A Love So Tragic

by Stevie J. Cole

  You are stubborn.

  You are a sissy.

  And I’m fucking in love with you.

  I already told you that you’re stubborn and a sissy, but that last thing, I’m going to hang onto that for a little longer. Like maybe when I know you’re good and asleep tonight…

  I love you, Peyton.

  Nicolas

  I lean back in the chair, twisting from side to side as I stare at that letter. I remember the look he gave me as he cleaned my face—like I was all that mattered to him. I'll never forget Nic waking me up the next morning, telling me he loved me.

  I lay that letter to the side, swallowing hard when I glance at the other note. The handwriting is messy, angry. The ink pressed hard into the paper.

  Peyton,

  I don’t know how long it will be before I give this to you, or if I ever will.

  You got married today to someone who’s not me. Fuck him! And fuck you for doing this to me. I trusted you.

  Tell me something, pretty girl, where did I fail? Tell me what the hell I did to push you away? I tried to show you how much you meant to me every second of every damn day. I did things just to make you smile. All I ever wanted was to be the one man who could give you everything—things no other person could, and fuck does it hurt that I wasn't good enough.

  I always thought you would be the one thing I would never want to forget, but right now, I’ve never wanted to forget someone so badly in my fucking life.

  No signature. No closing. Reading, in his own words, how I made him feel tears me up inside. And the longer I think about it, the more I hate myself. I hate myself for what I did all those years ago, and now I hate myself for only kissing him a month ago.

  If I thought I hurt before, it is nothing compared to this. Before there was no choice, and now there is. There shouldn't be, but there is.

  The drone of conversation along with the tinker of silverware forces me into a haze. I watch the couple across the room laughing with each other. They look so in love, so happy, and I have to pity them because chances are someone will screw up and destroy the other one. I’ve contemplated about love a lot over the past few weeks, and I’ve drawn the conclusion that hardly anyone is with the person they should be with. And that makes me feel better. Selfish? Yes, but it’s the truth.

  It's been two weeks since Nic sent those letters. I kept hoping he would call me, but he hasn't. I should be glad he hasn’t— relieved. It should feel like I dodged a silver bullet, but I doesn't. I feel dejected, and all I can think about is him. Obsessively.

  Jen hasn’t mentioned Nic since that weekend. She knows I’ll talk to her when I’m ready, and I may never be ready because as long as I keep it all bottled up inside, I’m not acknowledging what a fucking mess it is. The end was written in mine and Nic’s love story long ago, and you can’t just go back in, haphazardly trying to rewrite the ending.

  The waiter stops at our table, but it only occurs to me he wants my attention when he clears his throat. “Would you like another glass of wine, ma’am?”

  Ma’am? I glance away from the couple. The waiter is young, most likely nineteen. His skin is smooth, his face still has a little baby fat on it. He has his whole life ahead of him. His biggest concern is probably making sure he has a condom in his wallet. He’s calling me ma’am…

  I look at my empty glass and nod. “Yes, please.”

  He smiles and turns away.

  “What the hell was that look about, huh?” Jen asks. “Jesus! You looked like you were about to rip the poor guy’s head off.”

  “He called me ma’am! Do I look that fucking old?” I lean my elbows on the table and slap my palm over my forehead. “Maybe I need to start the Botox now.”

  “Give me a break, Peyton! What is going on with you? I’m the self-deprecating one, not you! I don’t have the energy to boost your ego and mine, so stop!” she groans, shoving a fork full of salad inside her mouth, talking while she chews. “You know what I've decided. No one is ever satisfied. Satisfaction is like a fucking unicorn that shits glitter and diamonds. It doesn't exist.” She twirls the fork in her fingers before stabbing a pepper on her plate. “At least not in a relationship. Trust me. It’s why I’m not married. It’s just bullshit if you ask me.”

  My attention veers back to the couple behind Jen. They haven't been able to keep their hands off one another for more than two minutes. Right now, the guy is cupping the girl’s young, pretty face with his hands, gently stroking his thumb along her jawline. She’s staring adoringly into his eyes, leaning across the table in a bid to get closer to him. The bliss of dating, I think, and then I catch a wedding band on his finger.

  “What are you staring at?” Jen asks.

  “That couple.”

  “Okay, why?”

  “They look happy.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Jen turns to look at them. “Hmm…” she pauses, rotating in her chair to blatantly stare at them. “And…exactly what I thought!” She spins back around, a large grin set on her face.

  “What?” I groan. “What are you about to say?”

  “They’re not married.”

  “Yeah, they are. Look at his hand,” I argue.

  “Mm-hmm.” She arches one brow. “Look at her hand.”

  I peek over Jen’s shoulder. The woman’s left hand is placed on the man’s shoulder. I stare, and I don’t see a ring. “So?”

  “So, they aren’t married. Married people don’t act like that. He’s older than her, a lot older. They’re having an affair. Guarantee it! Forbidden love. It’s exciting. It’s taboo. And you always want what you can’t really have.” Jen grins and takes a sip of her wine. “Like Nicolas.” She sharply cocks a brow.

