A Love So Tragic Read online

  The dimple in his cheek pops when he smiles down at me. “She meant too much for me not to.”

  And this feels too right. This should feel more forced, more awkward than it does. It shouldn’t feel comfortable.

  “Thanks. I’m gonna…” I glance at the room and swallow. “I guess I have to go in there. I should go in there...”

  He gives me a slow nod, remaining in the foyer as I disappear into the chapel.

  Hushed conversations buzz around me, everyone talking about what a great person my mother was, each telling stories of their fondest memories with her. I can’t focus on any of it, so I block it all out and take a seat on the bench to the side of the room. My best friend, Jen, stands silently next to me, her hand resting on my shoulder to let me know she’s there. Eventually, Isaac comes over, squatting down in front of me. “You okay?”

  I nod and he pats my leg. When he stands, I hear him mumble ‘shit’ beneath his breath.

  “Oh, whoa. Nic…” Jen clears her throat. “Nic is here. Wow.”

  Isaac shoulders his way through the crowd to shake Nic’s hand. I can’t hear what they say, but I watch their body posture. Isaac has gone all dominate, his stance widened, his shoulders squared, and Nic is just standing there with his hands in his pant pockets, his eyes drifting over to me every few moments.

  A half hour passes and all I want is for these people to leave.

  “Hey, P,” Jen says. “I’ve gotta go to the restroom. I’ll be right back. Okay?”

  I nod.

  “You want some water or anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Not a minute after Jen’s walked off someone's hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I flinch as I brace myself for another dreaded 'it will be okay'.

  “I’m going to go,” Nic says softly as I glance up to his face. His thumb grazes over my shoulder. “Just wanted to say I'm sorry again. I know you'll miss her.”

  “It means a lot that you came, Nic. It does...” I whisper.

  He nods, but doesn’t move, his hand remains on my shoulder. He’s looking at me like there’s something else he wants to say, and all I can do is stare back at him. This man is my past, and at one point, he was my future. It's a terrible feeling when someone who was once your entire world has become a stranger.

  Nic draws in a deep breath as he pulls his hand, and then I feel a gentle caress along the small of my back.

  Isaac’s arm wraps around my waist. He tugs me against him and clears his throat. “Yes, that was a nice gesture of you, Nic.” Nic's gaze swings over to Isaac and they shake hands. “If you’re ever in town and want to catch a game with a girlfriend or anything, just let me know. I could throw some tickets your way.”

  I can tell Nic is fighting a sarcastic smirk by the way his lip twitches. He forces a fake smile, and nods before he disappears into the crowd. And just like the last time I watched him leave, I feel a loss.

  Life changes and molds you with every breath. Death has a way of forcing you to re-evaluate decisions, and fate has a way of shoving your face into everything you've lost. I break down, crying, sobbing, and all the while my husband's hand rubs across my back in an effort to soothe me.

  The bar is crowded with drunks. Loud, annoying fucking drunks who are spilling their drinks all over the place.

  “Hey, Nic!” Matt shouts from across the room. “Come over here.” I glance up to see him flagging me down, and I begrudgingly grab my beer from the counter before making my way over to the group of guys.

  “Well, fuck,” Aiden says. I haven't even stopped walking when his hand slaps my back. “Look who finally decided they're not too good to come back home. What's up man?” he asks, wiping beer from his mouth.

  “Not shit.”

  Smirking like a smart-ass, he eyes me up and down. “Where the hell you been, a funeral?”

  I glance down at my dress shirt and trousers. “Yeah.”

  “Oh,” he runs his hand over the top of his head. “Shit, man. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Whose funeral?”

  “Peyton’s mom…”

  His eyes widen. “Shit. I haven’t talked to Isaac in a few months…damn, I hate that. I’ll have to call them tomorrow.” He stares off for a second, and I want to change the topic.

  “So, how have you been?” I ask.

  “Good, man, really good. Getting married after the new year, starting a new job. All that adult bullshit, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. Adult bullshit is right. I pull a chair to the table and sit.

