A Love So Tragic (27 page)

Cutting the engine, I sit in the car, in front of Hannigan's, wondering if this is a bad move. Part of me thinks I should act like I have no idea she works here, but really, that's just stupid. She sent me that book for a reason, whether it’s to see if I'm going to sue her for putting my name in it, or because she wanted me to know that she's no longer with Isaac, how am I supposed to know? Peyton's always been good at being vague enough to make you feel like an asshole if she wants to. It's a gift really.

I grab the book, climb out of the car, and weave my way through the people on the sidewalk.

As soon as the door to the bar opens, the smell of stale greasy food surrounds me. The heavy wooden bar sits in the back corner, and the round pub tables strewn about the floor are mostly empty. The door to the back swings open as I approach the bar, and there she is, carrying a rack of glasses. I’d almost forgotten how pretty she is when she’s not wearing makeup—when she’s tired. 

She swipes a stray piece of hair from her face as she takes the first glass out to wipe it.  I make my way to the bar, waiting for her to notice me. She doesn't even look up when I stop right in front of her. I drop the book on the counter with a thud and her eyes dart up, the color draining from her face when her eyes lift to my face.

“I got your book,” I say, dragging out a chair before tapping my finger over the cover. “Read it the other night.”

She swallows as she sets the glass down. “You did?”

“Yeah. Crazy, because I know that story pretty well.”

“I just wrote it, to, you know…” she clears her throat, “write it. I wanted to send it to you. I wanted to call you and ask you, but, well, it's just—”

“It's fine,” I cut her off. Her cheeks slowly redden. She's rambling and that's something Peyton rarely does. “Almost think you should publish it. It's a good story.” I trace my finger over the first page. “Can I get a beer?”

“Uh, yeah... Miller Light?”

I smile and nod. She takes a frosted mug from the freezer and fills it from the tap, cussing when foam bubbles over the rim and down her arm. When she spins around, she slings the froth from her fingers, then places the glass in front of me.

I take a drink, my eyes never leaving hers.

“So, you knew I work here?” she asks.

“Yep.” I take a quick swig. “I’ve known for about three hours.”

“Oh.” 

A redhead in a tight shirt walks up behind Peyton. “You gonna clock out? I know it’s fun as shit here and all, but you got off ten minutes ago.” Her eyes stray over to me and she smiles before glancing at Peyton. “Well, I mean, unless you want to wait on him to finish. I understand that.”

“Uh, no. I’m…” Peyton walks to the computer, tapping over the screen. “I’m done.”

“Hey, pretty girl,” I say, fighting a laugh as I grab the manuscript, and motion to a booth in the corner. “You want to come sit while I finish my beer?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The redhead smirks as she grabs a bar towel to wipe the counter. I walk to the booth, place the book on the table, and sit, watching as Peyton comes out from behind the bar. A nervous smile twitches over her lips when she slides into the booth across from me. Her fingers drum over the table, her eyes veer down to the book, and she picks up the corner, flipping the pages.

“Um,” she clears her throat. “So, I just wrote it...” she shrugs, her eyes still locked on the pages she’s thumbing through. “You know, tried to get you out of my mind, and- not because I wanted to, Nic, but because I needed to, and-”

“I liked the letter.”

I notice her swallow as she nods, her eyes still glued to the book.

“I
hated
the ending, though. I want you to change that part.” I take a sip of beer, and her pale blue eyes rise to meet mine. Shrugging, I pull the book toward me. “It was a shitty ending, Peyton. It was rushed.”

“Well, that’s how it ended Nic...”

“Stop trying to write like Shakespeare. No one likes tragedies. Write it the way you wish it had happened.” I smile and point to the book. “Unless, you like the way that ends.”

Her head shakes slowly. “I don't.”

“Then change it.” I chug the beer, pushing the book back across the table as I stand. “Send it back to me when you give it one of those sappy, happy endings.”

Her mouth hangs open, her brows crease, and I turn, walking out of the bar. No more than ten seconds after the door closes behind me, she comes barreling out after me. “You come down here, all the way from New York, to tell me to change the ending?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No. I came down here all the way from across town.”

“What?”

“I live ten minutes away, Peyton.”

I smile when I hear a loud breath fly from her mouth. “You…. What?”

“Yep,” I say, pressing the key fob to unlock my car.

“Nic!”

I turn, and she skirts around several businessmen strolling down the sidewalk.

“Nic!” She hurries toward me, stopping inches in front of me. Tears build in her eyes, and I can see her struggling to fight them back. “How do stop it? How do you stop loving someone like this?”

She thinks I’m over her. She thinks I’ve let her go. That I stopped loving her. “Why are you asking me that, Peyton? I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Her brows pinch together, and when they do a few stray tears roll from the corners of her eyes.

I cup her cheek with my hand, tenderly rubbing my fingers over her soft skin. Even though the sidewalk is littered with people, the streets are bustling with traffic, it’s like nothing else exists besides us right now. I only experience the ability to tune everything else out when I’m with her.

“I still think about you,” I say. “I never stopped.” Her eyes flutter shut as she leans into my palm. “Love is something you have no control over, Peyton.” I swipe the tears from her face before leaning down and pressing my lips to hers.

