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Whitney G On A Tuesday PDF
Whitney G On A Tuesday PDF
A TUESDAY
(Charlotte & Grayson)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or
locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Whitney Gracia Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of
the author.
Cover designed by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs
Model: Andrea Denver
Author’s Therapist: Nicole London
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ON A TUESDAY | SYNOPSIS
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
CHARLOTTE: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
GRAYSON: ON A TUESDAY
CHARLOTTE: ON A TUESDAY
GRAYSON: ON A TUESDAY
CHARLOTTE: ON A TUESDAY
Prologue
Fourth Grade
ALSO BY WHITNEY G.
ABOUT THE BOOK
The “One Week” Series is a series of short, standalone novels that are inspired
by a day of the week, an Adele song, and a steamy romance trope.
The first book in the series is On a Tuesday and it is a second chance romance
inspired by Adele’s “When We Were Young.” The next book in the series is On a
Wednesday and it’s inspired by Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
This story is dedicated to all the friends I made in college. I wish we were all
back in that space and time, and I wish things were as they once were.
ON A TUESDAY
SYNOPSIS
We met on a Tuesday.
Became best friends, then lovers, on a Tuesday.
And everything fell apart on a Tuesday ...
Charlotte Taylor has three automatic strikes in my book: 1) She hates me. She
also claims that I'm a "domineering jerk with a huge, overbearing ego."
(I do have something huge. It's not my ego, though.) 2) She takes our mandatory
tutoring sessions way too seriously. 3) She's sexy as hell ... And a virgin.
At least, those were her strikes before our study sessions started lasting longer
than they were supposed to. Until one innocent kiss became a hundred dirty
ones, and until she became the first woman I ever fell hard for.
But she left me at the end of the semester with no explanation, and then she
completely disappeared from my life.
Until tonight.
We met on a Tuesday.
Became everything, then nothing, on a Tuesday.
And now it's seven years later, on a Tuesday ...
GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
New York City
LATER THAT NIGHT, I took my time walking to the student union for the ice
cream social. It only took my freshman year to realize that this was the first
place where upperclassmen preyed upon the freshmen girls, and my sophomore
year to realize that it was best attended in transit: Grab the ice cream, say hello
to the people I know, leave. As long as I was gone before the football players
arrived to take off their shirts and challenge each other to chug the remaining
vats of ice cream, I was in the clear.
“Charlotte!” Nadira waved at me from the line. “Over here!”
I cut in front of a few people, ignoring their groans, and she handed me a cup
of cherry ice cream.
“Well, don’t you look stunning today.” She smiled and tugged at my bright
blue summer dress. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You don’t deserve
your fashion sense. It’s just not fair.”
“Thank you.” I laughed. “I was checking our final dorm numbers earlier and
there are going to be twenty more freshmen on our floor this year. That’s a good
thing, right?”
“That’s a terrible thing,” she said. “That means more rooms to check for
random alcohol violations and more guys sneaking up to our floor after hours.
On the plus side, since the room next to us is going to remain empty, whenever I
need to get laid, it’ll be nice to have a room to use instead of asking you to
leave.”
“How convenient for you.” I laughed and slipped my matching shades over
my face. I started to ask her which shift she preferred this week, but the telltale
sound of the football team arriving interrupted my thoughts.
Everyone was suddenly clapping and chanting—calling out ‘Hail to Pitt!’
and that other slogan I’d escaped earlier. And then, as usual, the “OMG! OMG!”
screaming began. As if we were at a real game and these football players
wouldn’t be sitting right next to us in some of our classes tomorrow.
“Well, that’s my cue,” I said, looking at one of the servers. “I’ll take two
peanut fudge scoops to go.”
“Oh, come on!” Nadira grabbed my ice cream cup and pulled me onto the
lawn. “One hour. Stay for me.”
“Fine.” I took my cup back and shook my head as our star quarterback, Mr.
Cocky himself, took off his shirt and tossed a football made of ice cream to one
of his friends.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I couldn’t deny that Grayson Connors
was sexy as hell. He was honestly beyond that, and he turned heads everywhere
he went. His eyes were a stunning shade of ocean blue. His pearly, white smile
with complementing dimples was the type that could make any woman’s panties
wet, and everything about his body—his six-pack of rock-hard abs, his black-ink
tattoos that snaked up his left arm, and his rumored "huge cock" were enough to
make any girl do a double-take.
His reputation, though, was the complete opposite. In all my years here, I’d
only had one encounter with him, a brief “Hey” while we were on a late night
Safe-Rider bus, but I’d heard plenty of stories that made me want to keep my
distance. Everything from, “He fucks a different girl after every game,” “He’s
been inside more pussies than the doctors at the campus women’s health
department,” and my personal favorite, “He’s nine inches and he knows it.”
“God, he makes my ovaries burst every time I look at him!” Nadira fawned
over him. “Like how can one guy be so perfect?”
“He’s not perfect.” I stuffed a spoonful of sprinkles into my mouth. “He’s a
man-whore.”
“No, he’s rumored to be man-whore. He’s probably the ‘walk you to your
car,’ ‘kiss you on your cheek,’ and ‘soft making love’ type of guy.”
I gave her a blank stare.
“I’m kidding!” She laughed. “Well, if it wasn’t for his reputation, would you
ever sleep with him if you knew no one else would find out? Be honest.”
“I can be more than honest.” I scoffed. “No, I would never sleep with him.”
“Charlotte will never sleep with anyone.” Our mutual guy friend, Eric,
stepped between us. “She’ll die with cobwebs in her pussy and I’m willing to bet
a thousand on it.”
Nadira burst into laughter and I punched him in the shoulder.
“So, Eric,” I said. “Would you like to be a mature senior, unlike Nadira, and
join me at the freshmen dorm party that I’m throwing tonight?”
He looked at me as if I was speaking another language.
“You’re not coming either?”
“Charlotte ...” He sighed and placed his hands on my shoulders. “No one is
coming to your freshman dorm party—not even the freshmen. Please join the
rest of us normal college students in the real world. Everyone is going partying
tonight. You included."
“Well, could we at least—” My sentence was cut short as something hit me
right in my face. Something cold, yet soft.
I felt Eric’s hands wrap around my waist and hold me steady, felt him
adjusting my sunglasses. Then I looked down and realized what had assaulted
me: An ice cream football.
What the hell?
I stooped down to pick it up and was instantly met with the sight of Grayson
Connor’s stunning blue eyes.
“Sorry about that,” he said, looking genuine as he took it from my hands.
“Are you okay?”
“I’d be a lot better if you actually learned how to throw.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Does it look like I’m laughing?”
“I’ve got it!” He yelled over to his teammates, and then smiled at me,
extending his hand. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious with me since you’re
wearing shades, but I’m glad you’re not hurt. I’m Grayson Connors.”
“I’m unimpressed.”
He laughed and took a step back. “Well, you’re clearly just a freshman, so by
the end of this semester, I think you’ll be more than impressed with me.”
“I doubt it.”
“Oh, really?”
Before I could respond to that, one of his teammates ran behind him and
snatched the ball from his hands.
“You’re taking too long, Connors!” The guy returned to the middle of the
lawn, but Grayson kept his eyes on me. He looked me up and down, but he
didn’t say anything else. He simply winked at me and walked away.
“I swear that I hate you sometimes,” Nadira said, lowering her voice. “Like,
only you would find a way to mess that up.”
“Was I supposed to kiss up to him because everyone else does?”
“No, you were supposed to introduce me to him, so that way, I could do it.”
She laughed. “You could’ve at least looked like you were attracted to him or
flirted back. He was clearly flirting with you.”
