The reason I won’t tell her I love her has nothing to do with that, really, it doesn’t. It has to do with the fact that I know what it feels like to love someone, and this is not love, but then again, I don’t know that I want to feel that way about anyone.
“Saying it to me won’t change anything, Nic,” she says with a childish lilt. “It won’t. It won’t make me leave you, it won’t turn me into some horrible, cheating person.”
I study her. Lindsey is beautiful, breathtaking—her emerald eyes, her chestnut hair. She’s been so good to me over the past year, and I care for her more than I’ve cared for anyone aside from Peyton.
“Nic! It’s been a year. If you don’t love me, what’s the point?”
I drag in a breath. I feel cornered. I feel stupid for not loving her… What is love any-fucking-way? I look forward to seeing Lindsey at the end of the day. I think about her all the damn time. She makes me happy. I can almost see a future with her, almost…
I reach down and take her hand, pulling her up to me and cupping her cheeks. “I do love you, Lindsey.” I nod. “I love you, I just…I had to be sure.”
She smiles and kisses me. And this kiss, I guess it feels as right as it ever will.
“Tell me again,” she whispers against my lips.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.” I push her back on the bed, crawling on top of her as I kiss my way up her neck.
Letting go of your past is hard, and sometimes you just have to accept that you’ll never be able to completely let some things go. You come to realize that some things are better left unsaid and that you don’t always get closure. It took me six fucking years to figure that out and it still hurts like a bitch.
The song “Sweet Child of Mine” wakes me up. I feel blindly on the night stand for the phone, then drag it to my ear. “Hello,” I mumble. Lindsey shifts in her sleep beside me, her head finding its way onto my chest.
“Hey. Are you still asleep?” My brother’s distinct laugh rumbles over the line. “Slacker.”
I glance at the clock and groan. “It’s fucking eight-thirty on a Saturday, Matt. Why the fuck would I be awake?”
He laughs again, obviously pleased that he's woken me up. “You still coming into town tomorrow, right? Some of the guys are wanting to go out this weekend.”
“Yeah.” I slide out from underneath Lindsey and stumble toward the bathroom to take a piss. “And why couldn’t you wait to call later?” I lift the toilet seat, clutching the phone with my shoulder as I aim.
“Well, man, you remember Peyton, right?”
“Yeah, name kinda sounds familiar.” What a stupid fucking question. Shaking my head, I mumble, “Dipshit.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I just…shit,” he sighs. “Man…I just thought you’d want to know, in case you need to, you know, bring something…” The way he’s stammering over his words means something’s happened. I swallow as I flush the toilet. My heart thumps harder with each passing moment of silence.
“What’s going on Matt?”
“Her mom died,” he huffs into the phone. “Thought you’d want to know, since you’ll be in town. I know you were close and all. The funeral’s Monday.”
“Shit.” Peyton's mom was like a second mom to me. She still calls me every year at Christmas. Damn. My chest goes all tight.
“I don’t know what the thing to do is here, but I did my job of telling you.”
“How did you find out?”
“Peyton posted something on Facebook. I know you and Peyton aren't friends on there, so...”
I swipe my hand through my hair while I stare back into the bedroom at Lindsey. “Yeah, man. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll bring a suit in case, you know?”
“Yeah, well. Can’t wait to see you. Is Lindsey coming?”
“No. She’s picked up a shift at the hospital this weekend.”
“Alright, well, see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I hang up and lean against the wall, dropping my chin to my chest as I recall one of the last times I saw her mother.
I look up at Olivia, her eyes soft and understanding. “Honey, I'm so sorry. Peyton's just...” she sighs, her gaze drifting to the ground. “Well, she's fucked up.”
That word sounds so harsh coming from her because she doesn't swear, not to mention she's just called her own daughter fucked up.
“She’s immature and doesn’t know what she’s doing right now, except breaking both of your hearts.” She wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly. “You're like a son to me and nothing will change that. I'm just so sorry this happened because you two,” she pulls away, looking me in the eyes, “if any two people were ever made for one another, it was you two.” Her eyes water and I feel guilty for even being here, but I didn't know where else to go. I just got in my car and drove, and the next thing I knew, I was standing on her front porch.
“Sometimes,” she smiles tenderly, “fate gets derailed by mistakes...”
“Babe?” Lindsey pops inside the doorway and snaps me back to reality. “You okay?” She steps toward me, placing her hand on my arm.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“You don't look fine.” Her eyes narrow on me. “What’s going on?”
Should I tell her or not? She hates anything having to do with Peyton. I walk into the bedroom and fall back on the bed, and she's still in the doorway to the bathroom glaring at me.
“Nic...”
“Matt called and said that Peyton's mom passed away. The funeral's Monday.”
There's a moment of silence where we both just stare at one another.
“You gonna go?” she asks. I'm not sure what to say. I know I should go, but I also know it will be awkward for me, for Lindsey, for Peyton...and then there's Isaac.
“I don't know.” I groan, and Lindsey's brow wrinkles. “You know she was like a mother to me.”
