A Love So Tragic

by Stevie J. Cole

  “I love you...” And right now, I'm staring at the blinking cursor because I'm at the end of mine and Nic's story, but it's so abrupt, I can't bring myself to type 'The End'.

  I scroll back through, and starting at the beginning, I read.

  Reading over your life like it's a novel, it gives you a new perspective, because even though I wrote this, I guess I admitted to things on these pages I wouldn't admit to myself. I see how stupid I was. How immature and selfish. And I hate my character. Hate her. I roll my eyes. I mumble that she's whiny. There's nothing redeemable about her. I can't deny how distant I was to Isaac when I thought he was the distant one. Throughout the course of this story, I realize something no one wants to realize: I'll never really be happy because I won’t allow myself that luxury.

  Four hours later, here I am, back on the last word, and it doesn't feel right.

  There are moments in life when you feel compelled to do certain things, and you have no idea why. This is one of those moments. Hitting print, I watch page after page spit out, and when it’s finished, I find a clip and bind the manuscript together. After the title page, I write a note to him. I'm not even sure why I'm sending this story to him. Possibly to show him I actually did something I wanted to do—write a book and only because of him. Or maybe I want to give him something he gave me—words that let him feel what he did to me, what I did to us, how we loved each other. But when I really think about it, deep down inside I believe I just want him to tell me how this story ends.

  The Atlanta skyline glows in front of the dark clouds rolling off in the horizon. Thunder booms and the rain pelts harder over the windshield. It's been three months since my company transferred me back home, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about her a hundred times since moving back here. I've thought about her so many times over the past year—about what we did, about what kind of people we really are. And the questions I've asked myself time and time again:

  Do I regret having an affair with her?

  No.

  If I could do it all over, would I stay away from her?

  Hell no.

  As shitty as that may sound, I can't feel bad about it because my affair with Peyton allowed me to forgive her. It kept me from marrying Lindsey, and Lindsey's happy with some lawyer that really loves her. That affair showed me what kind of person I am: one that makes mistakes. One that has weaknesses.

  And yes, with time, that affair has been more than easy to justify to myself: Peyton was my first love. She wasn't some random girl. The emotions were already there and strong. She was familiar, she was nostalgia and memories and all those things that you look back on as you grow older and smile about. I told myself that I may have been fucking someone's wife, but that same guy fucked my life.

  It wasn't hard for me to come up with a thousand reasons as to why my affair was entirely different than the affairs those other people have. But at the bottom of it all, I know it was wrong. I guess most people in an affair come up with an excuse. Who wants to think they were wrong? If you dig deep enough, eventually you'll find something that makes it right. More than anything, though, that affair with Peyton made me realize that I've hated my mother for a very selfish reason—because of what that divorce did to me, my brother and sister.

  Whatever my mother's reasons were for cheating on my dad, I'm sure she felt justified. I'm sure she thought it was more right than wrong. I now understand that.

  The rain is still pouring down when I park in front of the apartment complex. I make a mad sprint to the breezeway, but I'm still drenched by the time I get to my building. When I open the door, my foot hits a package in front of the threshold. I wipe the rain from my face and bend down to pick it up. There's no return address and a change of address sticker is slapped over my old New York apartment number.

  My eyes remain trained on the parcel as I step inside and close the door. Maybe it's something from one of the companies I drew up plans for. The lip of the envelope is damp, and it basically disintegrates when I tear it back. Inside is a stack of papers, and when I dump the envelope upside down they fall onto the counter with a clunk. My eyes skim over what appears to be a title: “My Beautiful Tragedy” by PP Franks.

  My brows pinch together. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath before swallowing and flipping to the first page. And there at the very top, is her girly handwriting.

  Nicolas,

  You once told me our story was better than fiction, and reading back over it now, it is tragically beautiful.

  Thank you for being my Shakespeare.

  With Love,

  Peyton

  I sit on the bar stool and stare at the manuscript, not sure whether I want to read it or not. You always wonder what other people think of you, and this right here, this is what she thinks of me, of us...I like the way I've made my memories, and I don't know that I want those to change.

  The pages flip between my fingers time and time again, and then I shove the book to the side of my counter, going to the bathroom to shower.

  The entire time I'm bathing, I wonder what the hell she's doing. Why she wrote it, why she sent it to me...why I haven't heard from her.

  I pull on clean clothes. I cook dinner. I watch Breaking Bad. I ignore the way the light glints off the silver clip holding the pages of that book together.

  That book.

  Her book.

  My book.

  Our book.

  After two episodes, I turn the TV and the lights off, and then, on my way to bed, I give in and take that book from the counter.

  I thumb through the pages, incoherent words blinking in front of my eyes, but I pick up a few. Nic, love, hate, fuck...

  Finally, I turn past the title page and read the first line: I’m not an author, but if I allow this pain to guide my words, I believe I can be... Damn it, Peyton.

