A Love So Tragic (13 page)

Sunlight dances across my face, annoying me because I’m not ready to get up.

Papers crinkle. I hear Isaac clear his throat. My head is pounding and I don’t want to open my eyes. I stayed up most of the night, tossing and turning. Finally, at two- thirty in the morning, I drug my ass out of bed, through the hotel suite, and to the couch. I was certain I couldn’t sleep because the sheets smelled of hotel laundry detergent. Surely it wasn’t the thought of Nic robbing me of slumber.

The papers crinkle again and I hear Isaac slurp back a drink. Slowly, I open my eyes. Isaac is sitting on the couch in a pair of sweats, reading the newspaper, drinking coffee. I do a lazy stretch then groan as I drop my arms to the sofa.

“Rough night?” Isaac asks.

“Me and champagne evidently don’t get along.” I wince against the lights. “My head’s throbbing.”

He laughs and brings his cup to his lips. “That’s why I keep trying to get you to go to beer.” He pats over my thigh. “We need to be at the airport in three hours.”

“God, they don't give you time to do anything.”

“Got practice.” He shrugs and flips the page to the paper.

“Jesus! Don't they ever give you a break?”

“They'll retire me soon.”

“You’re twenty-eight, Isaac.”

“Yeah, and it’s not twenty-three, but just think of all the time we’ll have together then.” He shoots me his classic American-boy smile.

I roll my eyes and drag myself off the couch to get packed.

After the suitcase is zipped and I’m dressed, I take my phone from the bedside table. There’s one text from an “unknown” number—Nic's number.

Have you ever listened to the song, “World of Hurt” by Drive by Truckers? It makes me think of you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I immediately go to YouTube and pull up the song. The prelude is twangy, almost bluesy-old-school-country sounding, which isn't Nicolas at all, he’s rock and grunge. And then the lyrics come. The singer isn’t really singing, but talking, and with each word, my heart clenches. The lyrics are hurtful, ugly, sad. Out of all the songs in the entire world,
this
is the song he associates with me. I'm his world of hurt... It guts me, drowns me in guilt, in heartache. 

Why?!
 

I text back.  

His immediate response:

Sorry, I was tired. Shouldn’t have sent that.

“What the hell are you listening to?” Isaac stands in the doorway, his brow furrowed. “That sounds terrible. Like something someone would hang themselves to.” He walks through to the bathroom.

“Some song Jen told me to listen to.” Why did I just lie like that?

“It’s awful.”

It is awful. In so many ways.

It’s Christmas Eve. Fourteen days since that text. Three-hundred and thirty-six hours since I talked to him. I called Nic the Monday after that auction at eight fifteen, and he didn’t answer. As much as I want to keep calling him, I don’t. 

I open the front door and step out into the cool December air. I didn’t bother to put shoes on, and the second I step on the grass, I think about how stupid I am because the icy dew is soaking through my socks. Wet socks are gross, but it’s too late to turn back now.
God, I’ve found myself thinking that a lot.

The unoiled hinges to the mailbox creak when I yank it open. I pull out the pound of mail, sifting through it on my way back to the porch. Bills. Marketing. Christmas card. Christmas card. Christmas card. Credit Card. Salvation Army. And then there’s one with my maiden name, Peyton Franks, written in blue ink. Beneath it, in black ink, is my address. The handwriting looks like calligraphy, and I swallow hard because I know who this letter is from.

Rushing inside, my wet socks slip on the foyer floor and I almost fall flat on my face. I catch myself on the door frame, then drop all the other mail on the console table. I slip my finger beneath the seal and rip open Nic's letter, slicing the tip of my finger on the edge of the paper. 

March 22, 2009

Peyton,

I have gone from loving you to longing for you, to hating you—and all in the matter of a month. I thought there was nothing you could ever do to make me hate you, but I evidentially didn’t know who you were all these years because the girl I fell in love with would have never been so fucking selfish. I don’t know what hurts worse. What’s worse, huh? That y
ou had so little regard for me  you left me, no explanation—just threw
away years for someone you barely know, or the fact that I was in love with a ghost, a person who never existed. Out of all the shitty things I’ve seen, out of all the fucking people that told me love was a lie, I never believed them because I had you, and to me, that was a love so fucking perfect, so flawless…I think the poetic phrase you once used was a love Shakespeare would have been envious of. Or did you forget?

You got married today. I talked to your mother. You just ran off and did it. Something I tried to talk you into a thousand times because I didn’t want to wait forever to make you mine, but you said you wanted that perfect wedding. You promised me your forever, and now my forever is his. I’m not writing this to be an asshole…maybe I am, I don’t know any longer. But I do know that I never had a chance to say anything to you. At least, you told me that you got knocked up. But you just put that ring on your finger and let me find out. You didn’t give me closure, Peyton, so I guess this is it.

Am I angry and hurt? Fucking hell yes! And I may hate you right now, but the thing that fucking sucks is deep down inside, I love you and always will. And that makes me feel like a piece of shit. The angry side of me wants you to dream about me every night and miss me. I want you to feel like you fucked up. I want your heart to be ripped out of your chest over and over every time you close your eyes because that’s what’s happened to me…but, then, the broken side of me just wants you to be happy.

