There are so many things I want to ask him, tell him, but I’m terrified of ruining this. “What are you thinking?” I ask instead.
“That I’m doing exactly what I’ve always wanted.” He smirks, drawing tiny circles around my nipples before he leans over and kisses me, and that kiss holds such reverence, such tenderness, I melt into the mattress.
“Why were you in town this weekend?” I ask.
“You.”
“You came down here just for me when you didn’t even know if I would see you?”
“Peyton,” Nic’s deep laugh fills the space between us. “I drove down here from New York for you…at three o’clock in the morning.”
And out of all the words in the universe, the only one I can form is: “Why?”
“Some things just have to be said in person.”
I want to hear those things. I want to listen to him whisper those words in Spanish to me. “What things?”
And in this moment of silence, when his eyes are set intently on mine, all I can hear is the frantic beats of my own heart.
“So many things…” Nicolas wraps his arm around my waist, dragging my body across the bed and against his. “That I miss you.” He kisses my shoulder. “That I’m not over you.” His lips land on my neck. “That even though I told myself to let you go, I couldn’t.” He’s hovering over my mouth, and his eyes narrow. “That I never stopped loving you, not for one fucking second. And that has to mean something, doesn’t it?” His lips press over mine, so soft, so sweet. “I love you…todavia te quiro.” I still love you.
My heart pounds in the back of my throat because the entire world just stopped. That feels just like it did the first time he told me he loved me. I feel the words, not just hear them.
“I love you too,” I breathe.
Saying those few words feels like salvation. I’ve been holding onto them for so long, and finally, I’ve let them go. I just gave those words back to the one person on this earth they belong to. Having sex with Nic is one thing, telling him I love him, meaning it...that's an entirely different thing.
I've somehow managed to push the idea of Isaac away every time it creeps up because honestly, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Nic next. Part of me wants to beg him to take me back to New York with him. Part of me wants to tell him we can’t do this again.
But the thing is, I love him, and he loves me.
And how can you deny something as powerful as this?
On the drive back to my car, Nicolas turns the radio up. “Remember this song?” he laughs as he cut his eyes over at me. “‘Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.’ This song always makes me think of you.”
I giggle and roll my eyes. “Yeah. I know. I always turn it off when it comes on because it makes me think of you. And it hurt to think about you.”
“I enjoy the torture I guess.”
We drive in silence for a few moments, and then I remember the letters he’s sent me. The book. “Why did you send me those letters?”
His fingers wrap around the steering wheel and he adjusts in his seat.
“Nicolas?”
“I held onto those for a long time. I guess…” he stops, exhaling.
“They were hate letters.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, why send me something so mean if you still loved me?”
“I knew from the moment we started talking this wasn’t innocent. I struggled with that, Peyton. And I just needed you to see what you did to me. I wanted to make you aware of that hurt so you couldn’t turn around and say you had no idea, you know—if you did that same thing to him.”
He won’t even say his name. And I can’t blame him.
“Those words hurt.”
Flipping the blinker on, he glances over at me. “I know. I’m the one who wrote them, trust me, they hurt me too.”
Within a few seconds, we’ve pulled up beside my car. I reluctantly unfasten the seat belt, uncertain of what to say to him, terrified this is just another goodbye. I reach for the handle and stop. “What are we doing?” I ask, my eyes focused out the window.
“I’m not sure.”
I nod, fighting back the tears. “Me either…”
“This is your call, Peyton. I've got nothing to lose. You've got everything to lose, so you let me know what we’re doing when you’re ready.”
“Don’t do that to me.” Turning to face him, I shake my head. “Don’t put that on me, Nicolas.”
He frowns, opens the glove box, pulls out an envelope, and hands it to me. “Read these.” He sighs. “You let me know the next time he’s out of town, and I’ll come get you if you want, but Peyton, as great as this fucking is…” he reaches across the seat, cupping the back of my head and pulling my lips to his. “A lot has changed since I wrote this, not the feeling, but, well, we’re both different people now, I guess.” He exhales. “I just don’t want to fuck your life up. That’s all.”
I take the envelope from him, and he holds up his hand. “Stay there.” He hops out of the car and comes around to my side to open the door. He takes my keys, unlocks the car, and holds that door for me.
I feel like a teenager, smiling and gushing over these tiny little romantic notions that are second nature to him. “Thanks,” I say and push up on my tiptoes to give him one last kiss.
When I go to move away, he wraps his arm around my waist, holding me to him, kissing me more passionately. He literally takes the breath from me with this kiss, reminding me of why I fell so hard, so fast for him, and why I never could get over him.
After a few moments, he slowly drops his hand from my waist and backs away.
“You have to go,” he says. “I have to go. It’s a long drive.”
I sit in my car, and he closes the door, waving as I start the engine. I inhale and swallow as I put the car in reverse and pull off. I’m in a fog most of the way home, still lost in the blissful lie that I belong with him when I pull into my driveway. I let the song finish before I cut the engine, get out, and walk up the sidewalk to the porch. As soon as I open the door, the reality of what I’ve done hits me.
Hard.
This is my house. Our house. Whether I like it or not. I. Am. Married. To Isaac, not Nicolas. And now I’ve cheated on him.