He flirts with everyone. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time.”
“You should.” She looked at her phone and groaned. “Looks like there’s only
going to be valet parking at the club tonight. You two want to head back and get
ready?”
“Absolutely,” me and Eric said in unison.
We stepped off the lawn and onto the sidewalk that lined Fifth Avenue, and
while the two of them debated who was going to drive later, I pinched myself
twice to make sure that I was still standing firmly in reality. That I hadn’t felt my
heart beating a little faster when Grayson looked at me, and that I didn’t almost
say, “Yes, I’d sleep with him in that scenario,” when Nadira asked me.
It must be the heat.
GRAYSON: THEN
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’
Bonfire ...
I meant to send that last part to just Grayson. Not to you, Coach. Can I come
in a few hours? I mean, now that you’ve read what I said, surely you understand
how exhausted I am. Three girls, Coach. THREE.
—Kyle.
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an
‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...
Right. Fucking. NOW.
—Coach Whitten
I LAUGHED AS I READ over this morning’s emails, now glad I’d spent half of
my weekend studying last season’s game footage instead of co-hosting the
bonfire with Kyle. The other half was spent searching for whatever I could find
about my sexy, smart-mouthed tutor.
I was hoping to find something new by today, our second Tuesday, but my
search was futile. I’d only found her private Facebook page, which featured an
“I Love Pitt” picture instead of her face, and a few art reviews she’d written
when she was a staff writer for The Pitt News. Other than the fact that she was
listed as a fellow honors student in the directory, there wasn’t much else I found
about her.
I hated to admit it, but during the entire fifteen minutes that we'd talked last
week, I couldn't help but stare. My advisor's "Charlotte Taylor is a complete
sweetheart," description hadn't prepared me for the hazel-eyed vixen I
encountered that day. Her coffee colored hair, bright pink lips, and the way her
dress clung to her hips were now playing in a never-ending loop in my mind.
In all my years here, I couldn’t believe we’d never crossed paths. I was more
than certain that I would’ve remembered seeing her—even if it was only for a
few seconds. In fact, I’m sure I would’ve approached her the second I saw her.
Then again, something told me that saying, “I think you’re sexy as fuck”
wouldn’t have earned me anything from her but more sarcasm.
When I arrived at Highland Café for our second session, Charlotte was
sitting at a table in the back, her head buried in a book. Just like last week, she
had a stack of colorful folders and notebooks set in the center of the table, and I
was willing to bet that she had some type of OCD about needing to have twenty
different types of pens and pencils.
“You’re late, again,” she said, when I approached the table. “How shocking.”
“If I had your phone number, I would’ve been able to tell you that my
afternoon fitness session was running late.”
She looked up at me, her hazel eyes showing me she was unconvinced. “You
have my email address. You could’ve sent me a message.”
“Fair enough.” I took a seat across from her. “I’ll keep that in mind for next
time. What do you want to start with today?”
“The Bach pieces.” She furrowed her brow. “Wait a minute. Where is your
notebook?”
“At home.” I pulled one of hers from the stack. “I figured you would have
enough for me to borrow one.”
“I’m going to charge you for that.”
“I’m sure I can afford it.” I smiled. “My advisor mentioned that you’re a pre-
law and art major, but you strike me as the teacher-type. Your smart-ass mouth
and hostility aside, you seem like you might be good at it.”
“Did you bring anything?” Her eyes widened, as I picked up one of her pens,
and she looked like this was some type of life or death matter. “Where are your
literature books? The ones we discussed you getting last week?”
“I haven’t had the time to buy them yet.”
“We’re two whole weeks into the semester. Are you planning to buy them
after finals?”
“Okay, I take back what I just said about you being a teacher. You clearly
don’t know how to construct a compelling metaphor.”
“Grayson Connors.”
“You can call me Grayson.”
“Grayson Connors,” she said my name even harsher and pressed her red
coated lips together, turning me on even more. “Let’s get a few things straight.
Since you clearly have a love for numbering things, let me help you out. One,
you need me more than I need you. Way more than I need you.”
I smiled.
“Two, if I’m expected to be a professional tutor, I’m going to need you to
treat me like one and take these sessions and everything that I put into them
seriously.” She let out a breath and leaned back against her seat.
“Is there a third reason coming?” I asked. “There’s no point in making a list
if there are only two things.”
“Yes, there is a third thing.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You need to
make sure you show up on time, or else I’m leaving after the ten-minute mark.”
“I’ll be early from now on,” I said. “But to make things even straighter
between us, your credits for this are tied to how well you tutor me, so I’d say we
need each other equally. That, and I’ll take you seriously once you agree to stop
being overly hostile with me. You said that I haven’t done anything to you
personally.”
“Besides being a domineering jerk with a huge ego,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I said, fine,” She tapped her pencil against the table. “You’re right. I’ll stop
treating you like an enemy.”
“So, we’re friends now?”
She ignored that question. “I take it you’ll be buying your books after the
add-drop period?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to write any essays until all the professors give you
the updated syllabi, since they usually change something at the last minute?” She
looked as if she couldn’t believe the words that were falling out of her mouth.
“Yes, to that question as well.”
“Okay, well ...” She shrugged. “Is there any reason why the two of us need to
continue sitting here today?”
“I can think of quite a few things I’d like to discuss.”
“Are they related to your work?”
“They’re related to you.”
“Oh, okay.” She smiled. “Give me five seconds and we can definitely talk
about that.” She picked up all her supplies and tossed them into her bag. Then
she stood up and rushed out of the café and across the street.
Is this a rejection?
GRAYSON: THEN
Present Day
Pittsburgh
“WHERE ARE YOU HEADED again?” The police officer shone a light on my
license. “Try to keep your story straight this time.”
“The University of Pittsburgh,” I said, forcing a smile, as he narrowed his
eyes at me.
“Are you aware that the speed limit on this stretch of highway is only sixty-
five miles an hour?”
No shit. “Yes, officer.”
“Really?” He crossed his arms. “So, can you explain to me why you were
going ninety? And not only were you going ninety, can you explain to me why
you were driving in the emergency lane?”
I didn’t really have a good reason for driving in the emergency lane. Well,
minus the fact that the emergency lane was freshly salted, and the regular lanes
were still coated in a light layer of snow and ice.
“Miss?” He handed me my license. “I need you to answer me. Now.”
“I’m just really late and I don’t want to miss my college-class reunion. Or the
fireworks. They promised fireworks.”
He gave me a blank stare. Then he looked up at the sky.
“Fireworks?” He took his ticket pad from his back pocket and shook his
head. “In the snow? And a college-class reunion on a Tuesday? Okay, Miss.”
“No, please.” I couldn’t afford another speeding ticket right now. I still owed
the State of New York one thousand on a ticket I’d received last month. I leaned
over and opened my glove compartment, pulling out a blue and gold envelope
that I’d received months ago.
“I’m not making the reunion up,” I said, handing the invitation to him.
He mumbled the printed words out loud to himself, and I realized that I’d
memorized every word on that page within minutes of it arriving in my mailbox.
Hail to Pitt!
As a member of the BEST class that has ever graduated from the University of
Pittsburgh, we cordially invite you to a Night to Remember! Our seven-year
class reunion! (Yes, ‘seven,' because it didn't take us ten to net four Pulitzer prize
winners, twenty-eight Fulton Scholars, fifteen Olympic athletes, and hundreds of
other distinguished honors that set our class far apart from the rest!)
The official date & time, ticket & fireworks information, & location are inside!
We hope to see you there, Charlotte!
