A Love So Tragic (26 page)

Nicolas,

You once told me our story was better than fiction, and reading back over it now, it is tragically beautiful.
 

Thank you for being my Shakespeare.

With Love,

Peyton

I sit on the bar stool and stare at the manuscript, not sure whether I want to read it or not. You always wonder what other people think of you, and this right here, this is what she thinks of me, of us...I like the way I've made my memories, and I don't know that I want those to change.

The pages flip between my fingers time and time again, and then I shove the book to the side of my counter, going to the bathroom to shower.

The entire time I'm bathing, I wonder what the hell she's doing. Why she wrote it, why she sent it to me...why I haven't heard from her.

I pull on clean clothes. I cook dinner. I watch
Breaking Bad
. I ignore the way the light glints off the silver clip holding the pages of that book together.

That book.

Her book.

My book.

Our book.

After two episodes, I turn the TV and the lights off, and then, on my way to bed, I give in and take that book from the counter.

I thumb through the pages, incoherent words blinking in front of my eyes, but I pick up a few.
Nic, love, hate, fuck...

Finally, I turn past the title page and read the first line:
I’m not an author, but if I allow this pain to guide my words, I believe I can be...
Damn it, Peyton.

I read about the first time she met me, about the first time I kissed her. Everything about us from fights to sex to the fucking poems I'd written her are in this book. I relive parts of my past I'd somehow forgotten. I see myself through her eyes, and I never realized she loved me that much. I never realized how insecure she was at times, that she thought I was too good for her—I never could have imagined that because I always swore she was too good for me. 

My stomach knots when I read over things she never told me, over the things that ripped us apart. For some reason the hateful things I said to her once we'd ended seem crueler seeing them word-for-word. I’d forgotten them, but then I’d said them out of anger and hurt, making them easy for me to forget. She was the one they cut. They stuck with her.

I see her marriage with Isaac, and I hate him even more because he didn't love her the way I would have. 

I close the book at three in the morning, only nine pages from the end. I don't have to read those because I know the way this story concludes. And I hate it. Even with the shittiest ending, in fiction, you accept it. You’re not the author. You have no control. Well, this is different. The way things went between us, I know that’s not how either of us wanted things to end.

The evening I finished reading over mine and Nic's story, I told Isaac everything. I cried. I sobbed. I apologized, but only because I was sorry, not because I wanted to be forgiven. And to be honest, I'm glad it ended this way. I'm leaving because I know I need to, not because I have to in order to get what I want.

I place my wedding rings on the dresser, on top of the newly drawn up divorce papers. My signature is there, and so is Isaac's. He handed these papers to me, informing me that in the state of Georgia, people who have affairs aren't entitled to alimony, then he left without even looking at me.

Grabbing the last of my things, I glance around the room. You can love a million people, but there’s only one person you can completely give your heart to, and once you’ve done that, it will never belong to anyone else. No matter how much you try, no matter how often you lie to yourself. It’s just not possible. And if you say it is, then you’ve not experienced the kind of love I have for Nic. This type of love— it’s destructive, it’s raw, it’s unforgiving, and it changes you.

Jen waves me over to the computer. “Look,” she says. “I read your book in one night. Maybe it’s because I know you and I know that shit is true, but it’s damn good, P.” I stare over her shoulder at the computer screen.
Kindle Direct Publishing
.

“Come on, Peyton,” she whines. “Do it. Upload that bitch and publish it.”

“I don't know, Jen. It's...personal.”

“No shit!” Her brows arch. “That's why it's so good. You could put based on a true story. I mean, that shit is tragic. It's sad that you love someone so much but can't be with them because you're an idiot.” She glances back at me, her face sad. “I mean, I ugly cried. Everyone loves a good ugly cry.”

“Thanks!” I glare at her. 

“Well...I mean, publish it, but sure as hell don't read the reviews. People
hate
cheaters. They'd rip your character a new one. Let's be honest, she's not the most likable person in that book.” She laughs nervously. “I mean, I love you, but I know a lot more of the story than you put in that book. You were harsh on yourself.”

I'm not even sure why I'm contemplating this. Why in the hell would I want this personal piece of me out there for others to read, to judge, to leave reviews telling me how they’d like to throat punch my character?
Maybe to keep someone else from making the same mistakes, maybe to give that sense of nostalgia because surely everyone has their Nic?

