A Tragic Heart (26 page)

“But you are still family, and he may need you for something one day,” I say, trying to convince Mason to just keep the key.

“He has other family; he doesn’t need me and he’s made that clear.” Mason starts for the door. I hate to see him leave so soon. I don’t want it to end this way. This shouldn’t be happening.

“Mason, wait!” I shout.

He turns around, and his facial expression tells a story. It shows a million emotions.
Emotions that are too painful to touch
.

“It’s not supposed to end like this. It shouldn’t end like this. You two have too much history to just throw everything away and act like you never met. Mason, keep the key—if not for him, then for me,” I say, handing him the key he put on the table.

He stares at it. “Why should I do anything for you?”

“Because I know you still care, and this will help me believe that you’ve somewhat forgiven me. Please, Mason.”

Mason looks at me for a moment and then snatches the key out of my hand. He doesn’t say another word. He just walks out and slams the door behind him.

I don’t mind that his gestures were bitter and abrupt; all that matters is that he took the key. That makes me believe that Mason is on the road to forgiveness. The only problem is, I don’t know if his destination will be me, Peyton, or both of us. I hope for the last one.

***

About an hour and a half later, Peyton comes back from buying whatever it is he needs. I don’t tell him that Mason came over because I don’t want to start anything. Just the mention of Mason’s name is enough to stir up anger in him. Peyton goes straight into the kitchen, washes his hands, and begin cooking dinner. Forty-five minutes later, a wonderful aroma begins to fill
our
home. I decide to cheat and peek inside the kitchen. I open the double doors and see a kitchen full of food. Red peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers covered part of the counter. There’s a pot of boiling water on the stove that looks empty from where I’m standing.

“What is this, Peyton? Did you invite other people over?” I ask in astonishment.

He laughs and then he scolds me, telling me that I’m not even supposed to be in here.

“No, it’s just me and you tonight, like you said,” he says, smiling as he slices a red pepper on the cutting board.

“Why so much food, then?” I ask, still amazed.

“Well, since I know Italian is your favorite, I thought we should have a traditional Italian meal. My dad used to cook like this for me and my mom. He was strict about Italian traditions—he even taught my mom how to make sauce from scratch.”

Peyton stops talking for a few seconds. “When he left, my mom spent whatever free time she had teaching me how to cook. She said every man should know how to make a decent meal…married
or not.” He lifts the lid of a pot on the stove and checks the progress of something that smells heavenly.

“Your mom was a smart woman. I wish I’d had the chance to meet her,” I say, standing next to him.

“Yeah, me too. She would’ve loved you.”

“How are you so sure about that?” I ask.

“Because I love you, and she loved whatever I loved,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. Then he gets back to his cooking.

“So…what exactly are you making?” I ask, looking at the ingredients arrayed around the kitchen.

“Well, traditionally, Italians start with a pasta course, or soup or risotto,” Peyton says.

“Risotto?” I say slowly.

“Yeah, it’s a rice dish. But I decided to do soup first. With that being said, I’m making the traditional Italian sausage soup with tortellini. It can fill you up quickly, so I would suggest you don’t eat too much, because that’s just the beginning. For the second course, I’m making
la cotoletta alla
Milanese, which is a veal cutlet. It’s usually served after risotto alla Milanese, but I decided to switch it up. The next thing we have is the side dish. It’s usually a vegetable, potato, or a salad; I went with an antipasto salad; I did that first, since it needs about two hours to refrigerate before it’s served.”

“A salad that takes two hours to make; it must be good,” I say, joking, but admiring the effort Peyton is making.

“Yeah, it’s really good. Last, we have the dessert. It’s usually fruit or cheese, but I thought fruit was more fitting. I chose strawberries, since I know you love them. Plus, this dessert requires wine and sugar—just another way to make the night sweeter.”