And as always,
Hail to Pitt!
HE SIGHED AND RETURNED the invitation to me. “Tell you what, Miss
Charlotte. I’m going to let you off with a severe warning today, but only because
I went to Pitt, too.” He placed his ticket pad in his back pocket once more. “But
because I don’t trust you to drive the speed limit the rest of the way, I’ll follow
you.”
I didn't get a chance to say, "Oh, that's okay," or "That's not really necessary"
before he stepped away. And I knew telling him the truth—that I wasn't planning
on going to this reunion at all, that I was planning to get off at the next exit and
drive back to New York City, wasn't the best thing to do now.
Sighing, I tossed the invitation onto the seat and turned on my radio.
“Start driving!” He called out over his car’s speakers. “And move to the
actual highway lanes!”
I steered my car onto the real part of the highway and set the cruise control to
exactly sixty-five miles an hour. My heart was pounding against my chest and
my palms were sweating against the steering wheel.
Just go in, take a few pictures, and leave right after the cop goes away.
I’d gone back and forth about this reunion for a long time—writing out the
pros and cons, even making spreadsheets for all the possible scenarios that could
happen. Each time the pros outnumbered the cons, but I was never happy with
that result, so I always tried another tracking method, hoping for a negative.
I also wasn’t sure whose bright idea it was to host the reunion on a Tuesday,
but that counted as strike one in my book. Strike two was the one-hundred-dollar
ticket fee for a ‘gourmet’ menu of popcorn and local chocolates. Strike three
should’ve been the “seven-year” time-stamp instead of the usual, ten-year one,
but even I knew that our class was full of overachievers and record-setters the
second my freshman year began.
I didn’t even know who would be attending tonight, since all the “close
friends” I’d once made had drifted away long ago. Every now and then I’d catch
glimpses of their lives through my Facebook newsfeed—clicking “like” or
“love” in exchange for a phone call or a “How have you been?” text message.
Occasionally, I’d even comment: “Your kids are adorable!” “Merry Christmas!”
“Happy New Year! PS—Your kids are adorable!”
There was only one person I knew I couldn’t bear to see again, and I was
hoping like hell he wouldn’t be there tonight.
Please don’t be there tonight.
Ten minutes later, I pulled my car through the university's campus—noticing
that it looked completely different from seven years ago. Everything was more
modern, and where there was once a block full of student unions, there was now
a series of gray, steel cafés. The only thing that seemed to be the same was the
Cathedral of Learning—the massive beige monolith that towered over every
building on campus.
I circled the parking lot a few times, passing by a few empty spots in hopes
that the officer would stop following me and I could bypass this thing after all.
“Park your car!” He yelled over the speakers and I pulled my car into a space
right out front.
Is he really going to watch me go inside?
I turned off my engine and grabbed my nude heels from the backseat. I
slipped them onto my feet and pulled out my compact to re-check my make-up.
As I added a new coat of red gloss to my lips, I spotted the officer in my
rearview mirror. He was tapping his watch and daring me to take any more time.
I secured the top buttons of my navy-blue coat and stepped out of the car,
giving him a short wave and a smile.
He pointed to the cathedral and I turned around, walking slowly to the door.
Just go in, take a few pictures, and leave. Fifteen minutes at most, Charlotte.
Fifteen minutes.
I pushed the doors open and was immediately greeted with thousands of blue
and gold balloons that lined the deserted hallway. There were several shiny
golden banners with the words, “Hail to Pitt! Class of 2010!” and “Go, Panthers!
Go!” hanging high from the ceiling. The only sign of life was a red-haired
woman at a table in the middle of the hall.
Confused, I walked over to her. “Is this where the reunion is?”
“Yep!” She looked up at me and smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte Taylor,” I said. I started to ask if I was the only person who’d
bothered to show up, but the sound of loud laughter and cheers suddenly came
from the far end, and I realized everyone was in the ballroom.
“Oh, here you are!” The woman handed me a folder and a name badge.
“Charlotte Taylor. So, you’ve kind of missed the meet and greet social part, but
you’re just in time for the class presentation and special speech. There’s an open
bar at the back of the room with a few chocolates left, if you’re interested. And
make sure you sign the ‘I Was Here’ book. UPMC is donating one hundred
dollars per signature to the university’s new health research center, and we
would all greatly appreciate that.”
“I’ll be sure to sign it.” I placed my name badge on my coat and set a fifteen-
minute timer on my phone. Then I headed straight into the ballroom.
Decorated in even more of Pitt’s trademark navy blue and gold, the room
was filled with people dressed in suits and designer dresses. Waiters waded
through them with champagne trays held high, and there was a band dressed in
all-white onstage. A band I remembered watching every Saturday night as a
sophomore.
“Is that you, Charlotte?” A brunette walked up to me and touched my
shoulder. “Charlotte Taylor, right?”
“Yes.” I smiled. She didn’t look familiar.
“You wouldn’t remember me, I’m sure.” She laughed. “I used to intern at
Heinz Stadium, and I handled all the specialty tickets for the players and the
skybox seats.” She winked at me. “I’m sure you can remember that, though.”
“I do.” I was leaving in five minutes. Timer be damned. “Where’s the ‘I Was
Here’ Book?”
“Over there under the golden balloon arches.” She pointed to a corner. “You
can’t miss it. I’ll see you at the fireworks?”
"Absolutely." I walked away and headed straight for the arches, taking my
spot in line behind three other people I faintly recognized. I considered striking
up a conversation or asking them what I'd missed, but I didn't want to be lured
into staying longer than I needed.
“May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” A woman stepped onto
the stage, waving at the crowd. “We still have quite a few things to get
through tonight, but we did promise you a special speech from one of your very
own.”
The loud talking and laughter slowly dissipated into soft murmurs. Then
silence.
"I would normally take the time to say a long, drawn-out introduction, but
we can all agree that this man needs no introduction, and his name is enough.
Ladies and gentlemen, from the special class of 2010, I’m honored to present to
you, Grayson Connors!”
I dropped my pen to the floor as the room erupted into applause, as the
stunningly gorgeous man I fell for years ago walked onto the stage.
His sapphire blue eyes gleamed beneath the bright spotlights, and his
trademark dimple in his right cheek deepened as he smiled at the audience. The
dark gray suit he was wearing accentuated his muscles, and the mere sight of his
full lips was still capable of making my heart skip a beat.
Smiling a set of pearly whites, he shook the woman’s hand and took his
place behind the podium.
“Good evening, Class of 2010,” he said, his voice deep.
“Good evening.” The crowd responded, and the only sounds in the room
were now the light clinks of champagne flutes and murmurs of “Wow,” “Whoa,
” and “Awesome.”
“All these years.” A brunette in front of me nudged her friend, whispering.
“He’s still sexy as hell.”
“Tonight, I’m honored to present our class with one of the most distinguished
honors the university has ever bestowed upon a group.” He held up a golden
plaque. “Out of all the classes that have ever graduated from the University of
Pittsburgh, our class holds the highest number of accomplished students in every
single field. Every. Single. Field.”
There was a loud and raucous applause, and he nodded at the crowd—
clapping right along with them. He stepped in front of the podium to high-five
one of his old teammates, and then he smiled his infectious smile once more
before returning to his notes.
“Speaking of accomplishments, our amazing class of 2010 also has the honor
of—” His gorgeous eyes suddenly met mine and he stopped talking. He blinked
a few times, then squinted—as if he was trying to determine if what he was
seeing was real.
Several seconds passed, and he still didn’t say a word. He simply clenched
his jaw.