“I know.” She offers a compassionate smile like I’m a child that’s just lost a pet. That smile pisses me off. She makes her way to the bed to sit next to me. “You should go, Nic. Seriously. It's been four years, and if you don't go, you will regret that for the rest of your life.”
“I don't know...” I drag my hands through my hair. I'm torn. I don't know how Peyton will handle me coming. Hell, I don't know how I'll handle it. “I don't want to add any stress to the situation, Lindsey.”
“Four years, Nic,” Lindsey huffs. “I doubt you showing up to pay your respects will add any stress. Honestly, if it were me, with the way things ended, she should be grateful that you even care.”
The way things ended...Fuck.
It feels so good to have her under me again. Those two weeks we weren’t together seems like forever. Her lips press against mine. I let my hand drift under her dress and a barely audible moan leaves her throat. My finger skims her underwear and her thighs clamp together. I feel her lips tremble beneath mine and I look up at her. Her face is red, tears streaming down the sides of her perfect cheeks.
“What the...” I sit up on my heels, drag her against my chest, and she breaks down into sobs. “Hey—breathe, breathe...” I say, combing my fingers through her dark hair.
She tugs out of my grip. She won’t look at me.
“Peyton, what the hell's wrong?”
Her blue eyes slip up to mine. “I...” And then they slam shut. She pulls her bottom lip in as she shakes her head. Tears pour down her face, and she's sucking in air like she's drowning.
“Pretty girl, hey...” I kiss her cheek. “What's wrong. Tell me.”
“I'm sorry... I'm so sorry.” She pauses and her entire face crumples. “When we broke up....I slept with Isaac.”
Shock rushes over me, followed quickly by anger, disgust...so many fucking emotions. She's staring at me, tears flooding her eyes, and I can't say a damn thing.
People talk about things knocking the breath out of you, and that is precisely what this does. Every last bit of fucking air leaves my lungs and all I can
do is stare back at her. Shame gets the better of her and her gaze falls to the bed.
We broke up over something stupid for two weeks. We’ve been together for five years. We’re engaged...and it took her less than two weeks to fuck another guy? She promised me she loved me, but I see now those were just words.
“What?” I ask, my entire body heating as I climb off the bed.
“I'm sorry, Nic. I'm sorry. I fucked up.”
She glances up, and I can't manage the emotions swirling through me like a fucking F-5 tornado right now. I'm disgusted, and looking at the woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with, the woman I love more than my own life as she cries because she fucked another guy, well, there are no words for what I feel right now. Shaking my head, I toss my hands up, and walk out of the room, straight to the front door.
“Nic!” she screams my name like someone's murdering her, but I open the door. “Please, don't do this to—” SLAM. The door closes and I walk to my car, start the engine, and peel out of the drive.
That's how a five-year relationship ended. It was just…over. And that really fucked my shit up.
Funerals. I hate them. And since I’m an only child, I have to make the arrangements myself. Momma tried to take care of this before she died, but I just couldn't let her. I couldn't stand the thought of wheeling her in with her oxygen tank and going over the costs, the casket, the service. I just couldn't handle that. So here I sit, shivering in a cold room at the end of a long wooden conference table.
A man dressed in a tailored suit opens the door, offering me a sympathetic smile as he sits down next to me and spreads the paperwork over the table. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Miller,” he says as he hands me the box of tissues.
I nod and he opens the folder, immediately diving into the ridiculous costs and upgrades I can choose to make sure my mother is buried with “dignity”.
Just when the man has finished skimming over the cost of washing the body, the door swings open and Isaac rushes in. His blond hair is messy, his tanned face red. “God, Peyton. I'm so sorry. My flight was delayed.” He shuts the door and makes his way to me, swooping me up in his strong arms and holding me.
“Baby, I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you. So sorry.” Isaac pulls away, his bright blue eyes studying me. “It'll be okay.”
I hate hearing that. Those exact words made me want to scream at people when my father passed away. It's easy for someone to casually inform you that everything will be okay, that the sense of loss will let up over time, but that is bullshit. When you lose someone you love it is never okay, that loss never goes away. The moment that person is ripped from your life, everything in your world is eternally changed. I hate that phrase, and Isaac should know that.
He takes the seat next to me. “I knew I should've told them I couldn't play,” he mumbles. I choose to ignore that comment. He should have, but I'm not going to fight with him about that here.
The funeral director glances up. “Mr. Miller.” Smiling, he extends his hand over the table. “It's a pleasure to meet you, you've had a good season with the new team this year.”
Are you kidding me? Isaac was a pitcher for the Cardinals, and this past year he was traded to the Braves. The celebrity status seems worse in our hometown than it did in St. Louis. Although I'm used to this, I would have thought, given the current situation, this man would let baseball go.
Isaac clears his throat and I notice his jaw twitching. The funeral director nervously adjusts his tie. “My condolences again.” His eyes dart back to me. “To you both.”
Isaac keeps putting his arm around me to console me. But, honestly, I don't want him anywhere near me. I don't want anyone near me.