  The waiter comes back and sets a full glass of Chardonnay in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, my eyes still set on that couple.

  “It makes a difference when you’re doing something you shouldn’t, you know?” Jen says.

  My gaze drifts back to her. I take a long sip of wine, letting that all set in. Here is this man, doting on this woman, taking her to dinner, and what is his wife doing? Probably sitting at home alone, no idea that her husband is dedicating his affections to someone else…but how could you not know. And how could this woman be okay with that? Why on earth would you want to be with a man who you have no future with? And why would Nic want to be with you?

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did it.”

  I narrow my gaze on Jen. “Did what?”

  “Had an affair with Nicolas.”

  I swallow. Heat flashes over my cheeks. “Jen! I’m not going to have an affair with my ex. The other night was just, fuck, I don’t know. Stupid!”

  “Come on, Peyton. You're not happy. You are married to a fuck-face. You know I never liked Isaac. I hated him in high school, and I tolerate him because you're married to him now.” She thumbs back at the couple. “You really think Isaac is so moral he wouldn't do that to you?”

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach because I wish he would cheat on me. Then I could just walk away without any guilt. And that is screwed up, I know.

  “Regardless of what I think he would do, I couldn’t do it because I would hate myself,” I argue.

  She sits back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Really? So, the whole Isaac-Nic thing… that was just the result of poor judgment due to Jägermeister, I guess? Because, hate to mention that which we never speak of but you cheated on Nic, Peyton. I don't care that you guys were on a break, you were still pretty much together and you know that. You cheated on Nic and you fucking loved him.”

  Tipping my drink back, I glare at her. Guilt presses down on me, and when I set the glass on the table, I sigh. “I was young and stupid.”

  “Yeah, you were. You both were!” She shakes her head. “I hate to say this, Peyton, but do you want to spend the rest of your life wondering what the fuck if? Huh?” She sighs. “It’s not like you’re screwing around with a complete stranger
. It would kind of just be karma coming full circle for Isaac, if I’m honest.”

  I said that to myself the night I kissed Nic. “It’s wrong.”

  “Is it right? No, but then again neither is being miserable.”

  She’s just gotten those words out of her mouth when my phone dings.

  I miss talking to you.

  I stare at the message, my pulse hammering in my neck.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Jen asks, an edge of excitement in her tone.

  I silently glance up at her.

  She grabs my phone from the table and reads over the text. “Oh, you little slut! That's a New York area code.” Her eyes fly up to mine, her mouth opens as she drags in an exaggerated breath. “How long have you been talking to him?”

  “A while...”

  “Oh, my God.” She groans and types something on the phone. “And you didn’t even tell me, you fucking whore!”

  My chest tightens. “What the hell are you typing? Jen!” I reach for it, but she snatches it away, smiling. “Jen, don’t…” I plead.

  She hands my phone back to me. “You can thank me when you figure everything out.”

  I read over what she typed.

  I miss talking to you too.

  One sentence that could, in any other situation, be benign, but in this case, it is like throwing a lighted match into a tank of gasoline.

  And I want to fucking burn in it.

  It’s been three hours since he sent that text, and since I’ve gotten home I’ve sat on the couch, staring at those words. The messed up thing is that I always thought it was just me who felt this way. I mean, how could he not hate me? He should hate me. I hate me for what I did to us.

  I get up from the couch and turn on Ben Harper, and for some reason, I pull out my mother’s diary. I settle back on the couch, pulling the blanket over my lap as I flip to the first page. A small smile tears at my lips when I see her familiar handwriting. Little things you never think will mean anything, and right now, there’s not enough money in the world someone could give me for these pages. This is her. I read over the first entry dated January 15th, 1975.

  Sometimes we make a mistake that can never be undone. We hurt people we never intend to hurt, and it isn’t until years later we realize that although we hurt them, letting them go was the kindest thing we could have done.

  Those words resonate within me, and I want to believe that this proves she’s still here, trying to help guide me. My chest feels heavy, my eyes burn. I shut the book and set it on the coffee table, and just as I sit back, my phone buzzes.

  I don’t know what I’m doing here Peyton, but I want to see you.

  What is he doing?

  We were dating while his parents’ divorce drug out. It was ugly. It destroyed his little brother and sister, and it broke Nic trying to hold everyone together. He would never be part of something that would annihilate another person like divorce does. But then I think, maybe I’m the exception to that, maybe I'm the circumstance that makes him one of those people. I stare off at the wall, thinking back to one of those memories etched into my mind.

  My legs wrap around Nic’s waist. He slams me against the hotel wall so hard the picture hanging behind me crashes to the floor, sending glass spraying everywhere.

  “Shit,” I say between breaths.

  He holds himself inside of me, gripping the back of my thighs as he adjusts me on him. His mouth covers mine as his hands find their way into my hair. “I’ll pay for it,” he says.