He picked up a glass of water and took a slow sip, keeping his eyes on mine
the entire time. Keeping me pinned to my spot.
Clearing his throat, he let out a short breath. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I
just realized that this is only our seven-year reunion. Does this mean we don’t
have to put up with the ten-year one?”
The crowd laughed, and he continued his speech.
“We also have the honor of being the class that has somehow kept in contact
the most. I’m not sure how they keep up with that type of thing, but I can
honestly say that some of my best friends and memories—” He clenched his jaw
again. “Those were all made right here on this campus.”
I tried my hardest to look away from him, to slip some place into the crowd
where his eyes wouldn’t find mine but I couldn’t get my feet to move. All these
years and he still had the ability to make my world stop with a single syllable. To
make my heart race with a single glance in my direction.
The second he finished his speech, he finally looked away from me and the
room gave him a well-deserved standing ovation.
I immediately took my chance.
I made sure my name and phone number were legible in the book, and then I
pushed my way through the crowd, rushing toward the exit.
My heels clacked against the floor as I raced through the hallway, but before
I could reach the doors, a familiar hand grabbed my elbow from behind and spun
me around.
With my heart racing a mile a minute, I looked directly into Grayson’s eyes,
unsure of what to say.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words fell from his lips. Then he
looked me up and down, taking a slight step forward.
“Okay,” he finally said, his voice strained. “Where the hell have you been?”
“You look nice tonight.” I changed the subject. “Life seems to be treating
you well. I mean, I figured it would be, since you have the career of your dreams
now, but wow. I really liked your speech, too. Our class was really great, huh?”
“Charlotte ...” He pulled me close and my heart nearly jumped out of my
chest at the familiar feel of his hands against my body. “I’m not going to play
games with you, so here’s an easier question: Why are you here?”
“Because just like you, I believe I graduated from this school and was invited
to the reunion.”
“You know what I mean.” He lowered his voice. “Why are you here when
you’ve never made it out to anywhere I was? Did someone have to force you to
come?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I didn’t even know you were going to be
here tonight. And trust me, if I’d known that was the case, I would’ve never
come here.”
“So, you were forced.” He looked as if he was torn between dropping me to
the floor or kissing me, but he held back. “At least, I’m sure that’s part of what
you’re telling yourself so you can feel better about ruining what we had.”
I didn’t ruin anything. YOU did.
“Look, Grayson.” I hesitated. “What we had in college, all those years ago
was honestly—”
“Fucking perfect.” He interrupted, daring me to deny it.
I didn’t respond to that. “Fucking Perfect” was the only thing that could be
said about that.
“I’m honestly just happy to see you again.” He sighed and slowly let me go.
“You feel like catching up?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“I ...” This was a bad idea. “What if I say no?”
“Then it’ll just confirm that you still can’t lie worth a damn.” He smiled.
“Have you gotten pulled over by any police lately, or have you finally learned
how to drive?”
“No.” I stepped back. “No, I haven’t been pulled over by any police lately,
and you know what? I’ve changed a lot over the years, Grayson. I’m not the girl
you once knew and I’m sure you, Mr. Professional Football Player, are not the
guy I once knew. So, as wonderful as a night of walking down memory lane
sounds, I’m going to have to pass.” I started to walk away, but he blocked me.
“You want to do this at Eat’n Park or Highland Coffee?”
“Highland Coffee. But only for one hour.”
“Two.”
“Fine.” I relented. “But wait. Don’t you have to give another speech before
the fireworks?”
“Not anymore.” He clasped my hand and my body went warm at the contact.
My mind immediately raced with our memories as we walked right out of the
cathedral, down the icy sidewalks like we’d done too many times before.
As he pulled me closer, I warned myself that no matter what he said to
me tonight, our past was long gone and it was never coming back. All of our
former ‘Tuesdays’ and hell even this Tuesday were no more and I wasn’t going
to fall for it.
“You’re not going to fall for what?” He opened the door to Highland Coffee.
“Huh?”
“You were talking to yourself about not falling for something. What do you
mean?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sure.” He waited for me to walk inside, and then he led me over to the
same table we used to share years ago. “For the record, and just in case I never
get to tell you again, you look beyond beautiful and sexy as hell tonight.”
“Thank you. You look good, too. As always, though.”
He smiled, but it quickly faded. “Did you really move overseas?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did you?”
“Grayson, I—” I sighed. “No.”
“Good to finally know the truth about that, then. Where do you live now?”
“New York.”
“What?” His face turned red. “Tell me you’re fucking joking right now.”
I felt a pang in my chest. “I’m not joking.”
A world of hurt crossed his face and he leaned back. “You know what? You
were right. Let’s not do this.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” I stood up and rushed toward the door, leaving him
behind without another word. I knew I should’ve never shown up tonight,
should’ve never accepted his offer to “catch up,” and should’ve never given into
the slightest hope that things could ever be anything like they once were.
GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
Pittsburgh
ALL THIS TIME. ALL this goddamn time. I was told that she’d moved
overseas, gotten married to some sweater vest wearing stiff, and moved on with
her life. I would’ve never guessed that she was so close, and the fact that she
lived in New York City was pissing me off more with each minute that passed.
Not only that, but she was even more of a vision now than she was in undergrad,
and the only thing that was significantly different about her were the two extra
piercings in her right ear, the tattoo on her left wrist, and the auburn highlights in
her hair.
The only reason I didn’t run after her when she left me in the café last night
was because I knew it wouldn’t lead to any good answers. It was also because
she still couldn’t run for shit, and I didn’t want her to break her neck trying to get
away from me in heels, on the ice.
As I sat on the plane the next morning, I stared out the window and
wondered if we'd ever crossed paths in New York without me knowing it. If
she'd ever thought about me the way I still thought about her.
I always imagined that I would have to swallow my pride as I watched
another man pull her close to his side, or compliment how "beautiful" her kids
were to prevent myself from saying, "Those kids are supposed to be mine." But
it was far harder to handle the fact that she was still single and so near.
“Okay,” Anna said as she buckled her seatbelt. “Now that we’ve got your
class reunion off your plate, we can focus on the new merchandise deal with
Nike. They’re willing to offer more than what they said initially, but they want to
meet with you in person this week.”
“That’s not happening.”
“What?” She damn near choked on her drink. “Why not? You’ve been
begging me to do this for you for months and I’ve finally got them begging.”
“Something came up last night.” I looked at her. “Something important I
need to address before I go anywhere else.”
“Um, okay.” She looked confused. “I take it that whatever it is, it’s
personal?”
“Yes.” I sent a text message to my contact at the New York Police
Department, asking him to give me Charlotte’s address. “Very personal.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
ON TUESDAY, I RETRIEVED the study room key from the art gallery’s front
desk and ordered a carafe of coffee from their café. Charlotte arrived ten minutes
later and gave me a smile instead of her usual sexy scowl. She also gave me an
instant hard-on.
Her gray dress was hugging her curves in all the right places, and I couldn’t
help but envision her red heels being wrapped around my waist.
“I used to come here every week for inspiration during my freshman year,”
she said, interrupting my thoughts. “I wish I’d known they had a study room
back then. I could’ve used a quieter place to paint.”
“Where do usually paint now?”
“A few places.” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “There’s a studio downtown
that lets me paint for free on Thursdays if I bring the owner coffee and breakfast.
There are also two bridges with empty toll booths that I like. Oh, and since I'm
an RA, I get roof access at my dorm. I'm only supposed to use it for fire drills,
but I can't help but take advantage of the view from up there."
“So, you are capable of talking about something other than studying.”
