Momma looks at me with her sympathetic eyes. “Honey, you’ve got to do what your heart is telling you.” She pulls me close to her, hugging me tightly. The soft scent of White Diamonds is everywhere. That smell so very her, so comforting. I drag that deep into my lungs, and all the tension in my body melts away. I’ve missed her so much.
She pulls back and looks at me with that stern mothering glare she has. “Your mind can tell you a million different things, Peyton, but your heart, if you really listen to it, is always telling you one.”
I wake up, my pulse hammering inside my chest, covered with a sheen of sweat, and my pillow soaked with tears. The dreams I have of her seem so real. Part of me wants to believe the state of unconsciousness is a gateway to another realm, one that allows me to talk to her and hold her. I take a deep, staggered breath as I wipe the cold tears from my face. My mind whirls with thoughts, and I know I’ll never get back to sleep. The soft blue backlight on the clock illuminates 5:03 AM. Of course, Isaac is still sound asleep, snoring. I kick the down comforter off, grab my robe from the foot of the bed, and slip it on as I make my way out of the bedroom.
I groggily stumble down the stairs, through the foyer, living room and dining room to the coffee pot. I plop a pod of Hazelnut Cream in and press the start button. It’s been two days since Nicolas called me. It was just a conversation between old friends I tell myself, but I know that’s a fucking lie. If that’s all it was, I wouldn’t feel the need to hide it from my best friend. I tell her everything but haven’t breathed a word about any of this mess, and why? Because I feel guilty, which should tell me something.
I’m careful not to bang the pots and pans around when I grab the skillet. Several minutes later the kitchen is filled with the smell of sausage. I cook eggs and pancakes, and just as I am setting the table with the plates, Isaac walks in.
His brow wrinkles as his gaze drifts from the table to me. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and walks over, resting the back of his hand against my forehead. “No fever,” he says, smiling.
“Nope. Just couldn’t sleep and thought it’d be a nice surprise.”
He kisses my cheek, brushing his hand over my arm. “It is. I’m such a lucky man.”
He sits down at the table and takes the coffee, bringing the steaming cup to his lips. He stops and arches a brow at me. “There’s no arsenic in here, right?” he asks.
“No.” I take the seat next to him. “Just laxatives,” I say, smiling.
“Mm, that’s sweet of you.”
We sit at the breakfast table silently eating, and when he’s finished, he takes his plate and sets it in the sink. “So, why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I had a dream about Momma.” I shrug. “I just couldn’t go back to sleep after that.”
His hand caresses over my back before squeezing my shoulder. “It’ll be okay.” And then he walks out of the room to get ready.
He knows I hate when people tell me it will be okay. I allow that comment to dig at me, right down to my core. My fingers curl into fists. “No!” I shout, slamming my hand down so hard on the table the dishes rattle. “It won’t be okay. Maybe for you, it will, but it won’t for me.” I shout. “Stop telling me that!”
He comes back into the kitchen, glaring at me. “What the hell, Peyton? I was just trying to make you feel better. I mean, hell, I don’t know what to say to you about it.”
“No, you don’t!”
All I can think is that Nic knows what to say to me, and Isaac doesn’t. And it makes me want to punch him in his pretty playboy face for not taking me back to his house instead of mine, for letting me fuck him when I was drunk as hell and vulnerable. I'm not saying I'm not to blame because I am, but damn, I just wish it had never happened. I clench my fists so tight my nails slice into my skin. My jaw clenches as I imagine slamming my knuckles into his nose so hard it busts and blood goes everywhere. I know he can see anger in my eyes because I can feel it burning behind them.
“You want me to tell you it sucks, huh?” he asks, taking a step toward me. “Is that what you want, for me to be insensitive?” He’s mad because he can tell I’m hurting and he doesn’t know how to fix it, but I’m angry because he doesn’t see that telling me it will be okay is insensitive.
I’m not a child, I don’t need to be lied to like one. I just want him to acknowledge how badly this hurts, how nothing will ever make it better, and how broken I feel. Yes, I just want him to tell me it sucks!
