A frown sets on her face. “Because I love you.”
I see in her eyes that she does. I know in my heart she does, but is there a point to this shit? “Okay.” I nod. “So how long are we going to keep doing this?”
Her gaze drops to the ground; her shoulders rise with a hard sigh.
I sweep a piece of hair from her face before taking her chin in my hands and tilting it up, forcing her to look at me again. “I can't keep doing this.” I shake my head. “It's not right.”
“I know…”
“You love me? More than anything else?” She nods. I kiss her then pull away. “Then when are you going to leave him, Peyton?”
The breeze kicks up again and blows her hair in her face. She swipes it away, gathering it to the side and holding it. I tell myself that distracted her, the hair in her face is why she’s pausing not because that question’s too hard for her to answer.
“Peyton?”
“Soon,” she says.
Soon...I've stayed up most of the night wondering when she would leave him. I've obsessed with her answer for hours. I want a date. I need an exact timeframe because soon can mean too many things.
I exhale. “When is soon? Huh?”
“I don't know, Nic.” She shrugs, angrily shaking her head. “I have to go to a lawyer. I have to sort shit out, it's not that easy.”
“Not that easy?” I can’t help the sarcastic laugh that comes rumbling from my chest. “It's easy enough to sneak around and fuck me, but not easy to get some papers drawn up?” My voice is louder than I meant for it to be. “Shit, Peyton!”
“Don't do this to me, Nic.”
Don't do what to her? Ask her to give me reason to believe that I'm not just fucking around with her? Or am I not to remind her that this is wrong? Fuck!
“No, Peyton! Don't you do this to me. Don't do what you always do and make me promises you won't keep.”
She glares at me, tears building in her eyes. “I'm not!” she shouts. “Just give me time, Nic.”
“I gave you four years...”
“You know,” she shakes her head. “I'm not alone in this. You are no more innocent than I am, so stop with your chivalrous bullshit. I told you I couldn't do this after you kissed me in the club. I told you I couldn't, but a few weeks later you showed up. You sent me letters.”
“Give me a break, Peyton. Had I left you alone, this still would have happened. I left you alone for four-fucking-years, and here we are. We would have ignored it for a few months, a few more years, but we still would have found a way to each other. There's too much between us, and you fucking know it.”
Tears roll down her face and her lip trembles. “I never wanted to do this,” she whispers, and that cuts me. “I never wanted to be this person. This must be easy for you, Nic. You don't have to hide anything. You don't have to go home to someone you don't want to live with, you don't have to listen to someone tell you they love you and feel the guilt drown you because you don't love them back.”
I drag my hands through my hair and stare at her. This is fucked up. Although we've only been doing this for a few months, this is not a normal, everyday affair because the emotional part of this has been going on for years. We were already in love the first time I kissed her—the first time she cheated. I know she's confused, but if she's not ready, if she's not sure she can leave him, this needs to stop before it becomes messier than it already is.
“Look,” I shake my head, cupping her jaw and rubbing my thumb over her cheek. “This is fucked up, Peyton. I get that. I'm to blame, you're to blame, but nothing about this has been easy for me. There was a girl I was going to ask to marry me...”
Her lips part and I hear the faintest breath escape her.
“I didn't because of us, and that’s fine. I’m glad I didn’t marry her but don’t think I haven’t sacrificed anything to be with you. I sacrificed my fucking dignity.” I inhale, watching her face crumple. “I've fought myself over how wrong this is. You know how I feel about infidelity, and I never imagined myself in the middle of an affair, especially not with you. I've more than questioned what kind of person I am because of this, because of you. And if you aren't certain that you are ready to leave him, then we don't need to keep doing this. I love you, but I'm not willing to continue questioning myself over something that's going to end up fucking everything up. I like not hating you. I don’t want that again. If you aren't ready, just tell me. And I'll let it go. We can end on good terms this time, but if you lie to me...” My eyes drop to her mouth and I exhale. “That's all I ask. Don't lie to me.”