“Not really.” She blushed and pulled out her blue box of pens and pencils.
“Are you hiding your books somewhere?”
“No. I still haven’t bought them yet.”
“Why the—” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Okay. I guess you
don’t technically need to read from them until two weeks from now, so which
Bach essay do you want to discuss first?”
“The contemporary one.”
“Good choice.” She bit her bottom lip. “Okay, so, applying what you already
know about feminist criticism—”
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” I interrupted her, and her cheeks turned bright
pink. “I’m disappointed in myself for not meeting you sooner.”
She was still blushing, but she narrowed her eyes at me. “Grayson Connors
...”
“It’s just Grayson.”
“That’s what I said.” She crossed her arms. “I know these Tuesdays may
seem like a strange concept to you, but I’m here to tutor you.”
“I’m aware, unfortunately.”
“Good. Because just for the record, I need you to know that you have zero—
and I mean zero, chances of getting anything else from me.”
“Are you implying that I want sex?” I smiled.
“I’m not implying that you want anything. I’m confirming that you should
stop with the unnecessary compliments, as they won’t get you any closer to what
you’re after.”
“I’m not after anything,” I said. “Yet.”
She shut her book. “You’re never going to see me as your tutor, are you?”
“Very much so.” I leaned over and opened her book. “Tucker’s analysis fails
to adequately address all of the issues with the post-modern society.”
She raised her eyebrow.
“This is the part when you ask me why I feel that way,” I said. “Unless
you’re the one not taking me seriously.”
She shook her head before asking, and for the next hour, I did my best to stay
on topic—to not get distracted by how fucking sexy she was, how she blushed
every few minutes, and how she bit her bottom lip whenever she was
contemplating a thought.
“I think your analysis is good enough for you to get an A on your first
paper,” she said over an hour later. “Do you have any final questions?”
“Are you seeing someone here?” I asked. “If not, who’s my competition?
She blinked. Then, just like she did the last time I tried to ask her something
personal, she simply stood up, pushed all her things into her bag, and left the
gallery.
This is strike one. No, strike two.
If she were any other girl, I would've immediately emailed my advisor and
demanded that she be replaced with someone else, but I was beyond intrigued
for some reason. I shut my notebook and went after her, catching her at the light.
“Charlotte, wait. Can we start over?”
“Can you buy your books?”
“Under a few conditions." I extended my hand. "I'm Grayson Connors, the
number one college quarterback in the country and the sexiest guy you'll ever
meet in your life."
“This is you starting over?”
“I listed all my other accolades the first time we met, and you didn’t seem
too impressed with those.”
Her lips curved into a slow smile and she shook my hand. “I’m Charlotte
Taylor, your tutor who is beyond fed up with you.”
“Nice to meet you, Charlotte. I think you should come with me to get my
books right now. That’s what the new version of you in our relationship would
do.”
I expected her to reject the idea, but she crossed the street with me.
“I have to pick up a few new books, too,” she said.
We walked the rest of the way in silence, and when we arrived at the
bookstore, she followed me to the literature section.
“Do you not trust me to get them on my own?” I asked.
“Given your track record, no." She laughed and headed down the feminist
aisle. "I'm assuming you didn't pick your courses this semester anyway.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know too many guys who would pick one feminist course, let alone
three.” She picked up one of the books I needed and handed it to me.
“Why not? It’s the perfect way to meet new women and potentially knowing
them a bit more intimately outside of the classroom.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” I stepped in front of her. “I would’ve never met you if I didn’t
take these classes.”
“I’m going to email my advisor right now and tell him that I don’t want to
tutor you anymore.”
“Prove it.”
She pulled out her phone, but I could tell she wasn’t going to do anything by
the blush that crossed her cheeks.
I picked up one of the other books I needed and noticed she had a tattoo on
the back of her left leg. It was far too small for me to make out from where I was
standing, so I made a mental note to get a closer look at it later.
“Good first game, man.” A guy walked down the aisle and tilted his hat at
me. “Wishing you guys another good season this year.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, yeah.” Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “I heard you guys won over
the weekend. Congratulations.”
What? “What did you just say?”
“Congratulations?”
“No, before that.” I was certain I didn’t hear that right.
“Um. I heard you guys won over the weekend?”
“You heard?”
“Yeah.” She looked confused. “Was I misinformed?”
“You didn’t go to the game?”
“No, I gave my dad my ticket. I’ll watch the replay later this week since I’m
not that big on college games.”
Strike three.
She picked up a book from an endcap, and I followed her to the register.
“Will this be together?” The cashier asked.
"Yes," I answered before Charlotte could and took out my wallet. "You can
pay me back with your phone number."
“In that case, it’ll be separate.” She started to take out her credit card, but the
cashier swiped mine.
I handed Charlotte her books and we left the store.
“So,” she said, looking up at me, “You promise to take the next Tuesday
seriously?”
“Only if you promise to treat me like someone who is just trying to be your
friend.”
“I will. Just my friend.”
“Good.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll need your phone number now, or a
damn good reason why I still can’t have it.”
“It’s because I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”
“Why don’t you give it to me and find out?”
“I’ll pass.” Her cheeks were bright red again as she took a step back. “I’ll see
you on Tuesday, Grayson.”
“See you on Tuesday, Charlotte.”
For the next couple Tuesdays, I tried to be on my best behavior. I was on
time or early and I stayed on topic. I only got distracted by the sight of her sexy,
pouty red lips twenty times instead of fifty, and I only lost my train of thought
whenever she took off her sweater and exposed what had to be C cup breasts. I
also managed to discover that she had two tattoos: One of a pair of swallows on
the back of her shoulder, and one of an infinity symbol and a rose on the back of
her ankle.
And for some reason, I found myself not caring that we always spent an
extra two hours talking at the end of each session.
“HAIL TO PITT!” NADIRA tossed back two shots of vodka and cleared her
throat. “Hmmm. This is pretty smooth for a vintage vodka.”
I looked at the bottle she was holding, the one that looked a little too similar
to the bottle we’d confiscated on our floor last night. “You’re supposed to pour
the alcohol down the sink whenever you find them drinking it, Dira. Not keep it
for yourself.”
“Really?” She walked over to her dresser and pulled the bottom drawer open,
revealing at least twenty bottles of confiscated liquor. “I had no idea that was the
rule. Are you going to report me?”
“Absolutely.” I tossed a pillow at her.
"Do you want me to bring you back anything from the game today? Some
school spirit, perhaps?"
“I’ll take a caramel apple.”
She laughed and grabbed her sweater, offering me one final chance to go to
the game with her and the other RAs, but I turned her down.
Half an hour later, I walked down to the lower campus and watched the start
of a typical game day unfold. Tons of yellow buses lined the street, ready to head
to Heinz Field. Cars honked at each other for a space in the congested city traffic
and the smell of tailgating BBQ filled the air.
I slipped inside one of my favorite bars and took a seat in the back. As the
waiter set down a menu in front of me, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.
An email from Grayson.
SUBJECT: RIDE.
Just in case you’re thinking of an excuse not to show up, my friend Seth is
willing to pick you up. He’ll be at your dorm in twenty minutes and he’ll be
driving a red SUV. Does this work for you?
—Grayson
SUBJECT: RE: RIDE.
Yes. Thank you.
—Charlotte
I SMILED AND HEADED back to my dorm, changing into a pair of jeans and a
navy-blue Pitt hoodie. I grabbed my camera and waited in the lobby for his
friend to show.
Five minutes later, a red SUV honked its horn and I made my way outside.
“Seth, right?” I slipped into the passenger seat, trying to ignore all the
crumpled McDonald’s bags that were on the floor.