“I want you to tell me something other than it will be okay,” I scream. He shakes his head, wiping his hand down his face as he stares at me. And then I say it, the thing I’ve been thinking ever since she died, the thing I’ve been too chicken-shit to blast him with. “You didn’t even cry, Isaac. Not one fucking tear. Not for her, not for me.”
That laugh of disbelief he does when he thinks I’m being ungrateful slips from his lips. “I don’t fucking cry, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her, or that I don’t feel sorry for you.” He throws both hands in the air, shrugging. “And I don’t know how to deal with you, so you’re just gonna have to take my word on that.”
Isaac turns and walks away, slamming the door when he reaches our bedroom. I don’t want someone to feel sorry for me. I want someone who loves me to the point they feel how much I’m hurting.
An hour later Isaac’s left for practice and here I sit, alone, in the office staring at the words on the computer screen. The more I allow my mind to go over this morning, the more I think I hate Isaac. That night of the mistake plays through my mind, the gems of everything that went wrong in my life swirling in front of me like brightly colored pieces of pain. I want this out, so I relive that moment in words.
“I want a break!” I shout.
“We're engaged, Peyton.”
“I just...I need to think.”
He looks hurt for a split-second, then his face turns red. “You're fucking immature.”
“Oh, yeah. That's great, Nic. Well, if we’re name calling here, you’re a control freak!”
“I'm not a control freak!” He glares at me.
“You don't get to tell me what I need to do!” I'm angry because I screwed up and he called me out on it. And he's right, I am immature.
His jaw clenches. “I don't want to watch you fuck up, that's all.”
“It's not your business.”
“You know what?” He nods his head. “I think you're right. Let's fucking take a break. Maybe you can get your head out of your ass. Mierda!” He opens the door and stares at me.
And I leave.
I don't call him for two days, and he doesn't call me. I may be stubborn, but Nic puts me to shame. When I finally break down on day three and call him, he tells me he’s out of town, to enjoy our break. I sit, crying because this is stupid. It really is. And I call Jen.
“P! What’cha doing, whore?”
“He told me to enjoy our break. I think we're really over.”
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Jen says with a sigh. “You two are not over. Nic knows how to handle you. He knows he has to ruffle your feathers. Just give it another day or two. I'm coming to get you and we're going to Madhatters.”
“I don't want to go anywhere.” The whining sound of my voice makes me cringe.
“Too fucking bad.” She hangs up.
Nic and I were pissed at each other, that was it. We were both stressed with exams and trying to find a grad school with both our programs. It was a stupid disagreement, and had I just gone home that night, everything would have been fine. My life would be different because a few days later Nic showed up with two dozen roses and apologized for raising his voice, for telling me to fuck off. He told me I was the most important thing to him and he just didn’t want to see me screw up because if I hurt, he hurt. If I ended up disappointed, he would be too, and that he was only trying to keep me from making a mistake he knew I would regret. Unfortunately, in life, there is no redo. We live with the mistakes we make. And that mistake haunts every last beat of
my heart. It was so pointless, so thoughtless, so selfish…
“God, she’s hammered,” Isaac says, laughing. I turn around to look at him, and his gaze narrows. “So, you and Nic…”
I roll my eyes and take Isaac’s beer from his hand, chugging half of the bottle before handing it back to him. “We’re fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder and rubs his hand over my arm. “It’ll be okay.”
I pull away. “Where’s Laurie?”
“We broke up a week ago. She cheated on me. Slut.” He tips his beer back and polishes it off. I can't help but smirk because he deserves to have someone cheat on his ass.
“Sorry,” I lie.
“It’s fine.” He inhales, then nudges me with his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I guess we’ve all gone our separate ways, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Can’t believe we don’t even talk to each other anymore.”
I feel like I’m not as drunk as I should be and turn around, flagging the bartender.
