A Love So Tragic (14 page)

When I crawl into bed, my gaze fixes on the book on the bedside table. It came in the mail two days ago with no return address, but the postage was from New York City. Pablo Neruda,
One-hundred Love Sonnets.
First edition. Signed. Why Nic bought it for me, I’m still not sure. I leave it there so it's the last thing I see before I go to sleep.

Now that is torture, and I’m fully aware of it.

Lindsey's in tears, cramming her stuff into a duffel bag. I feel like shit, but it's better that this ends here. It will hurt her less in the long run. I refuse to be my parents. I will not lie to her. I will not pretend I am in love.

She zips the bag and looks up at me. “I don't understand, Nic. I never will.”

I shake my head. “I don't expect you to.”

“I want to hate you...” she says as she slings the bag over her shoulder. “But I should have known better than to love someone like you. I knew the first time I told you I loved you that you didn't know how to love anyone except her. I should have left you then.”

I ignore that comment. “I never meant to hurt you, Lindsey,” I say it because I didn't.

“I know, Nic. It just makes me sad for you. You let one girl ruin your life.” And she walks out of the apartment.

I stand, staring at the door for a few moments as I let what she said sink in. I didn't
let
Peyton ruin my life. And the thing is, I was fine until I saw her. That is why I moved. They tell addicts to remove themselves from the things that remind them of using. That's what I did. I treated Peyton like a drug. I moved away. Over time, I got rid of everything she'd ever given me, except the poems she'd written me and two pictures. As much as you want to rip certain parts of your past out, your past is what makes you who you are, and I guess I just wanted something to remind me that nothing is certain. 

Nothing is certain.

And if I'm honest, I'm confused. I thought I knew the kind of person I was. After that night at the charity auction, I knew things with Peyton weren't innocent. No matter how much I want to believe that they are, no matter how much she wants to believe that they are; two people with our history—nothing can ever be innocent between us.

I watched my mother cheat on my father. Every morning they said the loved each other, every morning I ate breakfast while I listened to her recite that lie. And then when my father found out,
she
left him. Angry. And she took me with her, and I hated her. Lies tear people down. They are selfish. I judged her for years, thought she was weak, and now, I feel I am no better than her. Because I lied to Lindsey, I lied to myself, and if I could, I would help Peyton lie just so I could have her.  

As much as I want to be ashamed for that. I can't. And it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that deep down inside you are one of those people you hate.

It’s right after the New Year, and Isaac is out of town for a friend’s bachelor party.

I went to the ballet today, alone. Even had Isaac been here, I still would have gone by myself because he doesn’t do the ballet. Sitting in that auditorium and watching the pretty ballerinas flit around on stage reminds me of my father. Every year around Christmas he would take me to the ballet. He told me the dancers were princesses. And I loved going. Not because of the theatrics, but because I was with him, and, yes, because they did look like princesses. We went every year until he had a heart attack and passed away. And then after he died, Nic took me, every year, until I married Isaac, and now I go to the ballet alone. 

Jen sighs and flips over on the bed. “We should go out. Get tipsy and dance.”

I shrug.

“Come on, Peyton,” Jen coaxes. “Just come out. Isaac’s out of town at a bachelor party. He's probably motor boating some skank stripper. So, what do you want to do?” she asks, reaching over to the bedside table and picking up the Pablo Neruda book. “Stay in and read poetry?” she tosses the book down and rolls her eyes.

I still haven’t breathed a word to her about Nicolas, about us talking, about the auction, the letters, that book. Not a word.

She hops off the bed and trots across the room. “Fucking live a little, would you?” She’s standing in the doorway of my walk-in closet with her arms folded and her hip cocked to the side, tapping her foot. She disappears inside the closet and I hear her rummaging through drawers. “I mean, shit, how many belts do you have? Dear God, you have enough clothes to dress a fucking Kardashian.”

I roll my eyes as I push up from the bed, walk into the closet, and flip the light on. She’s got an armful of outfits draped over her shoulder and two pair of shoes clutched against her chest. “I’ll drug your ass if I have to and drag you out of this house, Peyton. Don’t doubt me.” She brushes past me and tosses the clothes onto the bed.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Jen. I shared a dorm with you. I fully know what sick shit you’re capable of.”

She grabs one of the dresses, shoving it up against my body. “Yep. This one.” She nods as she points at me. “Now fucking put it on.”

I know this is an argument I am not winning. I sigh and throw the dress back on the bed before I take my robe off. Jen stares at me, a scowl falling over her face. “You really make me sick. You and that body.”

“Well, first of all,” I grab my breast, “these aren’t real, so there’s that. I pull the dress over my head and reach around to zip it up. “Besides, you look great! I don’t know what you’re moaning about.”

“Yeah, real great if you go for that sexy apple shape. It’s all the fucking rage.”

I laugh. “You are not apple shaped.”

She snorts and grabs my arm, dragging me into the bathroom. “Okay, now put on makeup, do your hair, and I’m going to go steal something of yours to squeeze my ass into.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Jen.” I glance in the mirror and sigh as I reach for my makeup bag. I have a feeling she is going to run me into the ground tonight, but maybe that’s just what I need.