  I read about the first time she met me, about the first time I kissed her. Everything about us from fights to sex to the fucking poems I'd written her are in this book. I relive parts of my past I'd somehow forgotten. I see myself through her eyes, and I never realized she loved me that much. I never realized how insecure she was at times, that she thought I was too good for her—I never could have imagined that because I always swore she was too good for me.

  My stomach knots when I read over things she never told me, over the things that ripped us apart. For some reason the hateful things I said to her once we'd ended seem crueler seeing them word-for-word. I’d forgotten them, but then I’d said them out of anger and hurt, making them easy for me to forget. She was the one they cut. They stuck with her.

  I see her marriage with Isaac, and I hate him even more because he didn't love her the way I would have.

  I close the book at three in the morning, only nine pages from the end. I don't have to read those because I know the way this story concludes. And I hate it. Even with the shittiest ending, in fiction, you accept it. You’re not the author. You have no control. Well, this is different. The way things went between us, I know that’s not how either of us wanted things to end.

  The evening I finished reading over mine and Nic's story, I told Isaac everything. I cried. I sobbed. I apologized, but only because I was sorry, not because I wanted to be forgiven. And to be honest, I'm glad it ended this way. I'm leaving because I know I need to, not because I have to in order to get what I want.

  I place my wedding rings on the dresser, on top of the newly drawn up divorce papers. My signature is there, and so is Isaac's. He handed these papers to me, informing me that in the state of Georgia, people who have affairs aren't entitled to alimony, then he left without even looking at me.

  Grabbing the last of my things, I glance around the room. You can love a million people, but there’s only one person you can completely give your heart to, and once you’ve done that, it will never belong to anyone else. No matter how much you try, no matter how often you lie to yourself. It’s just not possible. And if you say it is, then you’ve not experienced the kind of
love I have for Nic. This type of love— it’s destructive, it’s raw, it’s unforgiving, and it changes you.

  Jen waves me over to the computer. “Look,” she says. “I read your book in one night. Maybe it’s because I know you and I know that shit is true, but it’s damn good, P.” I stare over her shoulder at the computer screen. Kindle Direct Publishing.

  “Come on, Peyton,” she whines. “Do it. Upload that bitch and publish it.”

  “I don't know, Jen. It's...personal.”

  “No shit!” Her brows arch. “That's why it's so good. You could put based on a true story. I mean, that shit is tragic. It's sad that you love someone so much but can't be with them because you're an idiot.” She glances back at me, her face sad. “I mean, I ugly cried. Everyone loves a good ugly cry.”

  “Thanks!” I glare at her.

  “Well...I mean, publish it, but sure as hell don't read the reviews. People hate cheaters. They'd rip your character a new one. Let's be honest, she's not the most likable person in that book.” She laughs nervously. “I mean, I love you, but I know a lot more of the story than you put in that book. You were harsh on yourself.”

  I'm not even sure why I'm contemplating this. Why in the hell would I want this personal piece of me out there for others to read, to judge, to leave reviews telling me how they’d like to throat punch my character? Maybe to keep someone else from making the same mistakes, maybe to give that sense of nostalgia because surely everyone has their Nic?

  “Do it. Do it. Do it.” She grabs onto my hand and shakes my arm. “You can use a pen name and all that crap. Hell, put my name if you want.” Jen smiles sympathetically. “You still think about him that much? Is that really how strongly you felt for each other, not fluffed at all for fictional purposes?”

  “No.”

  “Damn,” she sighs. “I could feel the connection. It's strong. Can you imagine what he'd think if he read that?”

  There's a beat of silence before she hops up, walks to the kitchen, and begins rummaging through her pantry. I did send it to him. Over a month ago. And I haven’t heard a thing. Maybe he threw it away.

  Bags crinkle, cans topple over, smacking against the linoleum floor. “So, you haven't talked to him in over a year, really?” Jen calls from behind the open pantry door.

  “Nope.”

  “Been on his Facebook?”

  “Of course, I have. Facebook is awful. It promotes the idea of being a stalker,” I laugh.

  “He’s still single?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “He looks really happy. I’m sure he’s happier.”

  “Really? You think people are gonna post pictures of themselves crying fucking rivers and say things like 'I'm so sad. I miss Peyton so much'? Uh, no...and if they do, well then, they are just crying for attention.” She comes back to the couch with pretzels and a dented container of Nutella. “What's your Facebook look like? Is it all mopey? Here...” she yanks my laptop onto her lap and furiously types with one hand as she unscrews the jar of Nutella.

  “Um-hmm. Yep.” She flips the screen around, pointing at my profile picture. “Nic could say the same thing about you: happy. Look at that fake smile plastered on your face.”

  “Okay, Jen. I get it.”

  “Send him the book. He'd be impressed.” She crams a handful of Nutella covered pretzels into her mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure he would…”

  “He would. Probably come hunt you down, like in the movies. You know, kinda like that picture of the sailor and that girl kissing in New York after he’s come back from war?” She smiles before shoving her mouth full of food again. “So romantic,” she manages to mumbled over chewed up pretzels.