“I don't want to be with him. It's always been you. I promise you.” She wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I just need time to get everything lined up. I don't know what to do. How do you handle something like this?”
I shrug. “I don't know.”
Her phone rings. When she pulls it from her pocket, her eyes widen. She holds a finger in front of her lips to quiet me.
“Hello?” she answers. “Oh, yeah, I’m just about to leave.” There’s a long pause and she won’t look at me. “Yeah. I will.” Another pause and, this time, her eyes rise to mine before she squeezes them shut. “Love you too.”
I swallow. I hate hearing that.
I hate her being with him.
But what I hate more than anything else is that when you love someone, you take what you can get. And it’s now, as I watch her hang that phone up, as I see the tears streaming down her face because she is living a lie, I understand so many things I never did before. You never know what kind of person you are until you love someone, lose them, and get them back only to see you stand the chance of losing them again. Love can make you do things you never thought you would. Maybe those people I thought were weak, maybe they weren’t—that weakness may have been a strength. The people I thought were selfish, they could have been desperate. Because right now, I just realized that whether she leaves him or not, I won’t leave her. I have no idea who I am anymore…
There's an unsettled feeling in my stomach when I turn onto my driveway. I'm nauseous, my heart’s beating so fast that I'm dizzy. I park the car in front of the stone steps leading to the double-door entrance. I feel selfish because this will hurt Isaac, but I've never belonged to him. I am a cliché. I am one of those people, and I've embraced that.
I grab the Manila envelope from the passenger seat, open the door, and start up the walk.
It’s a strange feeling as I climb the stairs to the bedroom because my entire life is about to change.
I'm sure a lot of women wonder what it would be like if they actually served those divorce papers. And it's not that I've ever wondered that, because I didn’t. I didn’t fantasize about divorcing Isaac; I fantasized about having never left Nic.
Although Isaac's not my dream guy, he is a good guy. I never would have strayed, never would have become a statistic, but the kind of love that exists through hate and heartache and four years of absence, well, that's a game changer.
Am I selfish? Yes.
Am I wrong? Absolutely.
Am I ashamed? I am that I will hurt a good guy.
But at the end of the day, we have one life, and nothing will change that I love Nic in a way that is irreplaceable. If I stay with Isaac, I will be lying to him every single time I tell him I love him. I want to be happy, and I want Isaac to find someone who loves him the way he deserves because he doesn’t deserve what I've done to him...
I stuff the plane ticket into my purse, wondering if I really should hand the papers to Isaac, then immediately leave to start my life with Nic? That seems harsh and wrong, but why would I stay here? Once I give him these papers, our marriage will be nothing more than a legal proceeding.
I sit on the edge of the bed with the envelope in my hand, watching the clock. Anyone else would think this is easy. To most people it probably seems like I don’t give a shit about my marriage. Surely, I wouldn't have fucked around if I cared—if I was a good person?
Someone wh
o has never been in this position may believe I have two options, and all I have to do is choose what suits me best. Well, that's not the case. Nic may be the man I'm in love with, but I still care about Isaac. Regardless of who I love more deeply, I’m walking away from four years of my life, and this is not easy by any means. I’m going to hurt someone I care about; I’m going to hurt his family. I will most likely lose some of our mutual friends. But the worst part of it is that I have to live with my decisions. I’ll divorce Isaac, but this part of my character I never wanted to see will always be there. I cheated on my husband, and what it all boils down to is that even though I never stopped loving Nic, even though I know in my heart I am doing what is right for everyone involved, I still broke a promise meant to be sacred. I failed. I’m an adulterer by definition, but I never meant for this to happen. I never imagined I would do something so selfish. I want to be a good person, and that's why I'm leaving him.
Part of me feels like I should pack a bag, but then, I really don't want to take anything. I realize I’ll have to come back at some point and clean my stuff out, or maybe, I won't. Isaac may very well take all of my belongings and throw them out. I walk to the bookshelf surrounding the television, taking my mom's diary and my book of poems and shoving them in my purse, just in case.
