I hang the last glass ornament on the tree and I sit on the couch to admire my work. Isaac’s across the room sprawled out on the sofa watching an NFL game.
“Are your parents coming in town for Christmas?” I ask.
A whistle blows and Isaac sits up, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares intently at the TV. “Damn it, Jarvis! Run the damn ball for Christ's sake, would you!” he shouts, looking over when he realizes I must have said something to him. “What, baby?”
“Are your parents coming in town?” Just saying that causes a twinge of jealousy to course through me. He has his parents, and I have memories. That shouldn’t make me angry, and I try not to let it, but it does.
“Oh, yeah. I think so.” His attention goes back to the television and he tosses his hands up as the running back fumbles the ball. “Fuck, man!”
My phone vibrates next to me with a text from Jen:
Aiden's having his Christmas party again this year. You guys coming? It's next weekend. Saturday.
Aiden and Isaac played baseball together in high school. We go to his Christmas party every year and all of the girls fawn over Isaac because he's, well, he's Isaac Miller. He's been on the cover of Sports Illustrated; he's been on the Today Show. He's a local celebrity, and to say it annoys me would be an understatement.
“Hey, babe,” I shout over the ruckus of the game. “Babe?” Isaac glances at me. ”Aiden’s having his Christmas party next weekend, want to go?”
“Huh,” he glances back at the TV then back at me, “Oh, nah. I’ve got to go to Baltimore for that Under Armour promotion thing. Remember?”
“No.” I roll my eyes, annoyed with his lack of organization. I have to call his PA to know what his calendar looks like, and that gets old.
“Huh, I could have sworn I told you. I’m flying out Saturday, be back Sunday. Sorry, baby. Go if you want. It'd be good for you.”
Jen pulls up to Aiden’s ranch-style house and puts the car in park. “So, remind me, what did Isaac have to go do now? The season’s over. He does know that, right?”
“Some promotion thing in Baltimore.”
“Huh. He’s outta town more than he's in town. Doesn’t that piss you off?”
I unfasten the seatbelt and shrug. “It’s his job.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s worth it since he makes bank,” she laughs as she climbs out of the car. “Lucky bitch.”
The icy wind whips around me, making my skin tighten and prickle when I step out of the car. I pull my wool coat closed as we walk toward the house. The front door opens, music and laughter filtering out into the night sky as two girls stagger onto the porch. They huddle together, place cigarettes to their lips, and light them, shaking from the cold. I follow Jen up the concrete stairs and one of the girls squints against the yellow porch light.
“Jen? Peyton?” she says excitedly, and I recognize her voice. Brianna, Aiden's fiancé.
Before we can say anything, she’s wrapped her arms around us both, her cigarette blazing next to Jen’s hair as she squishes us together. “It’s so good to see you guys.”
This party is like a high school reunion every year, and for the first few years, I used to wait anxiously to see if Nic would show up, but not long after I got married, he moved off and stopped hanging out with most of the people from high school.
“Yep.” I nod and wriggle out of her grasp. “It's good to see you too, Brianna.”
She pulls a drag from her cigarette and grins. “Getting older sucks ass, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck yeah, it does,” Jen groans as she pushes the front door open.
The heat inside serves as a relief. I slip my coat off and fold it over my arm just as Aiden stumbles up, a red solo cup in his hand. He loses his balance, and beer sloshes over the edges as he slumps against the wall.
Jen rubs her hand over his spiky blond hair like she’s scruffing a dog behind the ears. “Geez, you drunk. It's only ten o'clock. You're gonna be puking before midnight.”
“Nah. Not gonna happen this time,” he laughs as he grabs me and pulls me in for a hard hug. My cheek smoshes against his soft chest. “Your dumbass husband skip out?” he asks.
“He had some Under Armour thing,” I say as I toss my coat over a chair.