“Yes, I’m Seth.” He extended his hand to me. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Charlotte.”
“I know who you are.” He pulled his car onto the street. “Trust me.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”
“It’s a huge compliment,” he said, speeding through a yellow light. “It’s not
too often that Grayson begs me to leave the stadium so I can go back to campus
and pick someone up. And by ‘not too often,’ I mean never, so I’m assuming you
two must be really good friends.”
“I just met him this semester.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “The most I’ve ever gotten him to do for me is give me
gas money, and I’ve known him since freshman year.”
I didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help it.
He quickly steered our conversation toward music and movies for the rest of
the ride. When we arrived at the stadium, he walked with me to the will-call
window, and then he disappeared to be with his other friends.
Confused, I stared at the VIP ticket in my hands and read the blue directions
that were printed on the back. As I made my way through another round of
security, I wondered why everyone else was heading in the opposite direction for
their seats, why mine called for me to stand in front of an elevator and enter a
code.
I pressed 4-4-4-4 and the doors immediately sprang open. There were no
buttons on the inside, and the cart rose to the stadium’s top floor.
An older man in a bright gold varsity jacket smiled at me the second I
stepped off.
“Are you Charlotte Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good.” He handed me a glittering “VIP” lanyard. “I was beginning to
think Grayson made you up, or even worse, left his tickets unclaimed again.” He
led me into a massive glass skybox that faced the field, a private room that was
filled with executives and alumni.
Everyone was wearing Pitt's colors, and there were waiters carrying trays of
wine and hors d’oeuvres. The tables that lined the room were full of gourmet
chocolates and sweets, and I didn't even want to know how much it cost to be in
this room.
“Would you like something to drink?” A brunette suddenly stepped in front
of me with a tray of glasses.
“Water, please.”
“Right away.” She took a bottle off her tray and handed it to me. “I’ve never
seen you up here before. Whose name are you under?”
“Grayson Connors.”
"Oh?" She smiled. "Well, that's different.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that my granddad has ownership in the
stadium and he makes me work the games to earn money, and I’ve never missed
one. Not since I was in high school.”
I gave her a blank stare. I had no idea what the hell her grandad owning this
stadium had to do with Grayson or her “different” comment.
Apparently understanding the confused look on my face, she laughed. "It
means that except for his mother, Grayson has never offered anyone else his
skybox seats."
Right ... “I’m sure he’s invited other girls up here. You probably just don’t
remember.”
“Nope.” She shook her head and stepped back. “Never. He doesn’t even let
his guy friends use his passes.”
I didn’t get a chance to say anything else before she turned away to help
someone else with drinks. Unsure of where to sit, I moved to the row of seats
closest to the window and took a seat on the end.
I could see the back of Grayson's jersey—the brightly emblazoned number
four shining brightly as he stepped onto the field. And the moment his opening
pass to Kyle Stanton became a touchdown within the first ten seconds, I knew
this game was over.
THREE HOURS LATER, when the last of the celebratory confetti had fallen
over the field, I set down my wine glass and stepped out of the skybox. I called
Nadira, to ask her to wait for me in the parking lot, but Grayson’s name popped
onto my screen before the call went through.
Subject: You.
Are you still here?
—Grayson
Subject: Re: You.
Yes.
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: You.
Good. Wait for me.
—Grayson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: You.
Where?
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: You.
The Pitt-Favs concession stand on Level 2. I'll meet you there after my
coach gets done talking.
—Grayson
I TOOK THE ELEVATOR down to the second level, making my way through
the exiting crowds. As the vendors shut down their windows, I sat on a bench
and watched as fan after fan gushed about the win.
Twenty minutes later, Grayson walked through the hallway, stopping to take
a few pictures with a few young kids. Still dressed in his football uniform, he
took a seat across from me and smiled.
“Did you enjoy the game?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. “I was bored out of my mind. Did you get to play?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Do you have plans for tonight?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well, there’s an after-party on the North Shore at nine. Will that time fall
under the ‘yes’ or ‘no’’ part of your plans?”
“I have a date at eight thirty.”
“A what?” His eyes widened.
“A date,” I said. “You know, those things that a guy asks you on when he’s
interested in getting to know you better.”
“I know what a date is.” He clenched his jaw. “How could you possibly—I
mean, when did he ask you out?”
"Last week," I admitted. "He's in my Anthropology class."
He stared at me, not saying anything for several seconds. He gently tugged at
my VIP lanyard and sighed. “You’re making this very difficult.”
“I’m not trying to make anything difficult.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend, but you won’t give me your phone number.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “And you’re willing to go out with other guys who
are not trying as hard as me, so what do they have that I don’t?”
“It’s not what you don’t have.” I took off the VIP lanyard and handed it to
him. “It’s what you do have.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Grayson! Oh my God, Grayson!” A group of women across the hall
suddenly made my point far better than I ever could. “Come over here and take a
picture with us! Come on!”
He looked over at them and then at me. “You’re saying you won’t go out
with me because you honestly think groupies and shit matter to me?”
“I’m saying thank you for the skybox ticket.” I stood up and smiled at him.
“I’ll see you Tuesday.”
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
Present Day
New York City
OUR FIRST NEW TUESDAY came weeks later, and I wasn't the slightest bit
surprised that Charlotte never showed.
CHARLOTTE: THEN
THREE THINGS SET HIGHLAND Coffee apart from all the other coffee shops
on campus. For one, they allowed customers to have unlimited mochas on their
slower days. Two, they made all their famous sweets from scratch. And three,
they had a second level that they opened on rainy days like today so we could
take advantage of the view.
I arrived right when they opened their doors this morning, right after I saw
the gray clouds outside my window. Armed with a comfortable hoodie and two
of my favorite books, I was hoping to make the most of my only class-free day.
“Here you are, Charlotte.” The owner placed a fresh caramel latte on my
table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“Yes?”
“This is like the second week in a row that you haven’t asked me to pay for
my coffee. Why?”
"I would tell you, but I swore to keep it a secret." She smiled.
“Well, can I guess and then you wink if my prediction is correct? It’s
Grayson, isn’t it?”
“You can let me know when you need a refill.” She laughed and walked
away from me.
I pulled out my phone and tapped on the calculator, staring at the last number
I saved. If the café was going by the number of lattes I’d ordered since Grayson
started “secretly” covering them for me, his total so far was one hundred and
twenty-five dollars. I forced myself to calculate the amount Saturday night when
my cheap-ass date was complaining about me wanting something from the
concession stand at the movies.
It was bad enough that he made me pay my way because he "wasn't
expecting to buy two tickets,” but he suggested that we walk to the supermarket
and risk missing the first twenty minutes of the film. The reason? So he could
save two dollars on the candy and get “way better drinks.”
I wasn’t even surprised when he asked for gas money at the end of the night.
I was stunned that he had the audacity to ask me on a second date, though.
At this point, I was retiring my foolish college romance dreams and sticking
to Nadira’s previous prescription of guy friends only. Every guy I dated
disappointed me more than the last, and the one guy who was trying the hardest
was completely out of the question.
No matter how many hours me and Nadira stayed up late to weigh the pros
and cons of me becoming closer to Grayson—even as a friend, I couldn’t get
past the media scrutiny and on-campus attention he received. If he was at a party,
everyone knew he was there. If he changed his Facebook status, it instantly
garnered thousands of likes. And the second it “looked” like he was with a girl—
even if it was an alleged “post-game fuck” or consensual one night stand, the
slut-shaming rumor mill received fresh wind. I was far too private for that, and
although he was landing the starring role in all my latest fantasies, I was hoping
he would eventually stop pursuing me.