I hear the garage open and I lay the envelope on the dresser. I can't just hand him these papers and turn to leave. I'm going to tell him the truth. As terrible as it will make him feel, as horrible as it will make me look, I am going to tell him because I would rather be the one to tell him than have him find out months down the road. I owe him that; to save him the embarrassment, the shock. I want him to know that having me walk out is the best thing for him because who wants to stay with someone who's as selfish as I have been?
Everything inside of me shakes as I walk toward the stairwell. I hear Isaac cough as he goes through the living room. By the time I reach the bottom of the steps, I'm face to face with Isaac, and my heart sinks. His eyes are bloodshot, his face red, and all I can think is he already knows. Without a word, he grabs me and drags me against his chest. He’s squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe, and then, he cries.
His fingers dig into my back, and I feel his chest heaving against mine. Tears trail from his face over my neck and shoulder. Years with this man, and I've not once seen him cry.
“Mom has cancer,” he whispers. “Stage four, pancreatic. Dad just called me.”
And in that moment, my world comes undone.
I can't leave him. I'm sorry. I'll call you when I can. I love you. I'm so sorry, Nic.
I read over that text for the thirtieth time, and then I sit and stare at it.
It’s 8:00. I should be picking her up from the airport, we should be starting our life together right now. But this is how things go with us, they end when they should be beginning, and begin when they should be ending.
Pacing, I clench my jaw. I turn up the fifth of Jack, smash it against the floor, then pace some more. Finally, I sit on the couch and lean over my lap, gripping my head in my palms. I sit and think about what I've done, about every opportunity I had to not do the things I did with her. This is what I deserve...I say to myself before standing and staggering to the bedroom.
My bed is made with those fucking throw pillows she likes. The apartment is pristine because I cleaned it for her. I glance inside the closet at the empty side I cleared out for her clothes, and I want to punch myself in the face. Part of me wonders if maybe she knew I had accepted what happened between us and all she wanted to do was bring me back to my knees. That's fucked up. She wouldn’t do that...This is what she does to me. Peyton makes me believe her. She makes me love her and trust her, and give up my goddamn world for her, and then she leaves me.
I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. I feel like a dumbass. For whatever reason, she isn't coming. She won't come, and I'm debating on whether I should even listen to the excuse she's going to throw at me. The room spins and before I know it, I'm passed out, waking up to my phone blaring in my ear at three in the morning.
Peyton's number flashes on the screen, and I start to mute it but don't.
As soon as I pull the cell to my ear, I hear her crying, and my heart fucking pounds.
“Nicolas?” I can barely make out my name between her sobs.
“Yeah...”
“I'm so...” she pauses to catch her breath. “I'm sorry. Isaac— his mom, she has...” She sniffs back tears and clears her throat. “She has cancer. About a month to live.”
And my heart plummets to the fucking pit of my stomach.
“He got home. I went downstairs to tell him I was leaving. I had the papers...” She breaks down in tears. “I didn’t know what to do. You know I couldn't do that to him. With mother and all, I just...what kind of person could do that?” She pauses to catch her breath again. I remain silent, digesting what she's told me.
“As much as I love you, as much as this hurts,” she says. “I can't abandon him now. Losing your mother, it...I just...I can't do that. I'm not that cruel. I...”
“I understand,” I say. And I do, even though I wish I didn't. Situations. They always fuck me with Peyton.
We sit silently on the phone for several minutes. She's crying and I'm staring at the floor.
“Nic, I don't know what to do,” she whispers.
I scrub my hands over my face. “You're doing the right thing. You're doing the right thing, Peyton,” I repeat myself.
I hate myself for being the nice guy, for being the guy I've always been with her when I'm really not the nice guy. I want to be angry, and I am. I'm mad at myself because I know that I'm going to lose her again, and there's nothing to stop this. I couldn't make myself hate her when she hurt me—when I should have hated her. Look where that got me. This time, I'm losing her because she's doing what she should. How the hell am I ever going to get over that?
“Once everything's over...I'll come,” she says. “I've got the papers. I'll come.”
“Okay.” I know she won't.
“I'll call you...I love you, Nic.”
I swallow. “I love you too, Peyton.”
I hang up the phone, continuing to stare at the floor. You know when things are over. And this is over. Tragedy bonds people. She will be his strength because that's what she's good at. All those things Peyton thought only I could do, make her feel...he'll do that.
This hurts because I love her when I should have learned to hate her. You never fall in love with someone having the thought that one day you'll need to hate them, but you see, the consequence of loving someone more than they love you is hate. You have to learn to hate them or they will strip your soul fucking bare when they leave you.
18 months later
It’s been half a year, and although life has continued, there’s no story to tell because it doesn’t involve Nicolas.
Isaac's mom, Jane, died six weeks after her diagnosis. After the night I called to tell Nic why I couldn’t leave Isaac, we talked less and less. And it wasn’t because he was angry—Nic understood. It wasn’t because we realized we didn’t belong together because we do. We never really decided it was over, we just…drifted apart. We felt guilty, and it’s easier to ignore that you want something you can’t have when it’s pushed out of your mind. I couldn't expect Nic to wait on me, and as much as it hurt me to think of my life without him, I was no longer sure I would leave Isaac. Like I'd said a thousand times, I love Isaac, I'm just not in love with him. It's not that all-consuming fire I have with Nic, but sometimes I think a fire like that is destined to burn you at some point--actually, it already has.
Twice.
I watch the fan blade swirl, wondering how it makes everything look like it's smearing. The bed bangs against the wall and I try to make myself more comfortable under his weight.
“Shit,” Isaac says in a groan, thrusting harder into me. I slowly trail my fingers over his broad back, wiping away the sweat. He grabs my leg and pushes it up by
my head as he sits back and adjust himself. I'm still staring at the fan when he stops. “What’s wrong? Does it feel good?”
“Yeah, it does.” I nod my head and smile.
“Could have fooled me...want me to do it harder?” he asks before slamming into me, pushing my thigh back until my muscles burn.
This is where I pretend I like it because I don't want to hurt his feelings. I close my eyes. I try to focus on the way he feels inside me, but part of me recoils at the thought. Never would I have believed that love is such a huge part of sex. But the thing is, when you have a one-night stand or are in a new relationship, there's passion, lust. And I always thought that's what Nic and I had—passion and lust, but the thing I've grown to realize, the thing that was shoved in my face when I was having my affair is that it wasn't passion and lust that made me feel that way. It was love. As ridiculous as that sounds, the way I loved Nic, well, that's a need that can put any passion to shame. Love is what made being with him so addictive.
And that's not here. Sex with Isaac is just sex.
When he finishes he rolls out of the bed and goes to the bathroom to take a shower, and I lie here, staring out of the window. A red bird perches on a limb, and I smile because Nic loved those. I still think of him every day, just like I do my mother and my father. If death doesn't kill love, nothing will, so I how can I expect to ever stop loving someone who’s still living? I've accepted that I will go the rest of my life in love with a man I'll never have.
“Baby?” Isaac is standing in the doorway, dressed. “I'm going to go over to Aiden's, I told him I'd help him put the crib together before Brianna got home. Want to come?”
“No. I'm just gonna do some stuff around here. Clean the kitchen up.”
He laughs. “The kitchen's clean....it's fine. I'll be back in a few hours.”
I listen to his footsteps fall down the steps, and then I get up and go to the office. These memories of Nic have nearly driven me crazy, and in a sad attempt to get Nic out of my head, I've continued to write down everything I can remember about loving him. I needed to do something with the heartache and love and passion, so I put it onto paper. After all, I've always thought that's what authors do: transfer their darkest, deepest, most passionate desires onto paper in a bid to free their soul of some chain. Surely no one is simply just that creative? There must be truth within every piece of fiction, which makes me wonder how truly sad Shakespeare must have been. My fingers furiously type over the keys as I write out the last conversation I can recall having with Nic.
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