Nicolas is right, there is no going back from this. Cheating is not a splinter you can just pull out of your thumb and put a Band-Aid over. No. There will be scars, no matter which way I go now. Big nasty, weeping scars. I made a commitment. For better or worse and all that bullshit. And as much as I want to believe that my cheating with Nic, instead of some random guy at a bar, makes me less of a whore, it doesn’t.
Shame surrounds me, wrapping around me like a wool blanket. I’m unfaithful. I broke vows, promises, and even though I thought it wouldn’t bother me—I wanted it to not bother me—it does.
Dropping my keys on the foyer table, I immediately climb the stairs and run to our bedroom.
I did it because I still belong to Nicolas.
I sling open the doors to my closet, grab my suitcase, and yank clothes from the hanger with such commitment, several hangers fly from the rod. I toss clothes into the bag, my chest heaving, and I realize, I don’t even know that this is what Nicolas wants. How can I leave a man I’ve been married to for years like this?
Because I left the man I should have married.
But, as I stare at the crumpled clothes thrown carelessly into my luggage, I realize it’s not that easy.
“Fuck!” I shout, leaning against the wall.
I’m angry about so many things, so many things that have been festering for years. And while I stare at the pile of clothes begging me to leave Isaac, I notice I can still smell Nic on me. I panic. I go straight through to the bathroom, ripping my clothes off, and throwing them into the hamper. I turn the shower on, letting the water heat, and my eyes veer back over to my dirty, filthy clothes. Grabbing the hamper, I dump it upside down. Clothes tumble over the floor. I take my Nic-scented shirt and p
ants, and I wad them up, mixing them in with the other dirty clothes, hoping the smell will blend in with Isaac’s gym clothes and the damp towels.
I’m in tears when I step into the shower. The stream of water hits me and I tilt my head back, rubbing my hand up my neck. All I can think about is the way Nic's teeth felt nipping down my throat; of his voice whispering how much he missed me, how I still belong to him. Every time my hand rubs over my body, all I can feel is Nic. And now I wonder how in the hell I can ever look Isaac in the eye. Just the thought of Isaac touching me and ripping this piece of Nicolas away makes me irritated.
I watch the rich lather circle down the drain, not wanting to wash him off of me, but knowing I have to. I can make my body clean, but I can never wash what I’ve done from my memory, from my soul. And that’s bittersweet in so many ways.
What was once a daydream, a what-if, it's not anymore. It's reality. The idea of Nic coming back into my life is something I've played out in my head a million times, and in those fantasies, it all seemed so clear, so easy. In daydreams you can ignore the repercussions, all the ugly truths you don’t want to acknowledge. I always thought I’d just leave with Nic, but that wasn’t offered.
We don’t know what we’re doing.
Had Nic asked me to leave with him, I probably wouldn’t be standing in this shower. And that terrifies me because it's not that easy. Legally, I can’t just leave. I have a house, assets. I have a life with Isaac, even if he’s not who I’ve always dreamed about. And then I realize, I have no family left. I do love his parents, his sister, his brother. There are things I will lose that I’ve never thought about. What will my leaving do to Isaac, to his family? What will the truth do to the man who says he loves me? What would I be doing to him?
I turn the shower off and wrap myself in a thick towel. The second I step into the bedroom, my gaze hones in on Nic’s envelope sticking out of my purse. My pulse kicks up as I pull it out. I tear the seal and take out the letter.
May 25th, 2001
I feel sappy as shit writing this down, but I figure one day you’ll appreciate it. Maybe.
We graduated high school today. We left the stadium and went to Ben’s house for the after party. You got too drunk and I had to take you home, stopping twice to let you vomit on the side of the road (you drunk) ... You got fucking pissed at me for laughing while I held your hair out of your face. I think I kind of like you angry. It’s sexy. And then, about five minutes later, you started crying. And I don’t like that.
I didn’t want to drop you off at your house drunk. Your mom would have kicked my ass, so I got Jen to tell your mom you were staying with her. I pulled into the garage, made sure my mom was asleep, then went back out to the car and carried you inside, rushing you into my bedroom and locking the door. I tucked you into my bed and realized that this is how my life is supposed to be. With you. Taking care of you and loving every single fucking thing about you. I love you, Peyton. I decided tonight that I’m going to marry you and spend the rest of my life making you happy because that’s what will make me happy. Fucking sappy. I know, but I’m one lucky motherfucker to have tricked you into loving me.
Quiero pasar el resto de mi vida contigo.
Nicolas
I smile, I swoon. I remember... I stuff the letter in the very back of my underwear drawer, next to the others he’s sent to me, and then I hear the door downstairs open and close. My pulse kicks into overdrive and when I glance in the mirror, my face is flushed.
Guilt. It’s worse than I thought it would be.
“Baby?”
I inhale because his calling me that is even more annoying now than it was three days ago.
“Peyton, you home?”
“Up here,” I call out, grabbing my robe and slipping my arms into the sleeves.