“Man, the ladies are gonna be pissed.” He smiles. “That's how I used to get the single ones over here. Back in my days as a bachelor, I’d throw epic parties, and promise all the single girls they could meet Isaac Miller, then I’d ply them with alcohol, get them three-sheets-to-the-wind, and, well, you know...”
“Yeah,” I smirk at him. “I get it, and gross, Aiden.”
“Oh, what the hell ever,” Jen laughs. “You look like the guy from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, you know the one that wore the diaper and chicken suit? What girl wants that?”
“A drunk girl.” Aiden pokes her with his finger, spilling beer over her shirt. “That's who. It's how I hooked Brianna.”
“Oh, for the love of...” Jen walks to the kitchen to get a towel and I follow her.
“Tell Isaac he owes me one, Peyton,” he shouts as we shove our way through the crowded living room.
“God, he's such an ass,” Jen says with a groan. She grabs two cups from the counter before pumping the handle to the keg. “Annoying as shit.”
“And you, my dear, sweet, horny friend,” I playfully arch a brow at her and smirk, “had sex with him...”
Jen glares at me and points the keg spout at me. “Shut your mouth, P. That was four years ago, and I was drunk. Really sloppy drunk.” She pretends to gag at the memory. “And it was so awful. God.” Foam drips down the side of the cup as she hands it to me. “Thanks, now I need to get drunk just from remembering that,” she says and tips her drink back.
A game of beer pong, a round of shots, and two hours later, I’ve got a hard buzz. The ping-pong ball bounces over the tabletop, splashing into the cup, and I squeal right before I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. Still giggling, I turn my head around, my laugh ceasing when my eyes land on Nicolas. He is the last person I expected to see here. The look on my face must make that apparent because he smirks just before he lifts a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam to his lips. My gaze trails over his face, up to the brown hair peeking out from a black, wool toboggan.
“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he smiles, glancing around before his moss-green eyes lock with mine. “Where’s Isaac?” his grin deepens, forcing my heart to pound against my ribs.
I swallow hard. “He’s not here.”
“Shame…” He lifts the bottle to his lips, grinning around the rim as he drinks. Tiny bubbles float up the neck of the bottle, and when he lowers it, his gaze narrows. “Wanna go talk?”
His words are a little slurred. That bottle’s pretty much gone. I know he's drunk, and when Nic is drunk, he'll say anything, no matter how harsh.
I nod and stand, following him to the hallway.
He grabs his coat from the back of the footstool and slips it on, then points at the mountain of jackets piled on the chair. “Which one’s yours?”
“The black one with the red sash.”
“I figured.” He laughs. “Girly, Sassy. Very Peyton.”
He tugs my coat out from underneath all the others and holds it out for me. I slip my arms through the sleeves and Nic spins me around to cinch the waist. All I can manage to do is stare silently at him, willing my pulse to slow down.
“Okay, come on then,” he says, taking my hand.
We both freeze, our eyes locking. This feeling is so right—so damn right. I'm not sober enough to manage this. I’m not together enough to pretend he doesn’t affect me, to consciously make it seem like he’s just another guy I used to know. His hand twitches in mine and he tilts the bottle back again, gulping the bourbon like its water. He clears his throat, stumbling a little as he leads me out the back door.
The cold, dry air burns my face as the screen slams shut behind us. His hand still loosely holds mine as he drags me down the
steps. Large, white puffs of fog float in front of my face, making me hyper aware of how hard and quick I’m breathing. The yard is littered with people smoking, drinking, laughing. A crowd huddles around the fire pit, and for a moment, I think maybe I should let go of his hand. Maybe this looks like something it’s not.
The leaves crunch underneath Nic’s boots as we cross the yard, and suddenly, it seems like all the drunken laughter and chattering falls silent. I'm afraid if I glance over to the bonfire I’ll be met with accusing stares because I shouldn’t be holding his hand like this, and I don’t want to see those glares, so I keep my eyes aimed at Nic’s broad shoulders. Once we reach the edge of the yard, he stops. There’s a rickety wrought-iron glider beneath a tree, and Nic dusts the leaves from the seat before motioning for me to sit down. I can only imagine what he’s about to say, but I’m drunk, and honestly, whether he cusses me out or not, it doesn't matter. All I want is to be with him right here, right now, no matter what terrible things he may say to me. I want something from him whether it's hate or forgiveness or...
I gently take a seat, the cold metal burning through my jeans. The glider creaks when he sits next to me. And here we sit, in the shadows where no one can see us, both staring at the ground, neither saying a word.
Slowly, I peer up at him. The flicker from the bonfire dances over his face, and as I study him, I can make out tiny lines creeping from the corner of his eyes. Smile lines, age. And somehow age makes him look sexier. Sitting with him feels so familiar, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, I want to savor this for as long as possible. I never meant to leave him. I never meant to hurt him, and if I could take it all back, I would. I would give anything to have him again, to never know what it’s like without him, and I'm well aware how wrong that is.
Nic hunches over, rubbing his hands together before cupping them to warm them with his breath. I'm looking at him, but he's staring at the fire.
“It’s fucking cold, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Silence. The people laugh around the fire, the wood crackles and the breeze carries the scent of burning timbers over to us. He leans back against the chair, still staring off as he rests the bottle of Bourbon on his knee.
“So, Peyton.” He takes a quick swig. “Why’d you call me three weeks ago?”
“I just... I don’t know, I …I wanted to tell you I was sorry.” Because I never fell out of love with you.
“You don’t owe me an apology.” He pauses, but he still won't look at me. “You can’t do that to me,” he whispers as he lifts the bottle to his mouth again.
“Do what to you?”
He shakes his head. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get over you?” He takes another gulp from the bottle. ”It took me three years to get over you.”
I feel my stomach knot, and then Isaac pops to my mind causing another ball to form in the pit of my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. ”I didn't mean—”
“Do you know how bad it hurt me when my brother, my fucking brother told me you were getting married? I remember just sitting there, thinking what the actual fuck? I moved to New York, Peyton just because everything here reminds me of you. How the hell can you get over something when it’s shoved in your face?” He inhales, and for the first time since we’ve come out here, he looks at me. His eyes narrow as his cold fingers skim my cheek. “Tú me rompiste el corazón,” he murmurs.
You broke my heart…Hearing him say that in Spanish makes it seem that much more tragic. Nic saves that language for sentiments, words of love, not turmoil.
His fingers continue to caress my face, and just when I’m going to lean into his hand, he pulls it away.
“The first time I saw you with him after you got married, you were out to dinner,” he says. “You never saw me, but I watched you and all I wanted was for you to look as miserable as I felt, but you were happy. I knew I couldn’t stay here and run into that shit all the time.”
Guilt presses down on me and I realize what he’s doing. He thinks I found my closure and now he wants his. I inhale, preparing myself for the onslaught of remarks I know are coming.
“Peyton,” Nic’s chin drops to his chest, “I loved you.”
I know he did. Everyone knew he did, but hearing that come out of his mouth so many years later nearly kills me because it’s past tense.
“I loved you too, Nicolas.”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “Just not enough, huh?”
I’m not doing this. I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not ever. I thought I could, I thought I owed this time to him, but I cannot handle this. It's still too raw and too fucked up. I stand and go to walk away, but he catches my wrist and stops me.
“Wait. I’m not finished.”
“I get it, Nicolas. I’m a bitch. I fucked you over. I know that. I said I was sorry, and I know that's not good enough, but I can't do anything else.”
He shakes his head, yanking on my arm for me to sit. “Just give me a second, would you?” he says, groaning as he tugs on my wrist again. I don’t move, and when I don’t, he stands up. “I don’t blame you,” he whispers.
In the dark, I can barely make out his gaze as it flicks to my mouth. He closes his eyes and bites his lip like he's restraining himself from tearing into me about this.
