Three songs in, two shots later, sweat is dripping down the center of my back. My head swims in a blissful drunkenness. Nic's hands brush down my sides before he grabs onto my ass, and thrusts my hips against his, grinding me against his erection.
He places his lips by my ear. “Fuck, I miss this,” he says with a growl as he yanks me harder against his body. His teeth graze over my earlobe. “Let me take you home,” he says, kissing down my neck and over my throat.
I’m shaking my head no, but grabbing onto him and tilting my head back to grant him better access to my neck.
“No one will ever know.” His hands glide up my back to my shoulders. Fisting my hair, he tugs me to his face. “Whatever’s going on with you and Isaac—you want out…I’ll save you, and if you don’t, well, I’ll help you get away with it.”
And I swear, for a split-second, I stop breathing.
His eyes seer into mine before falling to my mouth. Cupping the back of my head in his hands, he rolls his bottom lip over mine. My breath falls ragged as I fight the urge to slam my mouth over his. I want to, but the way his lip is barely brushing against mine is too beautiful. It's dragging out the inevitable, just like we have been doing.
“I shouldn't...” he whispers against my mouth.
I remember the way this feels, how his kisses always left me undone, and I can’t stop the slight moan that trickles from my lips to his. With that, his mouth claims mine in a vicious kiss and without pause, it’s like we’ve never spent a day apart. Our lips are in sync, our tongues brushing against each other in rhythm. I don’t fight him, I sink into him, parting my lips and letting his tongue sweep against mine. He pulls me in closer, deepening the kiss.
The loud music blares around us, the people moving in beat beside us have no idea what awful thing we’re doing, what horrible, festering wound we’ve just ripped back open. His hands, his body, his mouth, the taste of him—the man who should, at this point, be a stranger to me—consumes me. His hands are in my hair, his body pressed against mine. And with this one kiss he's proved that he still owns me. Nic tears away from me, taking my hand and pulling me from the dance floor. And I stumble after him without even realizing it.
“Peyton!” I hear Jen call for me, and it’s almost like that snaps me back into reality.
I glance at my hand in Nic's, at my wedding ring glinting in the dim club lights, and my chest tightens. I yank my hand away from his. He turns around.
“I can’t…” I say, my heart hammering in my temples as he looks me over, his gaze narrowing.
“Peyton.” Jen laughs. The strap of her dress hangs from her shoulder, her hair’s a mess. She stumbles over to me and grabs my arm. “Want to go to another club?”
I notice the guy from earlier holding her around the waist and kissing up her neck. She doesn't even realize what I've just done.
I shake my head. “No. We need to go,” I say, jerking my arm out of her grasp.
“But—”
“I have to go!” I don’t look back at her. I can’t look at Nicolas because I’m afraid if I do I won’t leave. I just keep walking toward the exit, my heart drumming into my throat. The cold air hits me when I step outside the bar, and the sudden chill releases some of the tension.
I hail for a cab, my mind replaying what just happened over and over. Old brakes squeak as the taxi comes to a stop at the curb.
“I’ve got my car,” Jen protests as she points down the street.
I open the door and shove her toward the cab. “Yeah, and we are both shitfaced.” I climb in, slam the door, and stare at the dark windows of that club. Brushing my fingers over my lips, I try to tell myself that did not just happen, but I can still taste him on my lips. “Shit,” I mumble.
Jen’s head lulls to the side and she laughs, blowing her vodka laced breath in my direction. “I saw you.”
My heart drops like a stone in my stomach. What if someone else saw? What if someone who was in that club saw the pitcher for the Braves’ wife lip-locked with some other man?
“I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” I say.
“You still love him,” Jen says. “That's what you were thinking.”
I do. Very much. But, I. Am. Married. “Damn,” I groan. “Isaac will kill me.”
“Isaac’s not gonna find out,” she sings. “And fuck him anyway.”
I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes. All I can see is Nicolas. That was unreal. That is what I’ve been dreaming about for years. What the hell am I doing?