  His hard, sweat slicked chest slips over my breasts. He drives into me hard, burying his face in the crook of my neck. With each heavy thrust, his warm breath blows over my throat. His fingers tighten in my hair.

  “Fuck, I love you, Peyton.”

  More of his weight pins me against the wall. He places his hand next to my head to brace himself. His other hand holds onto my ass as he brutally fucks me.

  “God, I want you,” he says before his teeth sink into my neck.

  I let go, moaning as my fingers claw at his back. I lean my head back against the wall, reveling in the way he can make my body his own, the way he can coax sensations out of me I can’t even manage to. The moment my body goes limp, he rips me away from the wall and throws me down onto the bed. Within seconds, his arms tense, his jaw clenches and he collapses on top of me. He pushes in just a little deeper and holds himself there, groaning next to my ear.

  He brushes the damp hair from my face. “If anything ever happens between us, I can’t live without this.” He pushes back just enough that I can see his face. “I’ll find you and we’ll have an affair.” He laughs. “Deal?”

  I narrow my gaze. “Whatever. Nothing’s gonna happen to us.”

  “Yeah,” he breathes heavily. “Well, just in case.”

  I swat his arm. “I don’t see you as an affair kind of guy.”

  “You’re my exception to everything, Peyton.” He smiles at me, trailing his hand down my side. “No puedo vivir sin ti. I’d do anything to be with you, even if it goes against my morals.” He smirks.

  We’d jokingly made that promise seven years ago, and now...

  My fingers literally shake as I type a response to him.

  Just tell me when…

  My nerves bunch in my stomach. This is one of those moments that are pivotal in a person’s life—a decision that could change everything with just a few simple words. Something your conscience tells you is wrong on every fucking level, but your heart is screaming that this is all it wants.

  DING. I glance down at my phone:

  Now.

  I send:

  Where? My pulse goes into overdrive; adrenaline floods my entire body.

  The high school. Where I used to park.

  That spot meant something to us. It was our place of firsts, and I can’t stop myself from recalling the first time he kissed me.

  “You’re pretty,” he whispers. “I think I want to keep you.” And then he closes the gap between our mouths, his soft lips brushing over mine. His fingers trail over the side of my face, and then he pulls me to him, parting my lips with his tongue as he deepens the kiss. My heart beats so hard my head spins, and all I can think is that Nicolas Torres just kissed me. He tears away from me after a few minutes, wiping the edge of his mouth with his fingers. “Yeah, definitely want to keep you all for myself,” he smirks.

  Fast forward four years, and in that exact spot:

  I glance over at Nicolas, narrowing my gaze. “Why are we pulling into our old high school parking lot?”

  He grins, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Because…”

  “Okay? Is this where you tell me that you’ve resorted to selling drugs and you forgot you have a deal or something, and now I have to promise not to tell anyone or you’ll be forced to brutally murder me?” I snicker.

  He arches a brow at me. “No, this is where I tell you I think you should lay off reading the crime books a bit.”

  He puts the car in park but doesn’t cut the engine. He turns the radio up, then reaches behind him and pushes the back window open before he gets out of the truck. I sit, wondering what on earth he’s doing while he comes around to my side to open the door. He grabs my hand and helps me down, escorting me to the back. He lowers the tailgate, places his hands around my waist, and lifts me up onto the bed, immediately climbing in behind me.

  “Okay, so what are we doing here? I ask.

  He points up at the dark sky, tugs me to him, and starts swaying from side to side. Threading his fingers through mine, he whispers, “Dancing under the stars, isn’t that what all girls like?” He kisses me sweetly. “I know that’s what my girl’s always said she wants to do.”

  I have told him I think dancing under the stars is romantic because I am that girl who has watched one too many romance movies, read one too many fairy-tales, and loves poetry because it’s the unheard song of a beating heart.

  “In the bed of your truck?” I giggle.

  “What better place
? Puts us a little closer to the stars, right?”

  He says things like this every so often, and they make me swoon. He knows how much I love words, and he started writing poems—even though he says it makes him feel like a pussy— just for me.

  “You realize we’re in my old parking spot,” he asks as he spins me around.

  “Yeah, I did catch onto that.”

  He pulls me against him, staring down into my eyes like he could never love me any more than he does in this moment, but I know he will love me more tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, because that’s how Nicolas is.

  “Well, this may very well be my favorite place on earth. And I’ve been to a lot of places, remember that now, and…” he pauses, freezing in place as he glances down at me. “And, man, I love this song…”

  He kisses me as I listen to Ben Harper’s “Forever” stream through the open window.

  “But, this spot,” he says. “It’s my favorite because this is where my life changed. This is where I parked the first day I met you, and this is where I kissed you for the first time, and, now, it’s where I danced under the stars with you for the first time. And…” He pulls away and shoves a hand in his pocket before dropping to one knee. My pulse skips and skitters as I watch him smile up at me. “This is the spot that the first day of my forever with you starts. Peyton Presley Franks, will you marry me?”