  Aiden and Matt bitch about their girls, but I barely hear what they're saying because the fact that Aiden Jones, the man-whore, the slacker, is about to tie the fucking knot really gets to me.

  I glance around at the other guys I went to college with, at my little brother's friends, and most of them are sporting wedding bands. I'm only twenty-eight, fuck, why do I suddenly feel so damn old?

  “So, bro.” Matt clinks his beer against mine. “When are you going to get hitched, huh?” He snickers. “You wait much longer and your balls are gonna be so wrinkled and saggy you won't be able to make babies, and you know Mom is ready for some grandkids. Take the pressure off of me, would you?”

  I swat at him. “Shut up, fucker. Guy’s shit doesn’t go bad. I could be ninety and make a baby.”

  “Seriously, man. Shit or get off the pot already with Lindsey.”

  Is he serious? I glare at him. “Why don't you fucking get married to Abby, shithead?”

  Lifting his beer to his mouth, he grins. “I am...asking her tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, dude,” Aiden says. “Always thought you'd be the first of us to get married, not the last. Peyton really did a number on you, huh?” He laughs for a second and I cut my eyes at him. “Sorry man,” he says. “I was joking.”

  “That girl fucked me over,” I say, grabbing my beer and chugging it.

  Seeing her today messed with my head more than I expected it to. I heard Isaac when he told her it would be okay, and even though it shouldn't, his comment bothered me. He doesn’t know her, or hell, maybe I don’t know her any longer. I've spent years trying to determine whether what she did was actually cheating, and I bounce back and forth between that it was, that it wasn't, and that who the fuck cares because either way she shouldn't have done it. And then, fuck, what she did next—running off and getting married. She didn't even give me a chance to calm down from the initial shock of everything. Hell, she didn't give me a chance at all, and that made me wish I could hate her.

  I'd be lying if I said that didn't change me a little. Actually, it changed me a lot. It made me hard and angry, and it wasn't until Lindsey that I became a halfway decent guy in relationships again. I know I haven't let Peyton go. I mean, hell, I still have all the letters I wrote to her. Lindsey doesn't know about those, or else they’d have gone up in flames months ago. Bottom line is, I loved Peyton, and she fucking demolished me.

  We will never be anything more than strangers who used to be in love with each other, and as tragic as that fucking is, it's life.

  The night wears on, and the more I drink, the more annoyed I become that Peyton still makes me feel...something.

  Lindsey texts me that she loves me. I text her back. And somewhere between the tequila shots and Fireballs, I decide that maybe I should just get married like everyone else. Make a commitment. Really move on. Have some kids. I mean, why the hell not?

  An endless supply of diamond rings glint beneath the halogen lights. Damn, why does it have to be so bright in here? The display on the wall distracts me momentarily. It’s one of those Hallmark moments where a doting man in a prick sweater is spinning a petite, smiling woman around. I guess that ad is supposed to emphasize how perfect your life will be once you purchase one of their rings. All I can do is roll my eyes.

  “Is there one you'd like to see?” the woman behind the counter asks. I glance up from the case, greeted by her over-made face and fake perma-smile.
/>   “Thanks,” I mumble, hoping she'll leave me to browse, but when I step to the left, so does she.

  “If I may,” she says as she slides the glass open to reach inside. “This ring right here is one you can't go wrong with.” She pulls out a diamond solitaire—a huge solitaire—and drops it in my palm. I flip it over, holding it up to the light. “This ring says ‘I love you,’” she goes into her practiced sales pitch. “It’s one your future wife can be proud of, it's one—”

  “Yeah, it's fine.” I nod, cutting her off. “I'll take that one.”

  The woman smiles, but I can tell the indifference in my tone leaves her a little confused.

  It's just a ring. The last time I bought an engagement ring...the last time. Like asking someone to marry you is a fucking yearly vacation or something... When I looked for Peyton’s ring, I went from store to store and never could find what I wanted. Everything I did for Peyton had to be perfect, so I had one made. I put thought into it, and that got me nowhere, so maybe if I just pick some mundane, typical bullshit ring, maybe then things will turn out better this go round.