  Yeah, so romantic. Problem is, he hasn’t done that yet.

  Peyton Franks

  Lives in: Atlanta, Georgia

  Divorced

  I stare at her Facebook profile and wonder when she got divorced, why she got divorced. I wonder if Isaac ever found out, and in a sick, pathetic way, I hope he did. I may have fucked his wife, but, again, he married the woman who should have been my wife.

  I hate the person loving her makes me sometimes: egotistical, selfish...

  My eyes stray down to the manuscript on my desk. I finally finished it, and the end of the book is a letter to me.

  Nic,

  I still read over your letters. I wonder if you’re happy. I think about what kind of father you would have been. I still dream about you, and it's bittersweet, but had I left that day I think you would have always worried that I would do the same thing I did to Isaac to you. Sometimes it's best to know when to write the end and put a story on the shelf before you ruin the ending. And I never wanted our story to end, Nic, but it did. Tragically. It’s such a shame that two people as in love with one another as we are can't be together.

  There is a place in my heart that will never belong to another person. And as much as it hurts sometimes, I wouldn't change one moment because you made me who I am. You broke my heart, I broke yours. We changed each other. We taught each other our strengths and weaknesses. We taught each other how to love and hate with passion. Nothing can ever change that I was yours and you were mine, and for a short period of time, we had something people write books about. We lived love. A love so tragic and beautiful that it's only fitting it doesn't have a happily ever after. I love you.

  It's been over a year and a half since we’ve spoken. I've moved on, and the thing that's crazy is I have no desire to settle down...until I think of Peyton. Because, for whatever fucking reason, she is the exception to anything logical in my life. Logic goes out the damn window with her.

  I try calling her, but the phone number I have is no longer in service. I scroll through Facebook for Jen’s profile, find her number, and call it.

  “Hello?” Jen answers.

  “Jen?”

  “Yeah, who is this?”

  “Nic.”

  There a moment of silence. “Really?” she says, an edge of amusement to her voice. “Looking for Peyton I guess, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah. Do you know where she is?”

  “Yep.” Silence.

  “Um, well, can you tell me, or give me her number or something? I need to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, you do. She just started working at Hannigan’s, you know that shitty Irish-pub right down close to The Tabernacle?”

  “Yeah.” I can’t imagine her working at a bar. “She’s bartending?”

  “Yep. Going to be a shitty bartender, right?” She laughs. I’m shocked that Jen’s not asking more questions than this. “She gets off at five. And don’t worry, I won’t tell her you called. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Talk to you later, Nic.”

  She hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone.

  Cutting the engine, I sit in the car, in front of Hannigan's, wondering if this is a bad move. Part of me thinks I should act like I have no idea she works here, but really, that's just stupid. She sent me that book for a reason, whether it’s to see if I'm going to sue her for putting my name in it, or because she wanted me to know that she's no longer with Isaac, how am I supposed to know? Peyton's always been good at being vague enough to make you feel like an asshole if she wants to. It's a gift really.

  I grab the book, climb out of the car, and weave my way through the people on the sidewalk.

  As soon as the door to the bar opens, the smell of stale greasy food surrounds me. The heavy wooden bar sits in the back corner, and the round pub tables strewn about the floor are mostly empty. The door to the back swings open as I approach the bar, and there she is, carrying a rack of glasses. I’d almost forgotten how pretty she is when she’s not wearing makeup—when she’s tired.

  She swipes a stray piece of hair from her face as she takes the first glass out to wipe it. I make my way to the bar, waiting for her to notice me. She doesn't even look up when I stop right in front of her. I drop the book on the counter with a thud and her eyes dart up, the color draining from her face when her eyes lift to m
y face.

  “I got your book,” I say, dragging out a chair before tapping my finger over the cover. “Read it the other night.”

  She swallows as she sets the glass down. “You did?”

  “Yeah. Crazy, because I know that story pretty well.”

  “I just wrote it, to, you know…” she clears her throat, “write it. I wanted to send it to you. I wanted to call you and ask you, but, well, it's just—”

  “It's fine,” I cut her off. Her cheeks slowly redden. She's rambling and that's something Peyton rarely does. “Almost think you should publish it. It's a good story.” I trace my finger over the first page. “Can I get a beer?”

  “Uh, yeah... Miller Light?”

  I smile and nod. She takes a frosted mug from the freezer and fills it from the tap, cussing when foam bubbles over the rim and down her arm. When she spins around, she slings the froth from her fingers, then places the glass in front of me.

  I take a drink, my eyes never leaving hers.

  “So, you knew I work here?” she asks.

  “Yep.” I take a quick swig. “I’ve known for about three hours.”

  “Oh.”

  A redhead in a tight shirt walks up behind Peyton. “You gonna clock out? I know it’s fun as shit here and all, but you got off ten minutes ago.” Her eyes stray over to me and she smiles before glancing at Peyton. “Well, I mean, unless you want to wait on him to finish. I understand that.”