A Love So Tragic

by Stevie J. Cole

  “You haven’t become an alcoholic, I hope,” he says. The way words roll off his tongue has always done something, but his accent really gets to me at this moment.

  “Of course not.” I laugh one of those nervous I-just-want-to-keep-you-talking-to-me laughs. And I can tell by the way he tilts his head and grins that he knows he’s making me tense and likes it.

  “Really?” His eyes flicker in the soft light as he drags that ‘R’ out, and I know he rolled his tongue on purpose. “Double-fisting?” He clinks his glass against mine. “Isn’t that something you do at a frat party, not a charity auction?”

  “Don’t judge me.”

  A flirty smile flips across my lips. I know I should walk away because I can’t stop remembering how he felt against me, how good he was in bed. I can’t quite forget the way his lips felt against mine, and damn if I don’t want to feel that again.

  This is dangerous. This is bad because how many people walk away when the things they dream about are standing right in front of them?

  I can't stop dragging my eyes over her body. Fuck, that little black dress fits her just right. Her cheeks are blushed and she keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot because that’s what Peyton does when she's anxious.

  Those pink cheeks make me feel like such a bastard because it makes me recall how flushed her face gets when she comes...and that is the last thing that should be going through my head right now—Peyton coming.

  “Don’t judge me.” She smiles, her eyes flicking down my body before she nervously takes a sip.

  I watch the way her red lips close around the rim of that glass, and I almost groan. Her fucking lips are gorgeous. Full, pouty—perfect. There’s not a man that would deny that.

  “I’d never judge you, Peyton,” I say, taking a drink of champagne, my eyes locked on hers. ”It’d do nothing but get me in trouble.” That comment evidently bothers her because she quickly polishes her drink off.

  Smirking, I take another swig of mine before placing my glass against her mouth. Peyton’s breath catches, and she takes a sip, her gaze never leaving mine. I bring the drink back and slowly press my lips over the red lipstick stain on the rim.

  The ballroom is jam-packed with people in tuxedos and ball gowns. Everyone else in the room is moving, laughing, talking, and Peyton and I are standing here, silently staring at one another. We're closer to one another than we should be, but not close enough that anyone else would ever think we were together. Fidgeting, she glances down at her hands. A stray piece of dark hair falls in front of her face. And I do something I have no business doing. I tuck that piece of hair behind her tiny ear, letting my fingers trail down her jaw as I draw my hand away. I swallow. She swallows. Nothing about this should feel so damn right.

  From day one, Peyton's had a way of making me do things I never thought I would. She made me want to fall in love, she made me want to settle down at twenty-one, and now she's making me want to fuck a married woman.

  She glances up from her hands and I wonder if she's thinking the same thing I am right now: That she's still mine, and no amount of time will ever change that. She clears her throat before she snatches my champagne and downs it.

  I glance around the crowded room for Isaac before I take a step toward her, standing so close that her breasts graze against my stomach with each breath she drags in. That dress is too thin, and I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. Her feminine scent surrounds me and all it does is remind me of how good she used to feel—naked, pinned underneath me, and moaning.

  Inhaling, I lean down to her ear. “You better go back to your husband, Peyton,” I wet my lips with my tongue. “Before he realizes you’re talking to me.”

  “We’re just talking,” she whispers.

  No, what we're actually doing is fucking each other with our eyes. This is not talking, not in my mind it's not. This is foreplay, this is playing with fucking fire.

  “Is that what we're doing?” I press gentle kiss, entirely too close to the corner of her lips, to her cheek. “Tell Isaac all we’re doing is talking and see how he feels,” I say as I put space between us again. “It was good to see you, Peyton.”

  And with that, I turn and walk away. Because it’s the right thing to do. And I’m a good guy, even though I wish to fuck I wasn’t.

  The combination of the champagne and the rush of endorphins Nic's touch creates causes my face to flush. I watch him walk away, carrying himself with that confident stride he’s always had, the kind of walk that causes people to stop, look at him, and move out of his way because he just seems important. I wait until the heat dissipates from my cheeks before I stagger back to the bar, grabbing another glass of champagne and a beer for Isaac.

