A Love So Tragic (9 page)

I drop my luggage inside the door of my apartment, grab a water from the fridge, and walk out onto the balcony. Staring out at the Manhattan skyline in the distance, I wonder how different my life would have been. How different things could have been. I never wanted to live in a city. I never wanted to be close to thirty and a bachelor. Four years ago I imagined at thirty I would be happily married, a kid or two, and a perfect little house in the suburbs of some place in Florida, maybe Denver—somewhere with a view of water or mountains, not concrete skyscrapers.

Four years ago Peyton was my future.

After I chug the water, I crush the plastic in my hands and walk back inside, going straight to my closet to pull out
that
box. It lands on the floor with a dull thunk. There's high school yearbooks, photo albums, and then there's that leather journal. I pull it out and sit on the cold hardwood floors. As soon as I open it, letters fall out. I place those in the back of the journal and flip to a random page.

I'm not that guy that falls for a girl. I'm the player. I'm the guy that doesn't have time to waste in a relationship...and then I met you. Peyton Franks. Day one, I had a hard-on for you in English class. The way you glanced over your shoulder at me and stared. You looked so damn innocent chewing on the inside of your cheek. A few months later I kissed you, then a few weeks later I fell in love with you, two years later, I asked you to marry me...at fucking twenty years old. Now, I am that guy. I don't give a shit about anything but you, and I wouldn't change a thing. At the end of the day, my life is better because of you, Peyton.

I flip through the pages, annoyed that I was that fucking pussy whipped. The journal is filled with memories, with my past, my feelings. Peyton loved words. She loved writing. She wanted to be an author, a poet. And because of her—actually, I started writing
for
her. Because, after all, isn't that what all lovers fucking do?

I wrote her poems; I wrote her love notes that she probably threw away the second she got them. But this book, I filled this book with words so I would have something to give her on anniversaries, on days when she seemed sad. That's how certain I was we would always be together: I filled up an entire fucking book to give to her over the next eighty years of our lives together.

I wanted to make her happy. I wanted to give her the marriage I never saw. My parents sucked at being a couple, and I refused to ever be like them. I never once saw them kiss each other, but I sure as hell saw them kiss other people. My dad never told my mom she was beautiful, so I told Peyton every chance I got. He never gave my mom roses, so I gave Peyton roses all the time. Two dozen Sterling Silver Roses at a time to be exact because she loved that damn movie,
A Bed of Roses.
I thought surely if you do everything right, nothing can go wrong.

I did everything right with Peyton... and she broke my goddamn heart. As fucking pathetic as that makes me sound, she did. I may be a guy, you may expect me to be hard, and I am, as long as it has nothing to do with her. 

I toss the journal to the floor and my cell beeps with a text from Lindsey. 

You home yet?
 

And I'm not really sure what home even is anymore.

But it's not with Peyton.

I didn’t say anything to Jen about Nicolas that night at Aiden's. It’s been a week and every damn night all I’ve dreamt about is Nic, about that day when I lied and told him I was in love with Isaac. The thing is, two weeks after I confessed that I’d slept with Isaac and Nic blew up, I found out I was pregnant.
Pregnant.
And that really messed things up.

I was so in love with Nic, so devastated, that I was desperate for anything to take that pain away. Isaac promised to take care of me, to take care of the baby...and Nic. He was angry. Nic was angry at me, and I often forget the person he became when all that happened. For some reason, the memories of him being hurtful to me seem hard to remember. That's how in love with him I was—am—that I can’t seem to see the bad in him. Whatever little bit there may be.

My fingers tap over the keyboard, and I watch as the words pop up on the screen:

I’m staring at a stick—specifically at that purple line, with my heart in my throat. This cannot be happening. I want to scream. I want to cry. My mind reels back to the night that everything changed. The night I derailed, the night that never matched anything about me... and now the line is more purple. I toss it into the trash can.

Five minutes ago my life was completely different. A month ago, my life was the polar opposite of this. How is it possible to go from where I was with Nic—in love, happy— to crying in my bathroom because I'm pregnant and I can't be one-hundred percent sure who the father is. I am not one of those people, and yet, here I am.

I walk out to my room, grab my keys, and the next thing I know, I’m standing on Nic's porch in tears, banging on his door at ten-thirty at night. The lock clicks, the hinges creak, and now I'm staring at his perfect face, his tanned skin. His hazel eyes lock with mine, and I can see the hurt behind them.
 

“What are you doing here, Peyton?” he asks, his arm blocking the doorway.

I should tell him, but the longer I look at him, the more I hate myself, the more in denial I am. And I just want to pretend he loves me for one more minute, hour, night.
 

“Peyton,” Nic says, the sternness of his voice forcing my gaze up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Habit...” I shrug before breaking down in tears.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” I lie because I know no matter how mad he is at me, he won’t let me leave if he thinks I’m drunk.

Exhaling, he drags his hands over his stubbled jaw then steps back from the doorway.
 

I walk in, uncertain of what to do, and being uncertain in a place that is so familiar is a shitty feeling. The door closes. Nic walks to the hallway, and I follow him. He turns around and glares at me. “Why are you here?”

That question seems so abrasive because for as long as I've known Nicolas, I've belonged here, with him.
 

“I'm sorry,” I whisper as I follow him to his room.

He goes to the bed, flipping the comforter back. He opens his drawer and tosses me one of his t-shirts. I yank my shirt off, slip his shirt on, then pull my jeans down and throw them onto the floor. I lie back, the familiar scent of Nic's bed surrounding me, and I fight the tears. Nic flips the light off and he walks to the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To the couch.”