“I was jealous. Possessive. Hell,” he laughs and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, the heat from his fingers searing into me. “I had this beautiful girlfriend. I couldn’t help it. I was fucking twenty-three years old.” I watch his eyes narrow, his expression hardens, and I swear the light green color of his eyes darken. “I pushed you away, Peyton. I know that.”
What the hell is he saying? How can he possibly think that? “Nicolas, you did not—”
He shakes his head, pressing his finger to my lips to silence me. “I did. And that’s what I need to believe.” His hand rubs over my arms. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
I fall back into the glider, the rusted springs groaning under the sudden weight. My mind flips through everything. I can’t fathom how he could think he had anything to do with why we ended. A kaleidoscope of fuck-ups flip through my mind: Us breaking up, me getting drunk and screwing Isaac, and then, suddenly, a twinge of anger sweeps through me.
“Why did you want to talk to me after I got engaged? Why then? Why not a week after shit blew up, why not a day, huh? Why after, Nic?”
“I worried about you, Peyton.” He drags a hand down his face. “I didn't know what to do, it all happened so damn fast. I was in fucking shock you know?”
I remember how all I wanted was his forgiveness, for us to talk about it, for him to tell me not to go through with the marriage, and my chest tightens. “All you said was you hoped I’d be happy with him.”
“What did I ask you?” His jaw tenses. “Huh, what did I ask you?”
I swallow. “You asked me if I loved him.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Because as hurt as I was I just wanted to know that you were making the right decision. I just wanted you to be happy, whether that included me or not. I needed to know you were okay.”
I shut my eyes, tossing my head back and chewing on my lip. It’s ironic how simple things seem in retrospect. “What was I supposed to say?” I ask quietly, and my throat tightens.
“The truth.” The liquid inside his bottle sloshes against the sides as he drunkenly stumbles backward. “That's all I ever wanted from you was the truth.”
“You know, all I wanted you to do was tell me not to marry him. That is all I wanted. I just wanted you to tell me you loved me, not to do it because you still wanted me, and you didn’t.” I stop for a moment to catch my breath and the more I think about it, the more it hurts. “I didn’t fucking love him, I loved you. I. Loved. You!” I shout. “Had you told me not to marry him, I wouldn’t have.” My chest burns, tears stinging my eyes. “I wouldn’t have...” And even though I feel guilty for confessing that, part of my heart that’s been caged for four years just
flew free.
“Fuck, Peyton. Fuck!” Nic drops the bottle to the ground and clasps his hands behind his neck. “It wasn’t my place to stop you. You had another guy’s ring on your finger. It wasn’t my fucking place!” He snatches my hand up, shoving my wedding ring in my face. “The moment you put this ring on your finger, you were no longer mine.”
His grip on my hand tightens, and his nostrils flare. I watch a large cloud of fog puff from his lips as he stares at me. Hurt, angry. Nic tosses my hand to my side and steps in front of me, blocking the glow from the fire. “You were always mine, Peyton, and then one day you weren't. You have no idea how hard that was for me.”
He leans in, placing his face so close to mine that his breath warms my lips. The spice from the expensive whiskey he’s drowned himself in swirls around me. He’s so close I could kiss him if I wanted. And I want to.
His brows pinch together as a frown sets on his face. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.” He inches closer, kissing my forehead before he turns and walks back to the house.
I watch him stumble up the stairs and inside the door, and I stay right here.
I wrap my arms around myself. I’m numb. So numb and confused, so angry with myself. Sometimes in life you want nothing more than to go back in time and shake the absolute shit out of yourself, screaming to get your act together.
One mistake can end up ruining your fucking life. One. Stupid. Mistake.
The screen door bangs closed behind me. I raise the bottle of Bourbon to my lips and finish it off before staggering through the living room.
“Hey, bro.” Matt bumps into me. “You look shitfaced.”
A Love So Tragic Page 5