  Isaac’s still in the same spot, with the same group, and they're still talking baseball. I nudge him with my elbow before handing him the beer. Smiling, he throws his arm around my waist. “There’s my girl.”

  His girl...but really, I'm not.

  The rest of the night goes on; baseball, babies, baseball. I force myself to pretend I'm interested in what the other women talk about. I smile, I nod, but really all I'm doing is scouring the crowd, attempting to catch a glimpse of Nic.

  And then, I do.

  “Ah, shit. Really?” Isaac groans before plastering a fake smile to his face. “Nic!” Isaac holds his hand out.

  “Isaac,” Nic says, his eyes drifting over to me. “Peyton.”

  I wave but don't say a word.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” Isaac asks.

  “Company event.”

  Isaac nods. “Nice event. When did you start working for Kohen Pederson?”

  I step to the side, and in an attempt to avoid the two of them, I let my gaze drift over the auction table. Necklaces, paintings, signed baseballs...and then my eyes land on a book. One-hundred Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda. First Edition. In Spanish.

  I trail my fingers over the shrink-wrapped cover. Opening to the first page, I see a signature scrawled across the title page. This is my favorite book of poems. This is the poet Nic introduced me to because he said love poems were more poetic in Spanish.

  And he is right. They are.

  “Talk about coincidences,” Isaac says over my shoulder. I turn around in time to catch Nic walking from the room.

  “Huh?”

  “Of all the places to run into him. Small world.”

  “Oh, yeah.” My heart pounds, my stomach knots. I'm afraid Isaac can tell I'm not shocked. And I should be.

  “Can we leave yet?” I ask, taking his hand.

  “Sure. We can go, baby.”

  And we leave.

  My keys clink together as I unlock my door. I walk straight through to my bedroom without turning on a single light. I look down at the book in my hand, then toss it to the floor, rolling my eyes. I’m still not sure why the hell I bought it. Four hundred bucks for that damn book of poems...I flop back on the mattress, dragging my hands down my face. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I feel like I'm going crazy. Maybe I'm having an early mid-life crisis.

  I push up from the bed to get a glass of water, and on my way to the kitchen, I glance over my apartment. Lindsey's stuff has somehow managed to start collecting everywhere. A picture frame here, clothes there. Toothbrush, shampoo, makeup. I go out onto the balcony and lean over the railing. The entire city is lit up because New York never sleeps.

  I take a breath. And glancing up to the starless sky, I realize I don't know how long it's been since I've actually seen stars. I think about it, and the last time I can really recall seeing them, was, of course, with Peyton.

  “You know what I love most about the stars?” Peyton asks me. I glance up at the dark sky littered with constellations, listening to the waves crash on the shore.

  “What, babe?”

  “They're like ancient eyes. They're the one thing man can't change. Shakespeare looked up and saw the same sky we do.”

  The shrill sound of an ambulance brings me back to the
moment, to the starless sky. No, Peyton, you were wrong, man can change the stars. He can block them out with city lights.

  I will never get her out of my head because even the fucking stars make me think of her.

  The front door opens then slams shut. I don't move. And a few minutes later, Lindsey comes outside, still in scrubs, her hair a mess. She may not live with me, but she is as close as you can get to it, and that bothers me. It shouldn’t, but it does.

  “Why are you out here?” she asks. “It's past midnight.”

  “I know.”

  She sits down next to me. I'm angry, and even though I’m not mad at her, I have this urge to be an asshole to her. I'm mad because I can't love Lindsey the way I should, and honestly, I wish she'd hate me. If she hated me, I wouldn’t hurt her when I tell her I don't want to be with her. I refuse to be my father, my mother...I refuse to marry someone I know I'm not in love with. That only ends in disaster.

  “Snippy this evening,” she giggles and kisses my cheek. “I'm going to go take a shower.” Her finger trails down my arm. “Want to come?”