Isaac leans in my line of vision, arching his brow. “You out to get fucked up? Because you’re already swaying and got a little bit of lazy eye.”
“Yeah, I want to get shit-faced and forget this night even happened.”
My fingers pause over the keys. I did get shit-faced, I just didn’t forget…I couldn’t forget. The more I drank, the more concerned about Nic and me Isaac appeared, the nicer he seemed. By the end of the night, neither me nor Jen were in a state to drive, and Isaac graciously offered to drive us home. He dropped Jen off, and somehow, I ended up at his house instead of mine, and at some point he kissed me. In my drunken state I’d convinced myself Nicolas was done with me, I mean, we had broken up, which made it okay that I was having sex with this guy I used to fuck in high school. I’m still not sure how that ever happened because I loved Nicolas so much, and that’s what bothers me more than anything. I let myself down. I was better than that. I wasn’t selfish, but when you’re twenty-three, drunk, and angry—actually, no, there is no excuse.
My mother used to tell me that whatever you do in the dark eventually comes to light. And she was right. And when it all came to light, it destroyed Nicolas and me.
Using the sleeve of my robe, I wipe the tears from my face and reach for my phone. This is one of those moments where I’m confused, I’m sad—one of those moments when I would call my momma, and then that pain chokes me, because, in times like this, I can’t ignore that she’s gone. I feel that depression creeping around me like a low fog wanting to cover me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I have the phone pressed to my ear, and my knees drawn to my chest.
“Hello?”
And this time, the sound of Nic's voice is like sweet redemption from all that pain.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
I hear his hand cover the receiver. “Hey, Jim, I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he says before he comes back on the line with me. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to call her and… I miss her.” A small cry breaks through my lips. I feel ridiculous for calling him like this. “I’m sorry I’m calling you, but I just…I don’t know. I just did. And…”
“Don’t apologize.” He inhales, and I can just imagine he’s dragging his hands through his messy hair right now, trying to figure out what the hell to say to me. “You know what I loved the most about her?”
“What?”
“Her laugh.”
I smile through tears because she had a witch-cackle, and Nicolas constantly tried to make her laugh because it cracked him up.
“Yeah,” I say. “She did have a great laugh.”
“And, then do you remember that time we’d gone to visit your abuela, it was snowing outside, and when we walked up to my truck there was this huge, frozen, dead bat hanging out of the grill? Your mom went creeping up on it like it was going to go for her fucking jugular, and right when she got about a foot from the truck I pinched her side and hissed.” He chuckles. “She screamed like someone was murdering her, jumped about ten feet off the ground.”
“Yeah.” I giggle, wiping my eyes. ”And she swore she almost peed on herself.”
“Oh, and then when got your nose pierced and she tried to flick it off your nose because she thought it was glitter. Her precious little Peyton wouldn’t dare do something so rebellious. Little did she know how dirty you were…” He pauses for a second, I think shocked that he just said that. He pulls in a deep breath. “Peyton, she was a great person. She loved you and she wouldn’t want you moping around. Just think about that. As cliché as it sounds, she’d want you to remember her and smile. She’d want you to keep her with you in your memory, your heart, not mourn over something you can’t change. I know that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“I know…” I hear someone in the background. He’s at work. I shouldn’t be bothering him with this. “Thanks, Nic. I know you gotta get back to work.”
“You gonna stop crying?”
Inhaling, I whisper, “Yep.”
“Good.”
“Thanks, Nic.”
“Anytime, Peyton.”
I hang up. And for once, I feel like someone understands how I feel. That’s the first time since my mother’s passed away that anyone has forced me to remember her, and for whatever reason, the fact that someone else remembers her makes me feel better.
New York City.
It never loses the excitement. Every single time I fly in, I sing “Welcome to New York”, and every time Isaac rolls his eyes. We check into the hotel, have sex—at his request—and I quickly get dressed. On the way to the event, I pull out my compact and nervously check my make-up.
“You look beautiful,” Isaac says, gently closing the mirror and slipping it inside my clutch. “Stop worrying. You'll take everyone's breath away.”