“Do it. Do it. Do it.” She grabs onto my hand and shakes my arm. “You can use a pen name and all that crap. Hell, put my name if you want.” Jen smiles sympathetically. “You still think about him that much? Is that
really
how strongly you felt for each other, not fluffed at all for fictional purposes?”

“No.” 

“Damn,” she sighs. “I could feel the connection. It's strong. Can you imagine what he'd think if he read that?”

There's a beat of silence before she hops up, walks to the kitchen, and begins rummaging through her pantry. I did send it to him. Over a month ago. And I haven’t heard a thing. Maybe he threw it away.

Bags crinkle, cans topple over, smacking against the linoleum floor. “So, you haven't talked to him in over a year, really?” Jen calls from behind the open pantry door.

“Nope.”

“Been on his Facebook?”

“Of course, I have. Facebook is awful. It promotes the idea of being a stalker,” I laugh.

“He’s still single?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “He looks really happy. I’m sure he’s happier.”

“Really? You think people are gonna post pictures of themselves crying fucking rivers and say things like 'I'm so sad. I miss Peyton so much'? Uh, no...and if they do, well then, they are just crying for attention.” She comes back to the couch with pretzels and a dented container of Nutella. “What's your Facebook look like? Is it all mopey? Here...” she yanks my laptop onto her lap and furiously types with one hand as she unscrews the jar of Nutella.

“Um-hmm. Yep.” She flips the screen around, pointing at my profile picture. “Nic could say the same thing about you: happy. Look at that fake smile plastered on your face.”

“Okay, Jen. I get it.”

“Send him the book. He'd be impressed.” She crams a handful of Nutella covered pretzels into her mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure he would…”

“He would. Probably come hunt you down, like in the movies. You know, kinda like that picture of the sailor and that girl kissing in New York after he’s come back from war?” She smiles before shoving her mouth full of food again. “So romantic,” she manages to mumbled over chewed up pretzels.

Yeah, so romantic. Problem is, he hasn’t done that yet.

Peyton Franks

Lives in: Atlanta, Georgia

Divorced

I stare at her Facebook profile and wonder when she got divorced, why she got divorced. I wonder if Isaac ever found out, and in a sick, pathetic way, I hope he did. I may have fucked his wife, but, again, he married the woman who should have been
my
wife.

I hate the person loving her makes me sometimes: egotistical, selfish...

My eyes stray down to the manuscript on my desk. I finally finished it, and the end of the book is a letter to me.

Nic,

I still read over your letters. I wonder if you’re happy. I think about what kind of father you would have been. I still dream about you, and it's bittersweet, but had I left that day I think you would have always worried that I would do the same thing I did to Isaac to you. Sometimes it's best to know when to write the end and put a story on the shelf before you ruin the ending. And I never wanted our story to end, Nic, but it did. Tragically. It’s such a shame that two people as in love with one another as we are can't be together.

There is a place in my heart that will never belong to another person. And as much as it hurts sometimes, I wouldn't change one moment because you made me who I am. You broke my heart, I broke yours. We changed each other. We taught each other our strengths and weaknesses. We taught each other how to love and hate with passion. Nothing can ever change that I was yours and you were mine, and for a short period of time, we had something people write books about. We lived love. A love so tragic and beautiful that it's only fitting it doesn't have a happily ever after. I love you.

It's been over a year and a half since we’ve spoken. I've moved on, and the thing that's crazy is I have no desire to settle down...until I think of Peyton. Because, for whatever fucking reason, she is the exception to anything logical in my life. Logic goes out the damn window with her.

I try calling her, but the phone number I have is no longer in service. I scroll through Facebook for Jen’s profile, find her number, and call it.

“Hello?” Jen answers.

“Jen?”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“Nic.”

There a moment of silence. “Really?” she says, an edge of amusement to her voice. “Looking for Peyton I guess, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. Do you know where she is?”

“Yep.” Silence.

“Um, well, can you tell me, or give me her number or something? I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, you do. She just started working at Hannigan’s, you know that shitty Irish-pub right down close to The Tabernacle?”

“Yeah.” I can’t imagine her working at a bar. “She’s bartending?”

“Yep. Going to be a shitty bartender, right?” She laughs. I’m shocked that Jen’s not asking more questions than this. “She gets off at five. And don’t worry, I won’t tell her you called. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Talk to you later, Nic.”

She hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone.