A Love So Tragic (20 page)

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 pants, 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 25
^th
, 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.