  The clerk rings me up, bags the ring, and I leave, wondering what the hell I'm doing. I think about it the entire way home, and the more I do, the more I feel like I'm doing the right thing.

  You tell yourself something is right enough times, eventually you'll start to believe it.

  The bright blue sky shines in through the window. It’s beautiful out and I hate it. It should be grey. It should be storming. I want the entire world to look the way I feel. Which is like shit.

  “Are you sure you're okay if I leave?” Isaac asks, rubbing his hand over my side before kissing my cheek.

  I can’t believe he is actually going to leave me, and maybe that’s selfish. I know he's got a contract and it’s the middle of baseball season, but shit. I bunch the covers in my fist. I’ve barely managed to get myself out of the bed over the past few days, and he’s asking me to tell him I'll be okay left in this ridiculous house alone.

  Closing my eyes, I lie to him. “Do whatever you need to, Isaac.” I just did that woman thing where my tone should tell him I want him to stay, but I don’t want to seem whiny and needy. I want him to want to stay…

  “I love you,” he says before his weight leaves the mattress. I hear the closet door open, the suitcase drops to the floor, and he throws clothes into it.

  Maybe it's insensitive of me to expect the entire world to stop just because my mother died. Just because my world has been demolished doesn't mean everyone else's has, but I expect more from someone who loves me.

  I lie in the bed, listening to him hum as he packs his suitcase. The fact that he’s humming makes me want to yell at him, or cry, maybe punch him. It just makes me feel so insignificant, and I can’t explain it. The handle of his luggage snaps into place and the worn wheels roll across the floor, stopping beside the bed.

  “You sure? Thompson could pitch if you need me to stay.”

  “Yeah. Sure, Isaac. It's fine.” I'm not going to argue with him because this is what he wants to do. If it weren't, he wouldn't even ask, he would have told his manager that he wasn't coming to the game. Thompson would already be pitching.

  “I'll be back soon,” he says and kisses me again before heading toward the door. “Call me if you need me. I'm sure Jen will be over.”

  The door closes behind him and I focus on the window, watching the leaves rustle in the wind. I’ve lost my father, my mother, and my own husband is more concerned with his career than how broken I feel. I heard the manager when he told Isaac to take a few games off if he needed to, but Isaac's life is baseball. It always has been. Baseball is why Isaac and I broke up in high school, and how I ended up with Nicolas, and I used to love baseball for that very reason.

  The longer I lie here, the more the sadness eats away at me. I dwell on the fact that Isaac and I got married because it was the right thing to do, not because we couldn’t imagine our lives without each other. I remember how terrible it was when I lost the baby—how months down the road I wanted out of the marriage and I almost left Isaac. I even emailed Nicolas and told him I was going to leave, and his response was: Even if you left him, I wouldn’t take you back. And, if I couldn’t be with Nicolas, what was the point in leaving? I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be a failure. I wanted to try and love the man I had married. I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to be a good person, but still the thought of it all breaks my heart. And, just like always, when I get this sad the first instinct I have is to reach for the phone, and I do, but I soon realize that I can’t call her. It's strange how long it takes things like death to set in. I know she’s gone, my heart definitely feels it, but my mind doesn't want to believe it. I dial her cell phone anyway, waiting for the voice recording to cut on. As soon as I hear her voice, everything inside of me shakes. Guttural sobs wrack my body. Sometimes when you get so low, you just want to wallow in it. And that is exactly what I’m doing because I hang the phone up, immediately dialing her number again and again and again, attempting to burn the sound of her voice into my memory.

  I’m in tears when the bedroom door opens. I look up and find Isaac at the foot of the bed, his luggage by the door.

  “I’m not gonna leave you.”

  His arms wrap around me and I crumble.

  “It’ll be okay, baby,” he says. “It’ll be okay…”

  It. Will. Be. Okay.

  It’s been three months since she died. And all I've done over these past few months is contemplate everything wrong in my life. And at the very bottom of my self-evaluation—devaluation, whatever you wish to call it, I find Nic.

  The way we ended, well, it wasn't on good terms. It was my fault. I own that.

  Some things make you lose yourself, and losing him did exactly that. It made me go crazy, it made me desperate. The thought of not having him caused me to make decisions I shouldn’t have made. Knee jerk reactions…

  Yesterday, I finally broke down and went to a psychiatrist. I told that stranger about losing my parents and about Nicolas, and the more I talked, the more my life seemed like fiction. And not the “as good as fiction” type because those always have a happy ending. I'm not sure what kind of ending this has, or if it even has one.

  I poured my bleeding-fucking-heart out to that doctor, and he told me my sudden preoccupation with Nic was because he reminded me of a good time in my life. He said Nic embodies the idea of my youth and the things I can’t get back, that it isn't Nic I miss, but all those other things. That doctor didn’t get it because this isn’t a sudden preoccupation.

  When my therapy hour was up, he handed me a tissue and said in a monotone voice: Depression.

  Really? No shit. He promised me medication will help. Well, unless this medication can give my mother back to me along with a second chance, I can tell you right now, it’s not going to do a damn bit of good to help me.

  I read over the blue slip of paper: Zoloft. I roll my eyes as I ball the prescription up and toss it into the fireplace.

  It's three in the afternoon and I haven't bathed, I haven't brushed my hair or teeth, and I'm debating on opening a bottle of wine.

  I walk into my kitchen and open the cooler, groaning as I stare in at the empty wine racks. The entire fridge rattles when I slam the door closed. I go back to the living room and plop down on the couch, staring at my laptop. When I was a teenager, I wrote. At one time I wanted to be an author, and that seems so foreign to me now. I still have the book of poems I wrote to Nic hidden in a box in the guest room closet. It seems like that was a completely different person, and I guess it was.

  I’m a different person now.

  I drag the computer into my lap, open a blank document, and stare at the screen. Words once gave me freedom, they once came easily, and now, I can’t even find the word to start with.

  My fingers hover over the keys. I just want Nic out of my head. And as silly as it may sound, part of me feels if I write down all of the memor
ies plaguing my mind, then throw the pages into the fireplace, watching as they burn to ash, maybe that will make him disappear from my thoughts.

  My fingers tap over the keyboard:

  The first day of my senior year. Old friends, same teachers, new locker. Gossip. Plans for the weekend already in the making, and I caught Isaac, my ex, eyeing me from the other end of the hall. Stupid baseball. I glare at him on my way into English class. Jen's already in a seat fidgeting with her skirt to show just enough leg. She grins and waves me over to the desk next to her.

  “Only one class together? That's bullshit,” she says. “Oh, shit! I haven’t been able to tell you…” Her eyes go wide. “Sean and Heather broke up!”

  “Good.”

  “I still can't believe Isaac was cheating on you with Heather,” Jen says. “She's such a slut.”

  “Well, he only fucked her because her dad is the coach for the Cardinals. Fucking baseball.” I shrug. “I guess it's better I go ahead and find out what kind of shithead he really is, though, huh?”

  Jen nods, and then he walks in, the guy that’s my future and I have no idea. We both fall silent watching as he makes his way down the aisle. I study him, my gaze skimming over his dark, unruly hair. Taking in the details of his ripped jeans, his biceps so big the material of his V-neck looks like it's going to rip to pieces. My eyes drift down his legs and land on a pair of dirty boots, and for some reason, I find that sexy. The air around me turns clean and spicy when he walks past me. I suck that scent in without meaning to.

  Jen's jaw drops a little, then her eyes dart over to mine. “Who the hell is he?”

  I shake my head, my stare glued to him as he slouches down in his seat and drops his books to the floor with a thud.

  “Stop staring.” Jen slaps my arm. “You look desperate.”

  “I don't care.” A quick smile flickers across my face. “Maybe I am.”

  She rolls her eyes and Mrs. Pendergrass steps up to the dry erase board. “Good afternoon, class. I hope you all enjoyed your summer. Why don't we start off going around the room and introducing ourselves?”