My gaze drifts over the plaque with 'Mrs. Franks' written in those tiny white letters. Isaac’s hand rubs over the small of my back as he attempts to guide me through the door, but my feet stop. I stumble forward, taking one step into the room. The smell of the flower arrangements overwhelms me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the white casket and my heart drums into my throat. I feel weak. I want to scream, but instead, I slam my eyes shut, pretending that if I don’t look, it will make all this a little less real, but even with my eyes closed, I'm suffocating. My world is still imploding and I don't want to do this. I pull away from Isaac, turning to leave the room, but he grabs onto my arm.
“Peyton?”
Everything around me smears behind the welling tears. “Please,” I beg as I snatch my arm free from his hold.
“Peyton, baby...” Isaac starts through the crowd after me, and, as a result, I burst into a full-on sprint down the hallway to the restroom.
“I just need a minute.” I slam through the entrance of the restroom. The lock clicks and I lean against the door before slumping to the floor. The door rattles behind me when Isaac tries to open it.
“Peyton, don't do this.” There’s another hard thump as he pushes against the door followed by a growl when he realizes I've locked it.
“Just give me a minute,” I shout, angry that he won't just let me grieve.
Grief never feels the same. When my father died, all I wanted was Nicolas, but right now, I don't want anyone because no one knows how I feel. As childish as it may sound, I resent Isaac because he still has his entire family, and I have no one. Well, no one except for him.
I don't want to be consoled by people who don't understand this pain. I’m not ready to tell her goodbye, to listen to the people who are going to tell me I have to. I draw my knees to my chest, repeatedly scratching my fingers through my hair as I cry.
Waves of anger and sorrow and fear pummel through me in the matter of minutes, leaving my head spinning. My body is tense, my chest heaving, and I finally just let it go—screaming as loud as I can. That helped, so I do it again. I scream. Loudly. To the point my vocal chords feel like they're bleeding, and then I suck in a deep breath, swallow, and breathe. I grab some tissue and try to clean the streaked mascara from my face before I unlock the door. I slowly push the door open with the expectation that Isaac will be standing right outside, but he’s not.
I'm halfway through the foyer when the soft melody of Amazing Grace floats out of the chapel.
“Peyton?”
I hear my name. Evidently I'm losing my mind because why would he be here?
“I'm so sorry.” The sound of that faint Argentinian accent paralyzes me, and my heart drops to my stomach. Nicolas.
Four years. I haven't seen him in four years. My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around to find him right behind me, dressed in a crisply pressed black suit and satin, emerald tie. His fingers comb through his dark hair, his eyes aimed at the floor. The blood drains from my face, the room spins, and I reach for the wall to steady myself.
Even after this long, seeing him hurts more than I'd imagined. His light green eyes lift to mine. “I hope this is okay?” he says quietly.
The minute he takes a step toward me, I break down completely. Nic grabs my arms and pulls me against his firm chest. The scent of his cologne surrounds me, and I draw it deep into my lungs trying to savor the nostalgia, the safety, the once familiar scent of his embrace.
“I'm so, so sorry, Peyton,” he whispers before releasing me and backing away. “ I hope it's alright that I came.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “I felt coming was the right thing to do. I loved her.”
I know he did, but still, that comment hits me hard and I fight back another wave of tears because she loved him too. She loved him so much she told him it was safer for his heart if he let me go—and she was right.
“I'm glad you did,” I manage. “She would appreciate it.”
He nods, dragging his hand through his hair again before an awkward silence falls over us. I want to look him in the eyes, but it’s too uncomfortable, so I shift my gaze to the tissue in my hand. The last time I saw him, I told him I was getting married to someone else and handed back the engagement ring he'd given me. There never was true closure and the wounds a
re still festering and open, at least for me they are. Seeing him so unexpectedly dredges up every emotion imaginable. The guilt, I expect that, but the relief, that intuitive feeling that he’ll make everything okay, that’s not expected. At all. I try to convince myself I should walk away from him, but my feet remain planted in place as I stare down at the tissue, shredding tiny pieces from it.
He sighs, and gently rubs his hand over my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks.
Such a simple touch shouldn’t feel so comforting, but unlike everyone else who’s asked me that question, I know he understands what this is doing to me.
Tears prick my eyes and I attempt to force them back. I can feel myself crumbling again, and I don't want to. “No,” I choke on a sob and squeeze my eyes shut.
“I know, Peyton, I know.” He pulls me against him again, and I don’t want him to ever let me go because even four years later, he still has the ability to make me feel better. “It just sucks,” he says, rubbing his hand over my back. “Nothing’s going to change that. I know how much you loved her.”
He knows not to tell me it will be okay because he knows me. All these years later and Nic still knows me better than the man who has lived with me every fucking day since we parted ways.
“Look,” he whispers into my hair, his warm breath blowing against my ear. “As much as I want to walk you in there, you know as well as I do, I can’t.”
“I know.” I use the tattered tissue to dab at my tears.
Nic shakes his head as he reaches for the box of Kleenex set on a table. He yanks several out and hands them to me. “You’re strong. You always have been.”
There’s a moment of silence again, and all I can say is: “Thank you for coming.” I nod and wipe my face. “It means more than you could ever know.”
A Love So Tragic Page 2