Nicolas

When I told Isaac I was pregnant, of course, he was shocked. Nic was angry. Isaac was shocked…Three days later Isaac showed up and proposed to me. He said it was the right thing to do, that I had been his first love and he'd never stopped caring for me. As terrible as it sounds—that didn't matter to me.

Nic wouldn't talk to me. And I can't blame him.

My life was gone, destroyed because no matter what, Nic would never take me back. He had always told me that was his limit. Cheating. Although I didn't technically cheat on him...I did. I broke his trust, I devalued our love. And at that moment, Isaac was my escape. It was my way to run away, to be immature, to try and cope because Nic and I were done. I thought we were done. Young and stupid and broken.

I lay my arms over the counter, burying my face in them.

Words.

Fuck them for making me feel. 

Christmas music softly plays over the sound system, and the lights on the tree seem to twinkle in time with the melody. This is my favorite holiday, and not because of the festivities, but because it reminds me of my childhood, of my momma. The smell of firewood and apple spice, the weather, the sound of wrapping paper crumpling, it all reminds me of her, of watching my father dote over her as she opened the presents he’d give her. Christmas reminds me of love.

Isaac's knelt by the hearth, poking the kindling in an attempt to stir the dying flames back into a raging fire. And as I watch those embers fighting to blaze back to life, I can’t help but think that’s what I was doing a few weeks ago with Nicolas. Trying to stir something back to life when all it wants to do is die. 

I take my cup into the kitchen and wash it, letting the steam from the hot water swirl around my face. Isaac comes up behind me and sets his glass in the sink before wrapping his arm around my waist and tenderly kissing the crook of my neck. “Merry Christmas, baby.” 

“Merry Christmas.”

His other arm comes around my waist, and we gently sway to the music. Elvis Presley's “A Blue Christmas” hums in the background. That song tears at my heart and I fight it. I attempt to force the tears away, I try to think of anything but her singing this while decorating the tree, but this song is my breaking point. It was Momma’s favorite and I can’t not think about how much I miss her. I spin around, burying my face in Isaac’s chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I wondered when you were going to break down today.”

He tenderly rubs his hand over my back, and I pull in an unsteady breath before going back to the dishes.

Isaac steps up to the sink beside me, taking the plate from my hand and nudging me away. “Go sit down, Peyton. I’ve got the dishes.”

“Thank you,” I say before heading to the living room.

The moment I set foot in the room, my gaze lands on the entertainment center. I cross the room and push the DVDs out of the way, some of them spilling onto the floor. I grab the clear case from the back, pull it out, and I read over the title “Family Christmas 1989 – 2005.” Some people may accuse me of torturing myself for what I’m about to do, but I can’t talk to her, I can’t hold her, all I can do is remember her. Even though it hurts, I like remembering her.

I turn the music off and sit in front of the fireplace, letting the heat warm my back. The fuzzy picture on the TV is out of focus at first. The lens is pointed at the floor. My dad curses. The screen shakes and all you see is carpet and walls. Then I hear her laugh, and my dad brings the camera up to focus on her smiling face. “Blue Christmas” plays in the background. Momma stands up, turning to the side and proudly cradling her pregnant stomach. 

“What’s her name gonna be, Olivia?” The sound of my father's voice causes my chest to tighten.

“Peyton Presley Franks.” She beams as she glances down with those mothering eyes she always had.

My eyes water. Even though I miss them both, even though I still say this is not fair, I smile. Isaac groans as he sits down next to me, handing me a glass of wine.

We sit and watch the family films. Videos of Momma holding my hand as I toddle behind her to the tree, images of her setting out cookies for Santa. She holds my fidgety four-year-old self in her lap, showering me with kisses as I open presents. Memories of us decorating the tree and throwing tinsel all over each other. I watch myself grow year after year in a matter of a few hours. And just when I’ve listened to her voice enough that I feel I can accurately recall it in my dreams, I hear
his
laugh.

“Merry Christmas, pretty girl.” His ‘R's seem so harsh as they roll from his tongue, and I realize how much his accent has faded over the years.

I turn to look at Isaac, and he’s nodded off on the couch. My attention redirects to the television as the frame zooms in on Nicolas and me. I’m sitting in his lap and he’s adjusting the necklace he’s given me. He gives me a quick kiss, and when he pulls away, I see the look on my face. The sharp blade of regret stabs through my chest again and again. No matter how many times I've tried to convince myself we didn't love each other as much as I remember, we did. It was real, and that one look on my face just proved that to me. I grab the remote and turn the TV off.

Standing, I stare at Isaac. I feel guilty because he’s been good to me. He married me even though he could have just abandoned me. He held my shattered pieces together when I lost the baby. Although Isaac may not be the man I always envisioned myself marrying, although he may not have an ounce of romance inside his body, he has been there for me, and he tries to love me.

Anger settles over me because I can't love him the way I should. As hard as I’ve tried, I can’t stop loving another man. And for that, I feel like a bitch. I sigh and cover Isaac up with the throw, leaving him on the couch.