“Uh, no. I’m…” Peyton walks to the computer, tapping over the screen. “I’m done.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” I say, fighting a laugh as I grab the manuscript, and motion to a booth in the corner. “You want to come sit while I finish my beer?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The redhead smirks as she grabs a bar towel to wipe the counter. I walk to the booth, place the book on the table, and sit, watching as Peyton comes out from behind the bar. A nervous smile twitches over her lips when she slides into the booth across from me. Her fingers drum over the table, her eyes veer down to the book, and she picks up the corner, flipping the pages.
“Um,” she clears her throat. “So, I just wrote it...” she shrugs, her eyes still locked on the pages she’s thumbing through. “You know, tried to get you out of my mind, and- not because I wanted to, Nic, but because I needed to, and-”
“I liked the letter.”
I notice her swallow as she nods, her eyes still glued to the book.
“I hated the ending, though. I want you to change that part.” I take a sip of beer, and her pale blue eyes rise to meet mine. Shrugging, I pull the book toward me. “It was a shitty ending, Peyton. It was rushed.”
“Well, that’s how it ended Nic...”
“Stop trying to write like Shakespeare. No one likes tragedies. Write it the way you wish it had happened.” I smile and point to the book. “Unless, you like the way that ends.”
Her head shakes slowly. “I don't.”
“Then change it.” I chug the beer, pushing the book back across the table as I stand. “Send it back to me when you give it one of those sappy, happy endings.”
Her mouth hangs open, her brows crease, and I turn, walking out of the bar. No more than ten seconds after the door closes behind me, she comes barreling out after me. “You come down here, all the way from New York, to tell me to change the ending?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No. I came down here all the way from across town.”
“What?”
“I live ten minutes away, Peyton.”
I smile when I hear a loud breath fly from her mouth. “You…. What?”
“Yep,” I say, pressing the key fob to unlock my car.
“Nic!”
I turn, and she skirts around several businessmen strolling down the sidewalk.
“Nic!” She hurries toward me, stopping inches in front of me. Tears build in her eyes, and I can see her struggling to fight them back. “How do stop it? How do you stop loving someone like this?”
She thinks I’m over her. She thinks I’ve let her go. That I stopped loving her. “Why are you asking me that, Peyton? I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Her brows pinch together, and when they do a few stray tears roll from the corners of her eyes.
I cup her cheek with my hand, tenderly rubbing my fingers over her soft skin. Even though the sidewalk is littered with people, the streets are bustling with traffic, it’s like nothing else exists besides us right now. I only experience the ability to tune everything else out when I’m with her.
“I still think about you,” I say. “I never stopped.” Her eyes flutter shut as she leans into my palm. “Love is something you have no control over, Peyton.” I swipe the tears from her face before leaning down and pressing my lips to hers.
And just like the first time I ever kissed her, I feel something in my gut that tells me she’s something I’ll never grow tired of, a feeling I’ll never get over.
“I think I’ll keep you, pretty girl,” I whisper as I pull away.
The screen door swings open and the distant hum of the cicadas grows louder. The humid night air wraps around me like a thick blanket and I smile. I love summer nights. They remind me of being a teenager and sitting on my back porch with Nic. I glance around at the antebellum home, staring at the Historic Home plague that’s tacked up by the door. I swat the dust from my arm before I sit on the swing and take a deep breath. I'm worn out from unpacking boxes, but I was determined to get everything finished today.
The hinges to the door groan, and I glance over to see Nic, topless and in grey sweats, carrying two glasses of champagne over to me. “Thought our first house was cause for a celebration.” He smiles as he hands me a drink. “It only took us a few years and a divorce longer than it should have.”
“You'd think you learned romance from the movies.” I arch a brow as I take the flute. “Champagne is so cliché,” I playfully mumble and roll my eyes.
“Says the girl who once told me she wanted her life to be like something Shakespeare would write...” He sits next to me, pushing the swing back with his feet as he places his arm around me. “Don't act like you don’t like it,” he says.
“I do.”
“I know you do.”
We swing for several minutes, sipping on champagne.
“Out of all the places in the world. Boston, Los Angeles...” I laugh. “You choose the job in Tuscaloosa, Alabama?”
“Money talks, babe. The job to remodel the University here…way better than what they were offering to go up to Boston.”
“I know.” I nod. “I love the house. It's pretty. Very Gone with the Wind.”
“You compare everything to a book, don't you?”
“Yep.” I giggle. “It's fun.”
Inching my face toward his, I study those honey-green eyes of his, wondering how it's possible to love someone the way I love him. The large diamond solitaire on my left hand sparkles underneath the porch light as I trail my fingers down his stubbled jaw. I kiss him, and, even still, having his lips on mine gives me those butterflies everyone says eventually disappear. Within seconds, Nic's taking my glass and setting it on the table as his mouth works down my neck and his hands creep under my sundress. He kisses me harder and his hand sneaks up my thigh until he's grabbing the hip of my lace thong and tugging it off.
He stands, picks me up, and sets me on the glass patio table, spreading my thighs before he drops his pants. “Nic, really?” I say. “On the porch?”