And just like the first time I ever kissed her, I feel something in my gut that tells me she’s something I’ll never grow tired of, a feeling I’ll never get over.

“I think I’ll keep you, pretty girl,” I whisper as I pull away.

The screen door swings open and the distant hum of the cicadas grows louder. The humid night air wraps around me like a thick blanket and I smile. I love summer nights. They remind me of being a teenager and sitting on my back porch with Nic. I glance around at the antebellum home, staring at the Historic Home plague that’s tacked up by the door. I swat the dust from my arm before I sit on the swing and take a deep breath. I'm worn out from unpacking boxes, but I was determined to get everything finished today.

The hinges to the door groan, and I glance over to see Nic, topless and in grey sweats, carrying two glasses of champagne over to me. “Thought our first house was cause for a celebration.” He smiles as he hands me a drink. “It only took us a few years and a divorce longer than it should have.”

“You'd think you learned romance from the movies.” I arch a brow as I take the flute. “Champagne is so cliché,” I playfully mumble and roll my eyes.

“Says the girl who once told me she wanted her life to be like something Shakespeare would write...” He sits next to me, pushing the swing back with his feet as he places his arm around me. “Don't act like you don’t like it,” he says.

“I do.”

“I know you do.”

We swing for several minutes, sipping on champagne.

“Out of all the places in the world. Boston, Los Angeles...”  I laugh. “You choose the job in Tuscaloosa, Alabama?”

“Money talks, babe. The job to remodel the University here…
way
better than what they were offering to go up to Boston.”

“I know.” I nod. “I love the house. It's pretty. Very
Gone with the Wind
.”

“You compare everything to a book, don't you?” 

“Yep.” I giggle. “It's fun.”

Inching my face toward his, I study those honey-green eyes of his, wondering how it's possible to love someone the way I love him. The large diamond solitaire on my left hand sparkles underneath the porch light as I trail my fingers down his stubbled jaw. I kiss him, and, even still, having his lips on mine gives me those butterflies everyone says eventually disappear. Within seconds, Nic's taking my glass and setting it on the table as his mouth works down my neck and his hands creep under my sundress. He kisses me harder and his hand sneaks up my thigh until he's grabbing the hip of my lace thong and tugging it off. 

He stands, picks me up, and sets me on the glass patio table, spreading my thighs before he drops his pants. “Nic, really?” I say. “On the porch?”

“I've fucked you in every other room in that house today. Now, I want the porch. According to this,” he swipes his finger over me and smiles, “I don't think you really mind,
cochina
.” My legs fall to either side of his hips, his fingers squeezing my waist.

“The neighbors are going to love us.”

“They shouldn't be looking.” He shrugs before pushing into me.  “Besides, it's our back porch.”

And how can I argue with that?

The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee. The second I step into the kitchen, Nic spins around, smiling
.

“Good morning,” I yawn.

“Good morning,” he says crossing the kitchen to give me a kiss. “I cleaned up the boxes and stuff.” He ushers me through to the dining room, and there in the center of the table is a bouquet of Sterling Silver Roses with a letter leaned against the vase.

“Bed of Roses,” he says as he picks up the envelope and hands it to me. “You see, I still remember the little things.”

“I see. So, is this a love letter
and
hate letter?” I smirk. “I don't like those.”

He thumps the paper in my hand. “Open it.”

I take the envelope and flip it over, pulling out a letter dated eight years ago. Eight years to the day he asked me to marry him—the first time. 

May 25
^th
, 2006

I'm going to ask you to marry me tonight. I've gone over and over how to do this. Part of me feels it should be some extravagant event. Maybe a quartet, maybe rent a billboard....but that's too expected and overdone, huh? You are a romantic, I've learned that. You are the girl that wants flowers and will look up the symbolism of the color and number. Don't think I don't know you do that, Peyton. Lavender roses symbolize love at first sight, that’s why I always get you those Sterling Silver roses. God, you make me sound like such a pussy-whipped asshole…

The point is, I'm going to ask you to marry me in the place where everything with us started. I'm going to dance with you under the stars because I want you to know that I listen to the things you tell me you want to do, and I remember them. I want to always make you happy because you are what matters most to me, Peyton. And I don't want you to ever question that. I will listen, I will love you, and I will try my damndest to do all those little things I know mean something to you.

I love you!

Nic

And below that letter is a poem Nic wrote for me. A beautiful poem in Spanish that puts Pablo Neruda to shame.

When I finish reading the poem, I glance up, smiling. 

Nic takes a sip of his coffee and exhales. “I saved these letters for a long time. They were the one thing I just couldn't throw away. Now, I'm glad I didn't.”

“It's sweet. I love reading them.”

“I still feel the exact same way, Peyton. Always have, always will.”

I lean over to kiss him. “I think one of the sweetest things you ever did was become a writer for me.”

Nic grins. “You knew I did that for you, huh?”

I nod. “Nicolas Torres, no offense, but you are not the type of guy that's into poetry. On our first date, you told me Shakespeare was a pussy...”

“Hey,” he holds up a finger, “I backtracked after I saw the repulsed look that washed over your face, and if I remember correctly, I called him a '
coño
'.”