“Okay, look. I'm going to do the thing I shouldn't.” She glares at me. “You only live once, Peyton. Don’t you want to be happy?”
I frown at her.
“You two always belonged together. I hated you because you loved each other so much, it was disgusting,” she slurs, swatting at my cheek. “We all hated you,”
“I can’t talk about this, Jen. Okay?”
She shrugs and lays her head on my shoulder. “Whatever you want, boo.”
Within several minutes Jen’s passed out, drooling on my shoulder.
When I get home, the cab driver has to help me carry her inside and lay her on the couch. I tip him an extra twenty for that.
I lie in my bed unable to find sleep. All I can think about is that I have now cheated on my husband. But it was just a kiss. I shake my head and fold my pillow around my face. It’s not even the kiss, it’s the fact that I’ve been having an emotional affair for years. To hell with the kiss. The emotion behind it is what I feel guilty for because I can’t feel that way about Isaac. I’ve tried. You can only feel that way about one person, and Nicolas has always, and always will be my one. It was easier when he was just a bittersweet memory, when I believed that no matter what, Nic was gone, that he hated me. But now…now, I have no idea what to believe.
Year after year I’ve stayed with Isaac because I want to love him, because, as time dredges on, we've been through so much shit together, and that counts for something, right? It counts in a friendship, and it could count in a marriage if the person you are married to is actually the person you belong with.
I fall asleep, still wearing my dress and wondering what in the hell happened to the girl I once was. Fearing that it’s all too easy to become one of those people I hate.
“What in the hell?”
That voice wakes me up. My head is pounding. My mouth is slimy with the morning-after taste of Jägermeister.
“Peyton?” Isaac says, and I lazily open my eyes.
I hear him kick my shoes out of the walkway and groan. I glance down to the foot of the bed just as he throws his jacket down. He’s glaring at me. All I can think is that he knows.
“Really?” he says. “Jen’s assed out on the couch, her tit’s hanging all over my favorite pillow! We do have a guest room, you know?”
I roll my eyes and wave him off. “It’s Sunday, what does it matter?”
“You’re twenty-seven, Peyton. Dear God, start acting like it.” I glare at him, but he pays me no mind as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. I find myself staring at his bare torso. “The house is a mess. Think you could clean it up, or is your hangover going to put you out of commission for the entire fucking day?”
I roll over in the bed. “Fuck off. I’ll clean when I feel like it.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t hold my breath,” he groans and slams the door to the bathroom. The shower cuts on. I hate when he gets in these moods.
Sitting up in the bed, I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror, and it’s not pretty. My hair is knotted. Black circles of mascara are smudged underneath my eyes. I look like shit.
I begrudgingly climb out of the bed and change into a t-shirt and shorts before making my way downstairs. I start a pot of coffee even though it’s nearly noon, and while it brews I stare off into the living room at Jen who’s hung halfway off the couch and snoring. And yes, her tit is all over Isaac’s favorite pillow.
I would have left with him and done God knows what had she n
ot come up when she did. I’m not that kind of person. Nicolas is not that kind of person. One of those people... I don't want to be one of those people. And then I wonder, does anyone ever intend on being that kind of person?
Circumstances can change anyone. Lives change, you get older, you realize that you won't live forever, and at some point, you start to wonder if this is how you want your life to go. It's circumstances, a moment of weakness, or maybe that entire greener grass mind-suck that makes someone cheat, but I don't think most people ever think they will actually go through with it. Something as simple as a night where you lose all self-control, that’s all it takes, and I totally had a lack of control last night. Shit! I slap my hand over my forehead.
I sit at the table and drink my coffee as I try to reason with myself, as I attempt to convince myself I am not one of those people. Eventually, Isaac walks into the kitchen in a pair of grey sweats, his hair damp from the shower. His blue eyes cut over to me, and he smiles as he walks behind me. Leaning over, he kisses the top of my head.
