A Love So Tragic (11 page)

“God, she’s hammered,” Isaac says, laughing. I turn around to look at him, and his gaze narrows. “So, you and Nic…”

I roll my eyes and take Isaac’s beer from his hand, chugging half of the bottle before handing it back to him. “We’re fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder and rubs his hand over my arm. “It’ll be okay.”

I pull away. “Where’s Laurie?”

“We broke up a week ago. She cheated on me. Slut.” He tips his beer back and polishes it off. I can't help but smirk because he deserves to have someone cheat on his ass.

“Sorry,” I lie.

“It’s fine.” He inhales, then nudges me with his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I guess we’ve all gone our separate ways, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Can’t believe we don’t even talk to each other anymore.”

I feel like I’m not as drunk as I should be and turn around, flagging the bartender.
 

Isaac leans in my line of vision, arching his brow. “You out to get fucked up? Because you’re already swaying and got a little bit of lazy eye.”

“Yeah, I want to get shit-faced and forget this night even happened.”

My fingers pause over the keys. I did get shit-faced, I just didn’t forget…I couldn’t forget. The more I drank, the more concerned about Nic and me Isaac appeared, the nicer he seemed. By the end of the night, neither me nor Jen were in a state to drive, and Isaac graciously offered to drive us home. He dropped Jen off, and somehow, I ended up at his house instead of mine, and at some point he kissed me. In my drunken state I’d convinced myself Nicolas was done with me, I mean, we had broken up, which made it okay that I was having sex with this guy I used to fuck in high school.  I’m still not sure how that ever happened because I loved Nicolas so much, and that’s what bothers me more than anything. I let myself down. I was better than that. I wasn’t selfish, but when you’re twenty-three, drunk, and angry—actually, no, there is no excuse.

My mother used to tell me that whatever you do in the dark eventually comes to light. And she was right. And when it all came to light, it destroyed Nicolas and me.

Using the sleeve of my robe, I wipe the tears from my face and reach for my phone. This is one of those moments where I’m confused, I’m sad—one of those moments when I would call my momma, and then that pain chokes me, because, in times like this, I can’t ignore that she’s gone. I feel that depression creeping around me like a low fog wanting to cover me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I have the phone pressed to my ear, and my knees drawn to my chest.

“Hello?”

And this time, the sound of Nic's voice is like sweet redemption from all that pain.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

I hear his hand cover the receiver. “Hey, Jim, I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he says before he comes back on the line with me. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to call her and… I miss her.” A small cry breaks through my lips. I feel ridiculous for calling him like this. “I’m sorry I’m calling you, but I just…I don’t know. I just did. And…”

“Don’t apologize.” He inhales, and I can just imagine he’s dragging his hands through his messy hair right now, trying to figure out what the hell to say to me. “You know what I loved the most about her?”

“What?”

“Her laugh.”

I smile through tears because she had a witch-cackle, and Nicolas constantly tried to make her laugh because it cracked him up.

“Yeah,” I say. “She did have a great laugh.”

“And, then do you remember that time we’d gone to visit your abuela, it was snowing outside, and when we walked up to my truck there was this huge, frozen, dead bat hanging out of the grill? Your mom went creeping up on it like it was going to go for her fucking jugular, and right when she got about a foot from the truck I pinched her side and hissed.” He chuckles. “She screamed like someone was murdering her, jumped about ten feet off the ground.”

“Yeah.” I giggle, wiping my eyes. ”And she swore she almost peed on herself.”

“Oh, and then when got your nose pierced and she tried to flick it off your nose because she thought it was glitter. Her precious little Peyton wouldn’t dare do something so rebellious. Little did she know how dirty you were…” He pauses for a second, I think shocked that he just said that. He pulls in a deep breath. “Peyton, she was a great person. She loved you and she wouldn’t want you moping around. Just think about that. As cliché as it sounds, she’d want you to remember her and smile. She’d want you to keep her with you in your memory, your heart, not mourn over something you can’t change. I know that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know…” I hear someone in the background. He’s at work. I shouldn’t be bothering him with this. “Thanks, Nic. I know you gotta get back to work.”

“You gonna stop crying?”

Inhaling, I whisper, “Yep.”

“Good.”

“Thanks, Nic.”

“Anytime, Peyton.”

I hang up. And for once, I feel like someone understands how I feel. That’s the first time since my mother’s passed away that anyone has forced me to
remember
her, and for whatever reason, the fact that someone else remembers her makes me feel better.

New York City.

It never loses the excitement. Every single time I fly in, I sing “Welcome to New York”, and every time Isaac rolls his eyes. We check into the hotel, have sex—at his request—and I quickly get dressed. On the way to the event, I pull out my compact and nervously check my make-up.

“You look beautiful,” Isaac says, gently closing the mirror and slipping it inside my clutch. “Stop worrying. You'll take everyone's breath away.” 

Over the past few days, Nic and I have managed to talk more than we should. I called him, then he called me, and then I called him. And it ended up becoming an everyday thing. It's not like we made a conscious decision, it just kind of happened. It’s innocent, really. We don’t even mention anything about us because we are friends.
Friends...
a friend who I call, or calls me at eight fifteen in the morning. Eight fifteen because that’s when Isaac’s gone, and it’s before Nicolas’s first meeting. He lives hundreds of miles away from me, so why can’t I be friends with him? Deep down inside my heart I know it’s not an honest thing, but I keep saying if it makes me happy, and it’s not hurting anyone, why
shouldn’t
Nic and I be friends?