I can’t believe it. Just when I think that Peyton has surpassed amazing and can’t go any higher, he breaks his own record. I can’t help myself, so I grab him and kiss him passionately. That’s the least I can do for such an impressive boyfriend. I have the guy who even grown, married women wish they had. I have the guy I probably don’t deserve; but somehow, here he is, kissing me in the kitchen of
our
home, where he currently is cooking for me. I can’t ask God for anything more.
I’d be selfish if I did
.

It’s well over two hours later before we start to eat. I can honestly say that I don’t believe a man or a woman born and raised in Italy could have done a better job. I can’t believe that Peyton is such a great chef; but it shouldn’t surprise me because Peyton is great at everything.

I am well over full by the time we finish our multiple-course meal. After Peyton cleans the kitchen and puts the dishes in the dishwasher, he sits in the living room with me, and we drink wine and talk. I love feeling like I can fall in love with Peyton over and over again, every minute.

Peyton

I
watch her intently as she speaks and laugh at what she says. I love this girl more than I love anything else in this world. My mother always told me that someday I’d find someone who I’d care about more than I cared for her. I never believed her, until now. I felt bad about it at first, but then I remembered something else she told me. She said to never feel guilty for loving another woman more than I love her; that would only mean that she’d raised me to be a loving man who was willing to fight for the woman he loved. My mom also said that this woman would probably be the one I decide to marry. I guess I can’t argue with that. If Taylor wasn’t recovering from a failed marriage, I would ask her right now and marry her tonight.

I cut Taylor off in the middle of a sentence with a long, passionate kiss. She is beautiful in every way possible and at this moment, she is irresistible. She kisses me back, placing her hands on the sides of my face as I hold her waist. A moment later, she pulls back to catch her breath. Even the longest kiss with her isn’t enough.
I would love to die by the suffocation of her kiss
.

“I see the wine is starting to make someone a little frisky,” she jokes. Then she grabs her wineglass to take another sip of red zinfandel.

“No, you’re just the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life,” I say to her, letting my feelings pour into her hands.

She’s caught off guard for a second or two, but then she responds by telling me that she loves me, too. “I want to be with you forever, Peyton,” she says. “I want to be there for you when you sign your record deal, get your number-one hit, when you win your first Grammy. I want to have a lot of babies with you and I want to raise them with you. Then, we can travel the world together and grow old together. I even want to die with you, Peyton,” she says, her voice full of love.

“I don’t want to die with you,” I say, taking her hand and intertwining her fingers with mine. “I want to die before you do. I don’t want to know that your life ended with mine. I want you to outlive me, because I want to share you with the world for as long as it’s possible, even if I’m not there to see it. I won’t be selfish. The world deserves a piece of Taylor Caldwell also,” I say staring into her dark-green eyes. She kisses me softly on the lips again before I pull back.

“What are your dreams?” I ask her seriously.

She pauses, takes another sip of wine, and puts the glass back on the table. “My dream is to love you forever, knowing that you feel the same way,” she answers without looking at me.

“That’s not a dream; that’s our definite future. There has to be more that you want that doesn’t involve my happiness or Jackson’s happiness. There has to be something that Taylor Caldwell has always wanted,” I say, trying to pry the answer out of her.

She pauses for a long time. “Love. That is all I ever wanted and all I ever dreamed of. My parents never showed me any affection or any love. They’ve never told me that they loved or cared about me.” She carefully places her hair behind her right ear. I love when she pushes her hair back so I can get a better look at her face. “I heard them tell Jackson and even Kristen, but never me. They told Tyler they loved him when he was sick. I never had any life-threatening disease or anything, but there was a time when I was little that I was sick enough to be admitted to the hospital for a week. They never even told me then. I told my mom that I loved her once when I was about thirteen—you know, just to see if she would say it back. You know what she said? She said, ‘You shouldn’t say that to people unless they say it to you first. That way, you won’t feel foolish telling someone that you love them if they don’t feel the same.’ I got my answer that day.”

I see disappointment all over her face. She wipes away tears that have yet to fall. She sets her wine glass on the table and continues looking down. “Wow, I guess alcohol makes me a little emotional,” she says with a laugh that is clearly forced. “But, the plus side is that you’ve already given me my dream, Peyton. That’s why I can’t think of anything else that I want—because for so long, all I have ever wanted was to feel loved. With Mason, there were times I knew I was loved but I didn’t feel loved. But with you, I know I’m loved and I feel loved every second of the day.”

“Taylor, I’m so sorry…I had no idea your mom—”

“Was such a bitch? Yeah, well, she is. And there is no need to feel sorry, Peyton; you’re the one who brought me life. You should feel proud,” she says, picking up her wine glass again.

“I want you to have other dreams,” I say. “I want to be by your side when all of your dreams come true. I want to help make your dreams come true. I don’t want you to just sit back and watch me do what I’ve always wanted. I want you to have that same feeling of being proud that you finally accomplished something that you have always dreamed of,” I say, taking her hand.

She looks down at our touching hands for a while. There has to be more that she wants. I know there is. She just isn’t saying it.

“I want to be an author. I want to write professionally—all the time. I want my own publishing company. I even want to be a songwriter for popular music artists. I want to change the world, with at least one work—or maybe even with a collection of them. I want to help people the way you and Jackson helped me. If I can just touch one person with something that I write, my life will be complete,” she finally confesses.

“Well, then, let me teach you guitar and piano, and you can work on songwriting. Start writing a book now and then self-publish it. I’ve read some of your work, and it has touched me—so it looks like you’re already halfway there,” I say, still holding her hand. I sip my wine.

“Peyton, I really do love you more than anything—more than writing,” she says with love and hope in her eyes.

“And I love you more than rock and roll,” I assure her.

“Then marry me,” she says in all seriousness.

I looked at her for a bit and see that she means it.
It can’t happen like this
.

“You’re also an impulsive speaker when you have too much alcohol,” I say, taking the glass out of her hand.

“It’s not the wine; it’s me. I’m serious, Peyton. After my divorce is finalized, you and I should get engaged. We don’t have to get married right away. We can take it slow. But I want to marry you and I don’t want to wait five or ten years to do it,” Taylor says.

“No,” I say bluntly.

She looks confused and surprised. “I will not accept an engagement proposal from you. I am the man and I should ask. Stand up!” I order.

She does. I position myself on one knee and grab her left hand. “Now, this may not be proper since I don’t have a ring and all, but I don’t think that is important right now.”

She slightly turns her head away and laughs. I smile back at her. This moment couldn’t be any more perfect. “Taylor, I love you more than words can explain, but it wouldn’t be fair not to try anyway. You give my life meaning and a purpose that not even music can do for me. I can’t imagine life without you. I’d choose death before choosing to live without you in my life. No one or nothing can ever compare to you or replace you, and I just want you to know that. And this may sound cliché, but it’s the truth and it’s the only way I know how to say that I love you right now. Taylor Caldwell,
ti amo. Mi vuoi sposare?”

“Well, I’m guessing that means ‘will you marry me’ in Italian. So the answer is
yes
, Peyton Giordano, I would be honored to be Mrs. Giordano,” she says, trying to keep her voice from cracking and the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

We continue to drink wine until we are completely drunk; and before we know it, we pass out, wrapped in a blanket, holding each other. Before falling asleep, I kiss her one last time on this special night. The taste of wine on our lips adds a bit more sweetness to the night.

Taylor

I
wake up to the sound of Peyton talking on the phone to his aunt, Mason’s mom. It sounds as if something is wrong. I have a terrible headache from all the wine Peyton and I shared last night. I have a hard time getting up off the floor, where we slept. When I finally do, I walk into our bedroom holding my head. Peyton is rushing to get dressed.
Something is definitely wrong
.

“Is everything okay, Peyton?” I ask, watching him rumble through his clothes and put on the first shirt he finds.

“No, I have to go to the hospital. You can meet me there if you’d like, but I can’t wait, I have to go!” he says, picking up his phone and heading for the door.

“Peyton, what happened? What’s going on?” I ask, concerned.