“Sorry, baby.” He pulls out a chair out and sits before he grabs my cup and takes a sip. “Pam was supposed to send my practice clothes to the dry cleaner, did she tell you if she did it? Oh, and then she was supposed to…” he keeps talking, but nothing registers because all I can think about is what I did last night, about why I did it. It was so easy, effortless. Nic’s ridiculously sexy smile pops into my mind and I can’t help but grin a little.
“Peyton?” The displeased expression on Isaac’s face snaps me back into the moment. “I asked you a question,” he says, his eyes narrowed.
“Huh?”
“Did you get my clothes from the dry cleaner?”
“Oh, yeah.” I get up from the table to pour another cup of coffee. “They’re hanging up in your closet.”
“Oh,” he clears his throat. “I accidentally knocked the water on the bed stand over.”
I shrug and dump sugar into my cup, the spoon clinking against the sides as I stir.
“Got all over that poetry book of yours. I tried to dry it off, but it’s pretty soaked. Sorry.”
I stop stirring my coffee. Closing my eyes, I exhale. “It’s okay.”
“I’ll go by the bookstore on my way back from the gym and buy you a new one, okay, baby?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
But it won’t be the same because it will be from Isaac and he has no idea who Pablo Neruda is. Isaac’s never told me that Pablo Neruda wrote for me, he’s never read me lines in Spanish. It won’t be the same.
We finish our coffee, and when Isaac leaves to go to the gym, I go to the bedroom and pick up the damp book. The pages along the side are drenched and wrinkled. I toss it into the trash, because, after all, the water washed Nic’s fingerprints from it, so now, it really is just a book.
I acknowledge that I’m not happy. Even though my life is wonderful, emotionally my life feels empty. All the things I’ve loved with passion have been taken from me: my Momma, my Daddy, Nic, and now Pablo Neruda. And what a hard pill it is for me to swallow.
Jen wakes up and I take her to her car. I spend the rest of the day watching sappy romance movies, trying to fill that part of me that aches. Ever After, Pretty Woman, Pretty in Pink, Shakespeare in Love, and by the end of this self-deprecating marathon, I’m ugly crying. Snot’s all over my face, my eyes are swollen. I’m angry at fucking Hollywood for making me believe in that stupid shit because that is not life. People fall in love, and then, eventually, all that happiness, all the dreams crumble to a pile of shit that you sweep under the rug so no one sees it. You can’t sweep shit under a carpet and say your house is clean. And my heart’s not clean, it never has been.
I go to the office and pull up that Word document, and I type:
I remember when I told you that I wanted my life to be like a Shakespearean play. You reminded me Shakespeare wrote tragedies, not happily ever afters. I should have listened to you. This is a love so tragic—Shakespeare would have loved our story...
The engines hum as the plane takes off. I stare out of the window, watching the thick clouds swoosh past. I should feel bad that I kissed her, that I pretty much told her I would fuck her and help her get away with it. But I don't. Not at all.
I don't know where it's going, and I'm not going to think about that right now.
Would I do it again? Fuck yes, but I wouldn't let her leave.
Is it right? No. She's married, but the thing that makes Peyton different is that she should be married to me. Isaac had no regard for me, why should I have any for him? I swallow because I don't even know who the hell I am right now. I feel like I'm losing my damn mind. That's what she does to me, what she's always done. She makes me fucking crazy.
An hour and a half later, the plane touches down at La Guardia. I grab my luggage and turn my phone off airplane mode, and as soon as it cuts on, I have a text from Peyton:
I can't do this. As much as I want to. I don't want to be that person.
I stop in the middle of the walkway, people bumping into me and cursing. I close my eyes.
Good for her.
As much as I hate it, she just proved to me that deep down inside, she is the person I always knew she was.
Derrick looks up at me, holding a piece of biscotti inches from his mouth, his jaw gaping open. “I can't believe you said that. 'I want to be the one to save you, or if you want to stay, I want to help you get away with it.' Oh, that is a line they should use on the Lifetime Movie channel.” He flips his wrist and waves his hand through the air. “I don't even know who you are, mister.”
“Yeah, I know.” I flick a crumb across the white tablecloth.