His footsteps fall on the stairs. My heart thumps heavy in my throat. Looking at my reflection, I literally see the guilt on my face and I can’t manage to pull it off. The bedroom door opens and when Isaac steps in, he’s smiling. He leaves his luggage by the doorway and steps next to me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he pulls me into him. When he kisses me, it lasts longer than usual.
“I missed you,” he whispers. And for a moment, I think I may cry. Tears sting my eyes, guilty tears that I somehow manage to blink away.
He sits on the end of the bed, kicking his shoes off. “What?” he asks as he stands to go into the closet. “Am I not supposed to miss my beautiful, loving wife?”
Loving wife. That makes my stomach knot. “You just…” I hesitate because is this really happening right now? “You're just being sweet. That's all.”
I hear the lid to the hamper slam shut and my breath catches. What if he smelled Nic’s cologne? He walks back into the room without a shirt on. The sun pouring in from the bay window baths his tanned skin in light, accentuating his muscles.
“I know. I’m not romantic…” He grabs onto me again, this time untying my robe and slipping his cool hands over my skin. “And I should always be sweet to you.” His lips are on my throat, his hand gliding up my neck, and this feels so wrong. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should take a vacation. I work too much when I should be spending time with you.”
I taste bile in the back of my throat. The guilt is that bad. I can’t touch him; I can’t make myself move. His hand slowly snakes down my stomach. I panic. I’m sore. What if he can tell?
“Isaac…” I gentle push for him to let me go. “Stop.”
He pulls away, his brow scrunching.
“I’m on my period,” I lie because I’m so afraid if he touches me he’ll know someone else has been there.
“Like we haven’t done that before?”
“I just,” I shake my head. “I don’t feel well, and I just got out of the shower, and…”
“It’s fine.”
I step away and close my robe. Isaac grabs his suitcase, hauling it up onto the bed to unpack. I sit and watch him, remorseful that over our entire relationship I’ve been consumed with comparing Isaac to Nicolas, when maybe, I should have been paying attention to how Isaac does things like Isaac, not how he doesn’t do things like Nicolas.
I just lied to him so he wouldn’t touch me. What have I gotten myself into?
Fuck. This is a long-ass drive.
A state ago, I turned the radio off because the soft hum of the tires helps me think. And I need to fucking think.
I’m still in shock over everything. When I left my apartment three days ago, I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but now it’s apparent. Somewhere during my drive down the east coast, I became that person I swore I never would. At some point over the 870-mile journey, I acknowledged what I was doing. I drove that far with the intentions to fuck a married woman—a married woman I still love. It was no spur of the moment decision; not a moment of weakness or a drunken mistake. I texted her with the intentions to get her naked. To tell her I loved her. And guys like that—like me—they disgust me, but I’m not angry with myself. Not one bit. Instead of hating myself, I hate Isaac because he has her.
The headlights reflect off the green sign: Welcome to New York.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens. When I'm with her, all my morals go out the damn window. They always have. The biggest problem is that now, well, there's nothing that will keep me from doing that again. How in the hell can it still feel this way after so many years? After everything that happened, after how much hate I had for her, that all-consuming need to be with her still exists.
I turn the radio on and groan as I drive down the empty highway. It's four in the morning when I finally park in front of my apartment building. As soon as I get inside, I text Peyton.
Before I’ve even set the phone down, it dings with a text from her:
Why do you have to live so far away?
I smile.
Because fate's a bitch.
I love you.
That makes me swallow. I stare at those words, my fucking heart slamming against my ribs.
I love you too, pretty girl.
And just like nothing ever happened, just like she's not married and she's still just as much mine as she was four years ago, we fall back into our routine of loving each other.
My brother flew up yesterday to visit. It's been a three weeks since I’ve seen her. We talk twice a day, but I haven't said shit to my brother about it.
Derrick insisted on taking us out to some club in Manhattan, and Matt immediately said no. The last time Derrick took Matt out, we ended up at an all-male strip club watching a guy deep-throat one of those balloons you make balloon animals out of, so we opted to stay in and catch the Steelers play the Patriots instead.
The third quarter wraps up and the station flips to a Geico commercial, the one where the man is dressed in a Peter-Pan outfit singing “You Make Me Feel so Young”.
“I love this commercial,” Derrick snickers. “It’s my fav.”
I stretch, then get up and head to the kitchen. “Want another beer?” I ask
Matt nods. “Did you even have to ask that?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Derrick sings.
I'm in the kitchen popping the tops from the bottles when my phone pings.
“What the fuck? Dude?” Matt says and I figure Derrick just said something about his dick.
When I come back into the living room, I find Matt staring at my phone, and Derrick's peering over Matt's shoulder, his hand covering his mouth.
“What,” I ask, sipping the beer as I try to fight the heat rushing over my face.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck, man?” He tosses my phone at me, and the text is still on the screen:
I can't wait another week. I miss you. I love you.
“Nicolas!” Derrick gasps. “Someone's been naughty! Eenie-Meeny-Miny-Moe,” he circles his finger in the air. “That naughty little slut is…” laughing, he points at me, “You!”
My brain is going ninety to nothing searching for a logical excuse. There's no name attached to the number, but I know Matt's picked up on the fucking area code.
A Love So Tragic Page 13
