Isaac shoulders his way through the crowd to shake Nic’s hand. I can’t hear what they say, but I watch their body posture. Isaac has gone all dominate, his stance widened, his shoulders squared, and Nic is just standing there with his hands in his pant pockets, his eyes drifting over to me every few moments.

A half hour passes and all I want is for these people to leave.

“Hey, P,” Jen says. “I’ve gotta go to the restroom. I’ll be right back. Okay?”

I nod.

“You want some water or anything?”

“No, thanks.”

Not a minute after Jen’s walked off someone's hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I flinch as I brace myself for another dreaded 'it will be okay'.

“I’m going to go,” Nic says softly as I glance up to his face. His thumb grazes over my shoulder. “Just wanted to say I'm sorry again. I know you'll miss her.” 

“It means a lot that you came, Nic. It does...” I whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t move, his hand remains on my shoulder. He’s looking at me like there’s something else he wants to say, and all I can do is stare back at him. This man is my past, and at one point, he was my future. It's a terrible feeling when someone who was once your entire world has become a stranger. 

Nic draws in a deep breath as he pulls his hand, and then I feel a gentle caress along the small of my back.

Isaac’s arm wraps around my waist. He tugs me against him and clears his throat. “Yes, that was a nice gesture of you, Nic.”  Nic's gaze swings over to Isaac and they shake hands. “If you’re ever in town and want to catch a game with a girlfriend or anything, just let me know. I could throw some tickets your way.”

I can tell Nic is fighting a sarcastic smirk by the way his lip twitches. He forces a fake smile, and nods before he disappears into the crowd. And just like the last time I watched him leave, I feel a loss. 

Life changes and molds you with every breath. Death has a way of forcing you to re-evaluate decisions, and fate has a way of shoving your face into everything you've lost. I break down, crying, sobbing, and all the while my husband's hand rubs across my back in an effort to soothe me.

The bar is crowded with drunks. Loud, annoying fucking drunks who are spilling their drinks all over the place. 

“Hey, Nic!” Matt shouts from across the room. “Come over here.” I glance up to see him flagging me down, and I begrudgingly grab my beer from the counter before making my way over to the group of guys. 

“Well, fuck,” Aiden says. I haven't even stopped walking when his hand slaps my back. “Look who finally decided they're not too good to come back home. What's up man?” he asks, wiping beer from his mouth.

“Not shit.” 

Smirking like a smart-ass, he eyes me up and down. “Where the hell you been, a funeral?”

I glance down at my dress shirt and trousers. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” he runs his hand over the top of his head. “Shit, man. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Whose funeral?”

“Peyton’s mom…”

His eyes widen. “Shit. I haven’t talked to Isaac in a few months…damn, I hate that. I’ll have to call them tomorrow.” He stares off for a second, and I want to change the topic.

“So, how have you been?” I ask.

“Good, man, really good. Getting married after the new year, starting a new job. All that adult bullshit, you know?”

“Yeah.” I laugh.
Adult bullshit is right.
I pull a chair to the table and sit.

Aiden and Matt bitch about their girls, but I barely hear what they're saying because the fact that Aiden Jones, the man-whore, the slacker, is about to tie the fucking knot really gets to me.

I glance around at the other guys I went to college with, at my little brother's friends, and most of them are sporting wedding bands. I'm only twenty-eight, fuck, why do I suddenly feel so damn old?

“So, bro.” Matt clinks his beer against mine. “When are
you
going to get hitched, huh?” He snickers. “You wait much longer and your balls are gonna be so wrinkled and saggy you won't be able to make babies, and you know Mom is ready for some grandkids. Take the pressure off of me, would you?”

I swat at him. “Shut up, fucker. Guy’s shit doesn’t go bad. I could be ninety and make a baby.”

“Seriously, man. Shit or get off the pot already with Lindsey.”

Is he serious?
I glare at him. “Why don't you fucking get married to Abby, shithead?”

Lifting his beer to his mouth, he grins. “I am...asking her tomorrow.”

“Yeah, dude,” Aiden says. “Always thought you'd be the first of us to get married, not the last. Peyton really did a number on you, huh?” He laughs for a second and I cut my eyes at him. “Sorry man,” he says. “I was joking.”

“That girl fucked me over,” I say, grabbing my beer and chugging it.

Seeing her today messed with my head more than I expected it to. I heard Isaac when he told her it would be okay, and even though it shouldn't, his comment bothered me. He doesn’t know her, or hell, maybe I don’t know her any longer. I've spent years trying to determine whether what she did was actually cheating, and I bounce back and forth between that it was, that it wasn't, and that who the fuck cares because either way she shouldn't have done it. And then, fuck, what she did next—running off and getting married. She didn't even give me a chance to calm down from the initial shock of everything. Hell, she didn't give me a chance at all, and that made me wish I could hate her.