Over the past few days, Nic and I have managed to talk more than we should. I called him, then he called me, and then I called him. And it ended up becoming an everyday thing. It's not like we made a conscious decision, it just kind of happened. It’s innocent, really. We don’t even mention anything about us because we are friends. Friends... a friend who I call, or calls me at eight fifteen in the morning. Eight fifteen because that’s when Isaac’s gone, and it’s before Nicolas’s first meeting. He lives hundreds of miles away from me, so why can’t I be friends with him? Deep down inside my heart I know it’s not an honest thing, but I keep saying if it makes me happy, and it’s not hurting anyone, why shouldn’t Nic and I be friends?
Because I still love him.
A horn blares as the limo stops in the middle of an intersection. From here I can see the lights of Times Square, and I still can’t believe Nic lives here. He wanted the mountains, the ocean, something with nature, and here he is in the middle of concrete.
The charity auction we're attending is funded by Kohen Pederson. Ironically that is the company Nic works for, which means he will be here. Isaac has no idea, and neither would I if I weren't talking to Nic behind his back. At least I’m aware of the fuck-storm of emotions I’m walking into instead of being blindsided.
The limo pulls into the roundabout and stops. I'm nervous. I wish I could text Jen for emotional support, but, again, she still has no idea that I’m even talking to Nic.
Isaac smiles at me as he checks his phone. The valet opens my door. I step out, smoothing the wrinkles in my satin dress. I swallow that quivering ball of nerves down into my stomach as Isaac comes around the back of the parked limo, taking my hand in his as we make our way to the doors. We smile. We stop for pictures. And as soon as we step into the venue, I find myself searching the crowd for Nic. A waiter stops beside me with a tray of champagne and I graciously snag one, tipping it back immediately.
Isaac’s hand rests on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowded room, every so often stopping to talk to people I don't know. The champagne is gone before we’ve made it across the ballroom,
and I already need another. When Isaac glances back at me, his eyes veer down to the empty glass. “Wow! Impressive.”
“You know I hate these things. I feel so out of place around these people.”
Laughing, he puts his arm around my waist. “You can fit in anywhere, Peyton. You always do.” He drags me toward a circle of men in tuxedos, every one of them with a much younger, busty blonde looped through their arm. “Play nice with the arm candy, okay?” Isaac chuckles before we get within earshot, and I elbow him in the gut.
We stop behind one of the men and he turns, smiling at Isaac. “Miller, that was one heck of a pitch you threw at Rodriguez...” and so it begins. I stand here, completely mute, just as the other women do because none of us give a shit about who is pitching next season or who has the most home runs.
Ten minutes in and I really, really need that champagne. I sweep my hand over Isaac’s arm, pressing up on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to get some champagne, go the restroom, and possibly drown myself in the toilet.”
His gaze cuts down at me and he gives me a disapproving look.
“I was just joking,” I mumble as I slip my arm out of his.
I shove through the congested ballroom, maneuvering through men in tuxedos, women in too-tight satin dresses. It takes me five minutes to snake my way to the bar. Thank God there are glasses of champagne sitting on the edge. I take a drink, go to turn around, but halt, grabbing another bubbling flute from the counter. The bartender's eyes drift up from the drink he’s pouring, his gaze moving from one glass in my hand to the other.
I smile, holding up one of the flutes. “For a friend,” I say.
I’m mid spin from the bar when I bump right into Nicolas. “Thank you,” he says as he grabs a glass from my hand and lifts it to his lips. He smiles around the rim and winks before he takes a sip. “So sweet of you to always think of me.”
My gaze plummets down his body. His tailored suit fits too nicely, and I can't help but notice how ‘Nicolas’ he looks with his dark hair swept up in a “fuck you socialites” stylish peak. I walk away from the bar next to him—like I belong with him. My heart bangs frantically, forcing the alcohol through my veins and slicking my skin with that tingly champagne buzz.
A Love So Tragic Page 7