“I've fucked you in every other room in that house today. Now, I want the porch. According to this,” he swipes his finger over me and smiles, “I don't think you really mind, cochina.” My legs fall to either side of his hips, his fingers squeezing my waist.
“The neighbors are going to love us.”
“They shouldn't be looking.” He shrugs before pushing into me. “Besides, it's our back porch.”
And how can I argue with that?
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee. The second I step into the kitchen, Nic spins around, smiling.
“Good morning,” I yawn.
“Good morning,” he says crossing the kitchen to give me a kiss. “I cleaned up the boxes and stuff.” He ushers me through to the dining room, and there in the center of the table is a bouquet of Sterling Silver Roses with a letter leaned against the vase.
“Bed of Roses,” he says as he picks up the envelope and hands it to me. “You see, I still remember the little things.”
“I see. So, is this a love letter and hate letter?” I smirk. “I don't like those.”
He thumps the paper in my hand. “Open it.”
I take the envelope and flip it over, pulling out a letter dated eight years ago. Eight years to the day he asked me to marry him—the first time.
May 25th, 2006
I'm going to ask you to marry me tonight. I've gone over and over how to do this. Part of me feels it should be some extravagant event. Maybe a quartet, maybe rent a billboard....but that's too expected and overdone, huh? You are a romantic, I've learned that. You are the girl that wants flowers and will look up the symbolism of the color and number. Don't think I don't know you do that, Peyton. Lavender roses symbolize love at first sight, that’s why I always get you those Sterling Silver roses. God, you make me sound like such a pussy-whipped asshole…
The point is, I'm going to ask you to marry me in the place where everything with us started. I'm going
to dance with you under the stars because I want you to know that I listen to the things you tell me you want to do, and I remember them. I want to always make you happy because you are what matters most to me, Peyton. And I don't want you to ever question that. I will listen, I will love you, and I will try my damndest to do all those little things I know mean something to you.
I love you!
Nic
And below that letter is a poem Nic wrote for me. A beautiful poem in Spanish that puts Pablo Neruda to shame.
When I finish reading the poem, I glance up, smiling.
Nic takes a sip of his coffee and exhales. “I saved these letters for a long time. They were the one thing I just couldn't throw away. Now, I'm glad I didn't.”
“It's sweet. I love reading them.”
“I still feel the exact same way, Peyton. Always have, always will.”
I lean over to kiss him. “I think one of the sweetest things you ever did was become a writer for me.”
Nic grins. “You knew I did that for you, huh?”
I nod. “Nicolas Torres, no offense, but you are not the type of guy that's into poetry. On our first date, you told me Shakespeare was a pussy...”
“Hey,” he holds up a finger, “I backtracked after I saw the repulsed look that washed over your face, and if I remember correctly, I called him a 'coño'.”
I laugh. “Uh, yeah, which means pussy.”
Arching his brow, he lifts his cup back to his lips. “Actually, I meant cunt, but...”
I roll my eyes as I stand from the table. “Thank you for the roses and the letter. You are so good to me.”
“And you are so fucking good to me, pretty girl.” Nic walks up behind me, looping his arm around my waist and kissing down my neck.
And I feel this is where our story could end, right here. Me and Nic, in our home, married, so in love with each other. After all, isn't this where all fairy tales end, right after the wedding? Right after the vows are said, when the entire future lies ahead of you? If you go too far past this kind of ending, it goes from a romance to a love story. From a happily ever after to a tragedy.
But you can't stop life wherever you want to.
Eight months later
My palms are sweaty. I'm jittery. A car speeds up to pass me, the driver laying on his horn and flicking me the bird as he drives by.
“Fuck off!” I shout, not taking my hands off the wheel.
“Nic,” Peyton calls from the backseat. “You do realize you are going twenty-five under the speed limit, don't you?”
“Well, they can go around.” I glance in the rearview mirror and my chest swells. Peyton's leaned over the car seat, holding Olivia's tiny hand. “I mean, they just let you go like that. Hey, congrats on having a baby, now take her home and fend for yourself? I feel like they should have at least given us a book or something.”
“We're almost thirty. I think we can handle this.”
“Are you sure she's strapped in good?” I ask, glancing back in the mirror.
“Yes, she's fine.” She laughs. “She's so perfect. Momma would have loved her,” Peyton says quietly.
“She would have. She'd love that we named her after her too.”
“Oh, I don't know about that. Momma hated her name. Daddy always called her Olive Oyl, and it pissed her off so much,” she laughs through the tears building in her eyes.
This tiny little noise like a cat crying comes from the backseat.
“Oh, what's wrong?” Peyton whispers. “Don't cry. Shh-shh.” And just like that, Olivia quiets. “You think it will always be that easy to make her stop crying?” she asks.
“Uh, no. I doubt that, babe.”
Ten minutes later, we pull into the driveway. I help Peyton out, then carefully un-click the car seat from the base, staring down at our sleeping baby as I slowly walk up the steps.