“Please...”

“Please what, Peyton? Huh? You expect me to sleep in here with you?”

I close my eyes. “Please don't leave me.” And there is so much more in that plea than he can ever imagine. “Please, Nicolas.”

Shaking his head, he walks to the side of the bed. My heart bangs against my ribs when he leans down, placing his face inches from mine.

“Please what?” he says through clenched teeth.

“Sleep in here with me. I love you.” And I do...

“No.”

He turns and walks back to the door, and I cry. Like a bitch. I cry. I sob. I heave.

“As much as I want to, Peyton,” he says. “I won't. It's not fair to me. It's not fair to you. Because as much as I don't want to, I would fuck you, and things aren't the same. They aren't okay.”

My chest tightens. I feel like I'm losing my damn mind. I know I will never love anyone the way I do him. To know that I fucked up my own fairy tale—that’s the worst feeling I’ve ever had. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I punch the wall next to his bed and scream. Even though he doesn't know it, this is goodbye and that kills me.

“Really?” he shouts, and Nicolas never raises his voice at me. He storms back over to the bed. “Really? You want to pitch a fucking fit?” The street light streams in through the window allowing me to really see the anger in his eyes, the hurt. “You don't deserve to pitch a fit. You did this to yourself.”

He turns to leave, and panic settles in my chest, and before I know what I'm saying, I blurt out, “I’m not drunk. I'm pregnant. And I didn’t know where else to go.”

His shadow freezes in the doorway. His shoulders fall, but he doesn't turn around. “Whose is it?”

And then there's silence. Nic was always careful. We always used protection because he had our lives planned out already. I know it's Isaac's, but I won't admit that.
 

Nic shakes his head. “Never in a thousand-fucking-years did I think I'd have to ask you that.” He inhales, his arms now bracing the doorway. “Peyton, if it's mine, I'll take care of it, but what you've done—I want nothing to do with you, honestly. I'll take care of the baby if it's mine, but that won't fix this.”

“Nic, we weren't together...I …”

“No. I never would have done that to you. I thought I knew you.” I watch his silhouette in the doorway, and I'm thankful I can't see his face because I don't know that I could bear it. “I didn't know you because the girl I loved, never would have done that. Two weeks, a fucking disagreement—an immature disagreement—never should have ended with another fucking guy, your ex-fucking boyfriend, sticking his dick in you.” He takes a breath and I fight the tears. “You're no better than any of those other girls. As far as I’m concerned, you're a whore, Peyton. You crossed the one line I had...” Nic walks to the door and I feel everything inside of me shatter. “Goodnight, Peyton.”

And he leaves...

I’m lost in thought, typing when I hear Isaac swear. “Shit!” A few seconds later he pops in the doorway. “I’ve gotta go out of town. I have an interview with ESPN.” 

“That’s sudden.”

“Yeah, I know.” He steps farther into the room and my eyes dart to the words on the screen. My heartbeat quickens and I close the document just before he steps behind me.

“What'cha working on?”

“Oh,” I glance at the monitor, fighting the heat washing over my face. “Just playing around on Facebook.”

Isaac wraps his arms around my shoulders, brushing his nose over the crook of my neck before pressing a kiss over my skin. “I'll make this season up to you. I promise.” He pulls away, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “We've got that charity auction next week. Pam booked two flights, got us a room at the Ritz-Carlton.” He smiles.

“That'll be nice.” My heart’s still hammering in my temples.

He nods, kisses me quickly, then goes to pack, and within an hour, he's leaving.

Three months after I married Isaac, he signed with the Cardinals. I'm used to him going out of town. It doesn't bother me. And that makes me wonder if something is wrong. I should hate it when he leaves, right? I glance over to the dresser and see Isaac’s wedding band. 

If I said I didn't wonder if he cheats on me, I'd be lying. He's a professional athlete who looks like a fitness model and let's not forget his track record: He cheated on me in high school, he slept with one of his best friend’s girlfriend. And the thing is, sometimes I wish I would find out he’s cheated on me because it would give me an out. I'm ashamed of that. My life is pretty damn perfect. Isaac's nice to me, he loves me, he's just a little distant and sucks at romance. I live in a beautiful home, in a nice neighborhood, and we have enough money that we write checks to charity that are equivalent to most people's yearly salary. I have the life people dream of, but something's just not right. And it never has been.

I grab the laundry from the bed to put away. As I'm shoving the last towel onto the shelf, my phone rings. I shut the closet, go to the bedroom, and grab my phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

My heart stops beating for a second. When the back-supply of blood rushes through my veins, I get dizzy. 

“Nicolas?” I say quietly.

“Look, I’m sorry about the other weekend. You just…” he exhales. “I just wasn’t expecting some of that.” There's a moment of silence where we are both probably replaying that conversation in our heads. Nic clears his throat. “I remember how close you were with your mom, Peyton, and I’ve been thinking that maybe that’s what’s going on with you all of a sudden. And if it's something with Isaac, well, I don’t know your situation, and I don’t need to, okay? But no matter what has happened between us, we were too close for me to not still think of you as a friend, and I’m here for you if you need me. I just wanted you to know that.”

That’s a lot to take in. I feel for the bed before falling back onto it. What do I say to that? He shouldn’t feel any obligation to me, and the fact that he does makes my chest go all tight.

“Thank you…” I breathe. “So much, Nicolas. I appreciate that.”