  “No.” She’s still standing behind me, but I don't look up.

  “Nic?”

  “What?” I say coldly, my gaze set on the blinking city lights.

  “Ever since you told me you loved me,” she pauses and takes a deep breath. “You've been different.”

  “Yeah…” Don’t be an asshole to her. You’re mad at yourself. Not at her.

  “What have I not done?”

  I close my eyes and tilt my head back, groaning as I drag my hands down my face. “It has nothing to with what you haven't done, Lindsey. You're perfect.” I shake my head. “I'm just....”

  She sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “You just don't really love me...”

  “Fuck!” I shout. “I love you. But I'm not in fucking love with you. I don't want to be in fucking love with anyone.”

  Hurt covers her face for only a second, then her expression hardens. I can see her thinking Peyton in her head.

  “You have issues, Nicolas. And if this is how you’re going to be, up and down, in love with me, not in love with me…I don’t want to live like that. I know I love you and I don’t want to be with someone who can’t give me that same reassurance.” She spins around, violently pushing the glass door back. “When you work your shit out, call me. How about that?” She storms out, the front door slamming shut behind her.

  I lean my elbows on the railing, bury my face in my hands, and groan.

  As much as you may want to, you can’t make yourself love someone, and as much as it sucks, you can’t make yourself not love someone either. Love is its own fucking beast.

  Isaac doesn’t bother with the lights. The door’s barely closed and he’s already ripping his suit jacket off. His hands are all over me, his lips on my mouth, on my neck as he walks me through the massive hotel suite to the bedroom.

  “Fuck.” He reaches around to my back, unzipping my dress.

  The material slips over my hips and puddles around my feet, and then Isaac scoops me up, carrying me across the room to the bed. The bright city lights illuminate the room enough that I can see Isaac as he strips. My gaze drags over his massive arms, his cut stomach. He is attractive. He loves me. He’s my husband. So why does this bother me so much? Why, when he’s standing naked in front of me, tearing my thong down my thighs and pushing my legs open, can I not get Nic out of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, my head swirling from the champagne as I try to think of anything but Nic.

  Isaac’s warm, hard body lays over mine. His hands tangle in my hair, his teeth skim over my breasts. Then he pushes into me again. And again.

  “Fuck me,” he says in my ear before flipping me over in a fluid movement so that I’m straddling him.

  I stare down at his face, at his soft features that are such a contrast to Nic’s prominent ones. My chest tightens because all I can think about is that I should love this man underneath me. I should be happy with him. I should enjoy this right here, but I don’t. I force myself down on him harder, and I know he won’t get off until I do, so I fake it. I fake it! I never understood why a woman would do this, but I just want to stop, so I ride him harder, tense my muscles, throw my head back, and moan before dropping my chin to my chest. I pant breathlessly as I freeze on top of him.

  “That was quick,” he says, and I can barely make out the smile on his face.

  I swallow.

  “Flip over,” he says, and I roll over on my hands and knees, letting him take me. Fighting an internal battle with myself because I feel guilty over fucking my own husband.

  I’m a liar. I’m a hypocrite. And I am in trouble.

  Sunlight dances across my face, annoying me because I’m not ready to get up.

  Papers crinkle. I hear Isaac clear his throat. My head is pounding and I don’t want to open my eyes. I stayed up most of the night, tossing and turning. Finally, at two- thirty in the morning, I drug my ass out of bed, through the hotel suite, and to the couch. I was certain I couldn’t sleep because the sheets smelled of hotel laundry detergent. Surely it wasn’t the thought of Nic robbing me of slumber.

  The papers crinkle again and I hear Isaac slurp back a drink. Slowly, I open my eyes. Isaac is sitting on the couch in a pair of sweats, reading the newspaper, drinking coffee. I do a lazy stretch then groan as I drop my arms to the sofa.

  “Rough night?” Isaac asks.

  “Me and champagne evidently don’t get along.” I wince against the lights. “My head’s throbbing.”