“Are you talking to yourself?” The deep sound of his voice startled me,
making me turn around.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “It’s not Tuesday.”
“Best friends should be able to see each other whenever they want.”
“Nadira is my best friend. You’re someone I tolerate.”
He laughed and took a seat, motioning for the barista.
“Good afternoon, Grayson.” She blushed as she walked over. “What can I
get you?”
“A regular coffee and a box of glazed donuts. Me and my best friend are
going to be here for a while.”
She muttered “Lucky bitch” under her breath before rushing off to get his
requests.
“I’m in the middle of reading a very important book,” I said. “You’re
interrupting.”
He lifted the book from my hands and flipped it over. “You’ve read Harry
Potter already. Eight times, if I remember right."
“Everyone knows the ninth re-read of Harry Potter is the most important
one.”
“I’m sure.” He smiled and waited until the barista finished setting down his
donuts and coffee. “How was your date this weekend?”
"It was amazing." I picked up a donut. "It was the most romantic date I've
ever been on in my life. He was a true gentleman all the way and I'll never forget
it."
“Hmmm.” He sipped his coffee “Where exactly did he take you?”
“To the movies.”
“That’s romantic?”
"That's just the start. He also took me for a long walk on the waterfront and
treated me to a five-star dinner in Station Square. We talked so long that the
owner had to put us out at the end.”
“Which restaurant at Station Square?”
“Buca di Beppo.”
"Oh?" A smirk formed on his lips. "Is that so?"
"Yes."
“Well, that would’ve been impossible since our team moved our party there
at the last minute, and we had the dining room from nine until three. So, unless
your romantic date picked up your food to go or you went somewhere else,
you’re lying to make me even more jealous than I already am.”
“You’re jealous?”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”
“Okay, fine.” I let out a breath. “He made me buy my own ticket and
concessions, and at the end, he asked for gas money. He also asked me on a
second date.”
“Did you say no?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I lied. “Maybe he was nervous and the second time
will be better.”
“I highly doubt it. Do you have plans for this weekend?”
“I’m not sure. Nadira mentioned something since there’s no game this
weekend. What about you? Surely you have a date or two lined up.”
“I don’t typically do those,” he said, “but if I did, I can guarantee you that I
would know better than to take someone like you to the movies and dinner if I
wanted to make an impression.”
I blushed and sipped my coffee.
“I’ll probably analyze the footage from my last game,” he said, changing the
subject. “I want to improve on the three hundred seventy-five yards and twenty-
two completions I threw.”
“Three hundred ninety-five.”
“What?”
“You threw for three hundred ninety-five yards.” I set down my cup. “And
you had twenty-three completions.”
“I thought you weren’t that big on football.” He looked impressed.
“I’m not big on school spirit. I love football, though. Always have.”
“Hmmm.” He smiled. “Good to know.”
“Can I go back to reading my book now?”
“No.” He moved it to his side of the table. Then he pulled a folder from his
backpack. “I need your help with my feminist Shakespeare papers first.”
“Those aren’t due until next month,” I said, pulling out his syllabus. “Not
only that, but those should be some of the easiest papers for you to write.”
"If that were the case, I wouldn't be here asking you about it."
“Just make up whatever you think a female is thinking when she’s having an
orgasm and ‘dying a thousand little deaths’ since that’s Shakespeare’s true
interpretation and you’ll be fine.”
“Better yet,” he said, clicking his pen. “Why don’t you tell me that and we’ll
call this a night?”
“I’m not the right person to ask.”
“Why not? Just think about the last time you had sex and tell me what was
going through your mind when you came.” He sipped his coffee. “No judgment
here.”
I sighed. “I wouldn’t know.”
"Is it because you tend to black out mentally during sex?" He clicked his pen
again. "It might be easier for me to convey that idea instead."
“It’s because I’ve never had sex.”
He spat out his coffee and his eyes went wide. Then he just stared at me.
For a long time.
“Are you done, Grayson?”
“My apologies,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Not everyone has spent their entire college career sleeping with everything
that moves.”
“I haven’t had sex at all this semester.”
“I’m sure that’s a personal record for you.”
“We’re not talking about me. You’re a virgin?” He still looked surprised.
“Were you ever going to tell me this?”
“I’m not sure when it would’ve been necessary for me to bring it up, so, no. I
was never going to tell you that.”
“Interesting.” He shut his notebook. “Good for you.”
“I feel like you’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m not.” He looked genuine.
“Hey, guys.” The owner stepped next to our table and set down two fresh
lattes. “I’m going to have to close a little early today. My four o’clock barista
didn’t show and I need to pick up my daughter from the babysitter. I’ll make this
up to you on another rainy day, I promise.”
“No problem,” we said in unison. “Thank you.”
I tossed my things into my bag and headed down the steps, with Grayson
close behind.
Stepping outside, I let up my umbrella and looked up at him. “So, I guess I’ll
see you tomorrow?”
“Of course. Where’s your car?”
“I walked here today.” I shrugged. “My dorm is only a few blocks away.”
“Let me drive you.” He pulled car keys out of his pocket and the black SUV
in front of us flashed its lights.
I didn’t get a chance to think about it. Grayson pressed his hand against the
small of my back and walked me over to the passenger side. He opened the door
and waited for me to buckle my seatbelt before moving to his side.
“Which dorm do you stay in?” He looked over at me as he cranked the
engine.
“Lothrop Hall.”
“That’s more than a few blocks away.” He steered his car onto Forbes
Avenue and turned on the windshield wipers. For the entire ride, neither of us
spoke, and the rain pelting against his hood was the only sound between us.
When he pulled up to my dorm, he put the car in park and faced me. “Are
you really going to give a second chance to someone who made you pay for
everything on a first date?”
“Maybe.” I knew I didn’t sound convincing. “Not everyone in college gets
tons of scholarship money and gifts of cars and coffee like you. I can’t afford
that much either, you know.”
"I work every summer for my money," he said. "And when my father died,
he left me his pension and this car we're sitting in. Those things were willed to
me; they're not gifts."
“I didn’t mean it like that.” My voice trailed off. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Don’t be.” He turned off the car. “Answer my question about the date.”
“Grayson, I promise it’s not personal.”
“It’s beyond personal.” He leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind
my ear, setting every single nerve in my body on fire.
“No.” I sighed. “No, I wouldn’t really go on a second date with someone like
that.”
“And you’ll never go on a date with someone like me either?”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“We haven’t,” he said, locking his eyes on mine. “We haven’t talked about
anything because you still refuse to give me your phone number. You also have
yet to accept my friend request on Facebook.”
“I barely use Facebook.”
“That’s not the point.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. “But just so you know, I’m
not the quitting type. So, if you think I’m going to stop pursuing you, you’re
sadly mistaken, and you’re about to learn a few things about my stamina.”
I blushed. “I’m sure your stamina is quite impressive, but—”
He pressed his lips against mine, cutting my sentence short. I sucked in a
breath as he ran his fingers through my hair, as he bit my bottom lip before
sliding his tongue against mine to control the tempo of the kiss.
“Wait.” I pulled back, temporarily caught off guard. “Are you really that
upset about me not giving you my phone number?”
“No, I’m not upset at all. I’m fucking livid about it.” He pulled me close
again, and I gave in and kissed him back. I shut my eyes as he softly bit my
bottom lip—instantly making me wet. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he
continually ran his fingers through my hair and kissed me like I’d never been
kissed in my life.