He leans across the table and narrows his eyes. “And then she seriously texted you and told you she couldn't. After all that calling and leading you on.” He shakes his head. “Wishy-washy bitch. This is why I don't go for women. They are drama. D.R.A.M.A.” He nods his head, drops the biscotti to the table, and snatches his coffee up. “Men are so much less fussy.”
“Hmmm.” What the hell do I say to that?
“So you gonna call Linds and beg for forgiveness now that the other disaster's over with?”
“No.”
Derrick's jaw drops and his eyebrows lift. “Uh, hello? Why not. She's divine, Nic. You know I love her.”
“I'm not pretending,” I say. “She deserves better than that.” And she does.
The waiter comes by and tops my coffee off. Derrick winks at him then clears his throat. “Okay, look,” he says. “Maybe Peyton is your soul mate. You love her. She loves you. But, you know what? A real soul mate, we don't spend our lives with them.” He cocks one brow and waits for me to prod.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his finger in my face. “Soul mates. There's too much passion there. You love them too much. You obsess over them. Their sole purpose in life is to teach you about yourself, to change you, break your heart. You never stop loving them, but you have to realize they are not the person you are supposed to live your life with. Life's not meant to be perfect, Nic.” He smiles. “All that lobster bullshit is just that...bullshit. I mean, for fucks sake. They're crustaceans.”
What the hell is he talking about?
His phone beeps and he rolls his eyes when he reads the text. “I gotta go. I'll call you later this week okay? Call Linds.”
He throws a wad of cash on the table, pats me on the shoulder, and walks off. I finish my coffee and take a walk through Central Park. I can’t get her out of my head. The entire way back home all I think about is how right it felt to hold her like that, to kiss her, and as soon as I get back inside my apartment, I go to the closet and pull out that journal. Part of me wants to throw it away, part of me wants to send it to her because that piece of me that I don’t like doesn’t care that she said she couldn’t do it.
I flip through the letters I wrote so long ago. I remember how it felt with her. And the thing I know about Peyton is she wants
to do what’s right. She always has, even when it’s meant sacrificing something she wants. It’s one of the things I loved about her and one of the reasons why what she did hit me so damn hard. She is trying to do the right thing, and I should let her. I should leave her alone.
I close the journal and lie back on my bed. I just wonder how long I’ll actually let her do the right thing.
It's been a month since I kissed Nic, since I told him I couldn't do it. And although I should feel like I did the right thing, I don't.
Two days ago, he sent me a letter, and somehow, I have managed not to open it. I shoved it in the back of my underwear drawer, and there it's stayed—until now. As I walk to the office, I stare at my name on the envelope. It looks so beautiful in his handwriting. This has to go. It has to go because I'm afraid if I read it I'll do something I know I shouldn't.
Taking a seat in the chair, I pull out the drawer with the shredder nestled inside. I hold the letter over the mouth of the machine. My heart pounds, my stomach knotting when I place the end of the envelope into the slit. It shouldn’t be this hard. The motor whirls. The teeth grip the edge of the letter, and I panic, yanking it out. Honestly, I can't stand the thought of destroying his words when I haven't even read them.
I quickly rip the envelope open, and inside are two letters. The first one is dated February 2nd, 2001.
It started snowing yesterday, and they cancelled school. Everything iced over and damn, you got stuck at my house. Your mom flipped out. My mom promised she’d make us sleep in separate rooms (like that did any good. I just snuck in there and fucked you into oblivion after she went to sleep).
We got the neighbor's sled and acted like fucking kids. Hell, I guess to some people we still are kids. You insisted on going down this one hill. I told you you’d kill yourself. You wouldn’t listen to me (of course). So you went down it, really fast, and you ran right into a hedge. Twigs got tangled up in your hair. I thought for a second I was going to have to get scissors and cut your hair out of that damn bush. You banged yourself up, scraped your pretty face. You got embarrassed and cried a little. And, seeing as how I’m a fucking knight in shining armor, I carried you all the way back to my house, nearly busting my ass on the ice. I took you inside and cleaned up the scratches on your face. The point is I realized three things today:
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