Because I still love him.
 

A horn blares as the limo stops in the middle of an intersection. From here I can see the lights of Times Square, and I still can’t believe Nic lives here. He wanted the mountains, the ocean, something with nature, and here he is in the middle of concrete.

The charity auction we're attending is funded by Kohen Pederson. Ironically that is the company Nic works for, which means he will be here. Isaac has no idea, and neither would I if I weren't talking to Nic behind his back. At least I’m aware of the fuck-storm of emotions I’m walking into instead of being blindsided.

The limo pulls into the roundabout and stops. I'm nervous. I wish I could text Jen for emotional support, but, again, she still has no idea that I’m even talking to Nic.

Isaac smiles at me as he checks his phone. The valet opens my door. I step out, smoothing the wrinkles in my satin dress. I swallow that quivering ball of nerves down into my stomach as Isaac comes around the back of the parked limo, taking my hand in his as we make our way to the doors. We smile. We stop for pictures. And as soon as we step into the venue, I find myself searching the crowd for Nic. A waiter stops beside me with a tray of champagne and I graciously snag one, tipping it back immediately.

Isaac’s hand rests on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowded room, every so often stopping to talk to people I don't know. The champagne is gone before we’ve made it across the ballroom, and I already need another. When Isaac glances back at me, his eyes veer down to the empty glass. “Wow! Impressive.”

“You know I hate these things. I feel so out of place around these people.”

Laughing, he puts his arm around my waist. “You can fit in anywhere, Peyton. You always do.” He drags me toward a circle of men in tuxedos, every one of them with a much younger, busty blonde looped through their arm. “Play nice with the arm candy, okay?” Isaac chuckles before we get within earshot, and I elbow him in the gut.

We stop behind one of the men and he turns, smiling at Isaac. “Miller, that was one heck of a pitch you threw at Rodriguez...” and so it begins. I stand here, completely mute, just as the other women do because none of us give a shit about who is pitching next season or who has the most home runs.

Ten minutes in and I really,
really
need that champagne. I sweep my hand over Isaac’s arm, pressing up on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to get some champagne, go the restroom, and possibly drown myself in the toilet.”

His gaze cuts down at me and he gives me a disapproving look. 

“I was just joking,” I mumble as I slip my arm out of his. 

I shove through the congested ballroom, maneuvering through men in tuxedos, women in too-tight satin dresses. It takes me five minutes to snake my way to the bar. Thank God there are glasses of champagne sitting on the edge. I take a drink, go to turn around, but halt, grabbing another bubbling flute from the counter. The bartender's eyes drift up from the drink he’s pouring, his gaze moving from one glass in my hand to the other.

I smile, holding up one of the flutes. “For a friend,” I say.

I’m mid spin from the bar when I bump right into Nicolas. “Thank you,” he says as he grabs a glass from my hand and lifts it to his lips. He smiles around the rim and winks before he takes a sip. “So sweet of you to always think of me.”

My gaze plummets down his body. His tailored suit fits too nicely, and I can't help but notice how ‘Nicolas’ he looks with his dark hair swept up in a “fuck you socialites” stylish peak. I walk away from the bar next to him—like I belong with him. My heart bangs frantically, forcing the alcohol through my veins and slicking my skin with that tingly champagne buzz.

“You haven’t become an alcoholic, I hope,” he says. The way words roll off his tongue has always done something, but his accent really gets to me at this moment.

“Of course not.” I laugh one of those nervous I-just-want-to-keep-you-talking-to-me laughs. And I can tell by the way he tilts his head and grins that he knows he’s making me tense and likes it. 

“Really?” His eyes flicker in the soft light as he drags that ‘R’ out, and I know he rolled his tongue on purpose. “Double-fisting?” He clinks his glass against mine. “Isn’t that something you do at a frat party, not a charity auction?”

“Don’t judge me.”

A flirty smile flips across my lips.  I know I should walk away because I can’t stop remembering how he felt against me, how good he was in bed. I can’t quite forget the way his lips felt against mine, and damn if I don’t want to feel that again.

This is dangerous. This is bad because how many people walk away when the things they dream about are standing right in front of them?

I can't stop dragging my eyes over her body. Fuck, that little black dress fits her just right. Her cheeks are blushed and she keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot because that’s what Peyton does when she's anxious.

Those pink cheeks make me feel like such a bastard because it makes me recall how flushed her face gets when she comes...and that is the last thing that should be going through my head right now—Peyton coming.

“Don’t judge me.” She smiles, her eyes flicking down my body before she nervously takes a sip.

I watch the way her red lips close around the rim of that glass, and I almost groan. Her fucking lips are gorgeous. Full, pouty—perfect. There’s not a man that would deny that.

“I’d never judge you, Peyton,” I say, taking a drink of champagne, my eyes locked on hers. ”It’d do nothing but get me in trouble.” That comment evidently bothers her because she quickly polishes her drink off.