The moment I found out Peyton was pregnant, I worried what kind of dad I would be. Would I be too strict, too lenient? You try to imagine what it will be like, but nothing prepares you for that first moment when you see your tiny baby swaddled in a blanket and in the arms of the woman you love. It's a fucking emotional overload. Unconditional love at its greatest.
And I realize, thirty years into my life, it’s really just beginning.
A shrill cry startles me awake, then there's silence. The hall light is on and the soft hum of music floats down the hallway. I stumble out of bed, following the trail of lights until I make my way into the kitchen. Peyton's cradling Olivia against her chest, swaying in beat with the slow, soothing melody of John Mayer’s ‘Slow Dancing in a Burning Room’.
Smiling, I walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her, and dance in beat with her. I lean over her shoulder and kiss Olivia's soft head.
“She won't sleep,” Peyton says. “I've been trying for an hour.”
“You should have woken me up, babe. Here…” I spin her around and take Olivia, placing her tiny frame on my chest. “Go to bed.”
Peyton's tired eyes look up at me. I pull her against my side, wrapping my free arm around her waist. Olivia nuzzles her head against my neck, and we dance. Gravity comes on and I can't help the smile.
“Remember this song?” I ask, resting my chin on Peyton's head as we sway to the melody.
Her hand rubs over Olivia's back. “Yeah.”
“We used to dance to this in my townhouse in college. Just us.”
“I loved John Mayer because of you.”
“The first time I heard him, it made me think of you. It was ‘Wonderland’, and all I could think was Peyton. You know I'm more of a Deftones and Seether kind of guy.”
“I know,” she laughs.
“But as always, Peyton, you are my exception.”
“And it makes me feel special.”
“Well, good. Because you are.”
Peyton sighs before bringing Olivia’s foot to her lips and kissing it. “You know what I like to think about?”
We continue to move in beat with the music. “What's that?” I ask.
“All the things that led me to you.”
Peyton loves to do this every once in a while. I'm not sure if it's a girl thing or a Peyton thing, but I love when she gets all philosophical about why we belong together, even if I won't admit that to many people.
“Such as...”
“Well, as much as I hate to say it, your mom having an affair, because had she not, you never would have left Argentina. My mother...” she trails off and I hold her tighter. “How many things could have changed over the past two years, been a week or two later, and we may not be together? Had Jen not forced me to call you, you may have married that other girl.”
That other girl. I would have married her, and it most definitely would not feel like this.
“Then,” she continues. “Aiden's party, and all those letters you saved and started sending to me. And not divorcing Isaac when I intended to, well, that let me leave him for no other reason than I didn't belong with him.”
I smile against her hair. “You mean you aren't going to go back to the pilgrims coming over on the Mayflower? I mean, had that not happened your ancestors never would have mated which means you never would have been born. Oh, and let's not forget that without the Spanish Inquisition, I wouldn't exist either.” I laugh and kiss her lips again. “You're losing your touch, Peyton.”
“It's three-thirty in the morning.” She smacks my back and pulls away to glare at me. “And I'm delirious.”
“Fine. Excused.” Olivia makes a tiny grunt, and Peyton goes to take her from me, but I step back. “I can put her to bed. You go put yourself to bed.”
She smiles, turning around and heading down the hall. I stay in the kitchen for another song, dancing with our little girl. I never imagined a love like this existed. Never.
Olivia’s asleep in my arms when I turn the stereo off. On my way back to the bedroom, I sing to her: “Duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor, duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.” Sleep my child, sleep m
y love, fall asleep piece of my heart.
When I walk into the room, Peyton’s in bed, pen and notebook in hand, smiling at me. “That just literally made me melt,” she says.
I lay Olivia down, then crawl into bed next to Peyton. “Of course, it did,” I smirk. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Just wanted to write something to Olivia.” She closes the leather journal and places it on the nightstand. “That was the last page.”
“I gave that journal to you our senior year.”
“I know. And it’s all just poems to you. I think it's fitting that the last page is a poem to her.” She grins and gives me a kiss before turning off the lamp.
As soon as I lie back, Peyton’s head is on my chest. I place my arm around her and pull her close. This is how I imagined my life. This is what I wanted. She is always what I needed.
Nic went back to work today. The past two weeks he’s been off, helping with Olivia, and without him here I have been bored out of my mind. I've already cleaned the entire house, done the laundry, and Olivia's asleep.
Plopping down on the couch, I grab the remote and flip the TV on. Judge Judy pops on the screen, slamming her gavel down as she screams at some poor soul. Just when I've had my feel of the woman going on and on about how her boyfriend borrowed money to buy his other girlfriend a Micheal Kors bag, the weather interrupts the program.
“The national weather service has issued a tornado warning for Pickens County. Folks in Hamilton and Hackleburg, take cover. There's strong rotation with this storm.”
Shit, where is Pickens County? I swallow, pulling up a map of Alabama counties on my cell phone.
“Wes,” the meteorologist continues, “there are four confirmed tornadoes on the ground in different parts of the state right now.”
I don't look up from my phone. Pickens is the next county over from us. My stomach knots, my heart pounds.
A Love So Tragic Page 18