  He laughs and brings his cup to his lips. “That’s why I keep trying to get you to go to beer.” He pats over my thigh. “We need to be at the airport in three hours.”

  “God, they don't give you time to do anything.”

  “Got practice.” He shrugs and flips the page to the paper.

  “Jesus! Don't they ever give you a break?”

  “They'll retire me soon.”

  “You’re twenty-eight, Isaac.”

  “Yeah, and it’s not twenty-three, but just think of all the time we’ll have together then.” He shoots me his classic American-boy smile.

  I roll my eyes and drag myself off the couch to get packed.

  After the suitcase is zipped and I’m dressed, I take my phone from the bedside table. There’s one text from an “unknown” number—Nic's number.

  Have you ever listened to the song, “World of Hurt” by Drive by Truckers? It makes me think of you.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I immediately go to YouTube and pull up the song. The prelude is twangy, almost bluesy-old-school-country sounding, which isn't Nicolas at all, he’s rock and grunge. And then the lyrics come. The singer isn’t really singing, but talking, and with each word, my heart clenches. The lyrics are hurtful, ugly, sad. Out of all the songs in the entire world, this is the song he associates with me. I'm his world of hurt... It guts me, drowns me in guilt, in heartache.

  Why?!

  I text back.

  His immediate response:

  Sorry, I was tired. Shouldn’t have sent that.

  “What the hell are you listening to?” Isaac stands in the doorway, his brow furrowed. “That sounds terrible. Like something someone would hang themselves to.” He walks through to the bathroom.

  “Some song Jen told me to listen to.” Why did I just lie like that?

  “It’s awful.”

  It is awful. In so many ways.

  It’s Christmas Eve. Fourteen days since that text. Three-hundred and thirty-six hours since I talked to him. I called Nic the Monday after that auction at eight fifteen, and he didn’t answer. As much as I want to keep calling him, I don’t.

  I open the front door and step out into the cool December air. I didn’t bother to put shoes on, and the second I step on the grass, I think about how stupid I am because the icy dew is soaking through my socks. Wet socks are gross, but it’s too late to turn back now. God, I’ve found myself thinking that a lot.

  The u
noiled hinges to the mailbox creak when I yank it open. I pull out the pound of mail, sifting through it on my way back to the porch. Bills. Marketing. Christmas card. Christmas card. Christmas card. Credit Card. Salvation Army. And then there’s one with my maiden name, Peyton Franks, written in blue ink. Beneath it, in black ink, is my address. The handwriting looks like calligraphy, and I swallow hard because I know who this letter is from.

  Rushing inside, my wet socks slip on the foyer floor and I almost fall flat on my face. I catch myself on the door frame, then drop all the other mail on the console table. I slip my finger beneath the seal and rip open Nic's letter, slicing the tip of my finger on the edge of the paper.

  March 22, 2009

  Peyton,

  I have gone from loving you to longing for you, to hating you—and all in the matter of a month. I thought there was nothing you could ever do to make me hate you, but I evidentially didn’t know who you were all these years because the girl I fell in love with would have never been so fucking selfish. I don’t know what hurts worse. What’s worse, huh? That you had so little regard for me you left me, no explanation—just threw away years for someone you barely know, or the fact that I was in love with a ghost, a person who never existed. Out of all the shitty things I’ve seen, out of all the fucking people that told me love was a lie, I never believed them because I had you, and to me, that was a love so fucking perfect, so flawless…I think the poetic phrase you once used was a love Shakespeare would have been envious of. Or did you forget?

  You got married today. I talked to your mother. You just ran off and did it. Something I tried to talk you into a thousand times because I didn’t want to wait forever to make you mine, but you said you wanted that perfect wedding. You promised me your forever, and now my forever is his. I’m not writing this to be an asshole…maybe I am, I don’t know any longer. But I do know that I never had a chance to say anything to you. At least, you told me that you got knocked up. But you just put that ring on your finger and let me find out. You didn’t give me closure, Peyton, so I guess this is it.