It’s so crowded inside this club. My personal space is being invaded from every possible angle. My feet are killing me from standing in these damn stilettos Jen insisted I wear, and it’s only eleven o’clock and I’m already shit faced.

“Why is this not as much fun as it was when I was twenty-one? Getting older sucks,” I say, sloshing the martini out of the glass. 

“Doesn’t have to!” She laughs before dragging me onto the dance floor.

The music booms through the air. Jen dances around me, and I chug my drink. She bumps my ass with her hip and the glass hits the bridge of my nose.

“Dance you whore!” she shouts over the music.

The song cuts off and the low beat of the next tune vibrates through my chest.

“Oh, shit! Jen grabs my arm and yanks me to the side of the dancefloor. “Well, damn. He lives in fucking New York; I mean what are the chances?”

“What? What are you talking about, Jen?” I follow her gaze, involuntarily gasping when my eyes land on Nicolas, his stare aimed on the two of us.

“And he’s staring at
you
,” Jen whispers.

I watch as he tips his drink back, his eyes still honed in on me. He places the glass on the bar before heading in our direction. Jen’s nails dig into my shoulders. “Oh, fuck,” she says. “He’s coming over here.”

The closer he gets, the faster my pulse drums. Nic's tall so I can see him over everyone else as he moves through the swarming dance floor. And it's at this moment that I know he’s coming for me. I swallow, and before I can move away, he’s standing directly in front of me. A dark five o’clock shadow covers his defined jaw and accentuates those full lips of his women go crazy over. He combs his fingers through his thick, brown hair, and smiles. Even in this dark room, those damn dimples of his pop out.

And here we stand, the only bodies on this entire dance floor that aren’t moving. He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure if it’s anger or hurt or want behind his eyes. He gently brushes the hair from my neck and leans in by my ear.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asks, the deep bass of his voice rumbling through my ears. “You used to love to dance, Peyton.” I smell the whiskey on his breath, and catch the slight pause when he pronounces his words.
He’s drunk.

“Uh...” He's too close to me. My heart violently slams against my ribs. The crisp scent of his cologne surrounds me. I can feel the heat from his defined chest straining against his thin shirt. “I…just, uh…” I stumble over my words.

Jen’s fingers dig deeper into my shoulders, her rapid breaths fan across the back of my neck. Before I can say anything else, Nicolas’ hands are on my hips, pulling me away from Jen. He guides my hips in beat with the music thumping through my body.  

What the fuck am I doing?

He leans in by my neck again. “Where’s Isaac?” he whispers then backs away to stare at me.

“Out of town.”

He shrugs, shaking his head as he moves back in. “I can’t hear you over the music.” His hot breath blows over my neck and chill bumps race over my flesh.

I grab onto his shoulder as I bring my mouth close to his ear. “He’s out of town,” I say again then swallow. When I pull away, he's smiling.

His fingers sink into my hips. He yanks my body flush with his as he inches his face closer to mine—so close our lips nearly touch. “What a fucking shame,” he says with a smirk.

I feel wrong for dancing with him like this, or maybe I feel wrong because I like it, because it’s turning me on when I know it shouldn’t. I look back at Jen. She's already dancing with some random guy, paying me no attention. 

What’s so wrong with dancing with someone? No, it’s the fact of
who
I’m dancing with that makes this dangerous; the fact that I want him touching me.

Nic's hands slide up to my waist and he leans in by my neck again. “You’re still so fucking hot,” he whispers before his lips press against my neck. Such a light sensation, but it causes a tidal wave of emotion to batter my insides.

His mouth moves by my ear. “You set the bar, Peyton, and not one girl has yet to match it.”

I know I should get away from him. I break free from his hold, but he grabs onto me, his hands holding me firmly in place as his eyes burn into me.

He arches a brow, subtly shaking his head. “I’m not letting you leave me.”

And what I would have given for him to tell me that so many years ago. My pulse drums in the back of my throat. I’m hot everywhere.
Tell him no,
I hear my conscious whispering, and for some reason I ignore it. I want to ignore it, and I know now that I’m in trouble. I stare at the man I was once in love with, really, the man I never fell out of love with. I soak in his muscles and tattoos and ridiculously perfect face; the look in his eyes, so determined and primitive and just, shit—I haven’t been looked at like that in years. I’m average, but Nic has always made me feel like I am the most beautiful girl in the world. He looks at me like I am. He treats me like I am…

He twirls several strands of my hair around his index finger. “Stop thinking whatever you are, Peyton.” He grins. “You always did worry too much.”

I swallow. When the next song comes on Nic is still holding onto me, and I give in. We’re in the middle of the packed dance floor, his hands roaming all over me, my hands feeling every inch of his hard muscles, remembering where each dip and valley is on his body. We’re practically fucking each other through our clothes, and I swear I’m fighting an orgasm just from him grinding against me this way. I know it’s wrong, but I need this closure. And that’s all this is. Closure…