Several minutes later, he slowly pulled away from me and kept his eyes on
mine. “Just so you know,” he said, his voice hoarse, “yes, I’m jealous as fuck
about your date. But I can guarantee that your next one, whoever he is, will
never kiss you like that.”
I didn’t get a chance to respond. He got out of the car and walked over to my
side, opening the door for me. He held an umbrella over my head as I stepped
out and walked me to the entrance.
I tried to find something—anything, to say, but I couldn’t think of a single
word.
“I’ll see you Tuesday.” He held the door for me and watched me until I
stepped into the elevator.
GRAYSON: THEN
Present Day
New York City
SUBJECT: M.I.A?
Grayson,
I called you three times this week, and I've sent you eight emails. Can you
please let me know where you stand on the proposal Nike sent over last week?
Also, what did you mean when you said you're not going anywhere this summer
until you address some "other business?"
Are you signing deals behind my back?
—Anna
SUBJECT: TMZ
A photog caught a grainy image of you walking out of a brownstone across
town not too long ago. They’ve posted the image with speculation that you were
there to meet a realtor for a new place to stay.
Let me know what you want to tell them about that.
PS—I know you said you're not interested in dating anyone from the fashion
world "ever again," but I spoke with supermodel Isabelle Kline's agent and she's
staging a major comeback this year. Would you mind having a few staged dates
with her? Just for good press to help her out? (It would also add a bit of color to
your image when it comes to your dating life, don't you think?)
—Anna
I GROANED AND TURNED off my phone. Since the day Charlotte stood me
up, I was dodging all aspects of my professional career until I got to the bottom
of her disappearance. I was turning down every interview, every meeting with
sponsors, and I didn’t want to speak to anyone from the NFL. Well, except for
the person I was meeting tonight.
I locked my phone in my glove compartment and stepped out of my car,
heading into my team’s sports complex. Holding up my access card for the
doors, I stopped and signed an autograph for the new security guard.
"Congratulations, Mr. Connors." He held up his hand for a high-five. "Any
chance you're considering chasing a three-peat next season?"
“Of course.” I slapped his hand. “That’s the only option.”
“Your guest is in the restaurant waiting,” he said. “I told him you were
running late.”
“Thank you.” I headed to the locker room and grabbed my MVP trophy,
carrying it with me upstairs.
"Here I was thinking that you were going to be an adult about this." Kyle
stood up as I approached, adjusting his cufflinks. "I should've known better."
“You should’ve.” I plopped the trophy in the center of the table. “Two years
in a row of beating your team in the playoffs and winning MVP. I wouldn’t be a
good best friend if I didn’t take this opportunity to share my victory with you.
This isn’t just mine, you know. It’s for the both of us.”
“Fuck you, Grayson.” He laughed and took a seat. “I would tell you
congratulations, but you don’t deserve it.”
“Thank you.” I motioned for the waitress to bring a fresh bottle of wine to
the table.
Ever since we were drafted into the NFL, we made it a point to meet over
dinner at the end of every season. No matter which of our teams fared better, the
menu was always the same: Steak, bottles of wine, a short walk down memory
lane.
While I spent most of my time off the field investing in small companies
here or there, Kyle was now the face of Ralph Lauren, Reebok, and Gatorade.
With his increasing layers of fame, he’d become far more restrained with women
than he was in college. For the most part.
“Grayson?” He waved his hand in front of my face. “Grayson, are you
there?”
“Huh?”
"We've been sitting here ten minutes, and you haven't started gloated about
your historic performance in the Super Bowl yet. If we go five more minutes, I
may have to check for a pulse."
“Sorry.” I sipped my wine. “I was thinking about something.”
“Something other than your win?”
“It’s Charlotte.”
He let out a long sigh and picked up his glass, drinking it in one gulp. Then
he poured himself a shot of whiskey.
“It’s been seven years, and she hasn’t even sent you a birthday card." He
seethed. "She disappeared for no reason—leaving you wrecked for God knows
how long, and you have no idea where she is currently. I understand that you
were hurt for the first couple years, but it's way past time for you to let her go."
“She’s here in New York.”
He uncorked a new bottle of wine and drank straight from the rim.
“I saw her at the reunion,” I said. “For some strange reason, she’s under the
impression that I was the one who did something to break us up.” I looked him
square in the eye. “Are you sure you didn’t say anything to her our senior year?”
“Jesus Christ.” He kept his voice calm. “For the umpteenth time, I would’ve
never stepped in between you and Charlotte, and I highly doubt you would’ve let
me. The fact of the matter is that she ghosted you. Period. I don’t care what
crazy excuse she’s made up in her mind about it after all this time. The last thing
I remember saying to her was, ‘See you at the draft party in New York.' The very
same party where you were going to ask her to marry you." He shook his head.
"You were too young to get married anyway, and you dodged a bullet, so it was
good she didn't show up."
The waitress set our steaks down and replaced the wine before stepping
away.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.
“Gladly. Tell me about the championship parade plans, since I won’t be
caught dead watching it.”
I laughed and ran down the list of over the top things my team had planned. I
told him about my predictions for next season and listened as he told me about
his desire to play for another football team. We swapped stories about our
endorsement deals, laughed at our agents' Type A personalities, and by the time
we finished, it was three in the morning.
“Shit,” he said. “I’ve got two hours to make it to the airport. I can’t believe I
didn’t make you take me to the club while I was here. I wasted an entire day of
my life on you.”
“I feel the same way.”
He laughed and extended his hand. "So, when will you see Charlotte again?"
I shrugged, attempting to be nonchalant. “What makes you think I plan on
seeing her again?”
“Because I know you,” he said. “When?”
This week. "In a few weeks."
“Will this meeting be taking place on a Tuesday?” He smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Figures. Is she married? Any kids? Still sexy as hell?”
“No, not that I know of, and yes.”
"Well, look. I'll never repeat this because a part of me will always hate her
for leaving you the way she did, but if you ever end up with someone for the
long-term who isn't Charlotte Taylor, I'll have to be honest and tell you that
you're making the biggest mistake of your life." He paused. "But she better have
a damn good reason for leaving you, never making contact, and hiding her
whereabouts. I mean, come on. Seven years? Does she have any idea who the
hell she was dating back then?”
I laughed. “Thank you for your opinion, as always, Kyle.”
“You’re more than welcome,” he said. “One last thing, though. Do me a
favor when you meet up with her.”
“Name it.”
“Ask her why she never called you once.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
“I HATE SEAFOOD PLACES." I rolled over on my bed and held the phone
against my ear. "Especially the ones where they let you pick your crab and cook
it for you on the spot."
Grayson’s deep laughter came over the line. “So, you’ve never actually tried
seafood?”
"No," I admitted. "But I've walked out of plenty of restaurants that serve it,
so I'm going to trust my instincts and accept that it's terrible."
He laughed again. “You should let me take you to one this weekend. I think I
can change your mind.”
“I’ll consider it.” I blushed. I was about to ask him which seafood restaurant
he thought was the best, but my alarm clock rang.
It’s six o’clock already? “Um. I have to go,” I said, sitting up. “I need to get
ready for my morning class.”
“You have a class that starts at seven?”
“No, eight.” I stood up and slammed the snooze button. “But I have a ritual,
remember? Hot shower, latte, newsstand stop, then class. If I don’t do those
things in the exact order, my entire day falls apart.”
“You left out your need to grab an overpriced bagel at Einstein’s,” he said.
“That was implied.” I laughed. “So, I’ll talk to you later?”
“You’ll see me. Today is a Tuesday.” His voice over the phone was beyond
sexy. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you later.” I ended the call and looked at the total time we’d talked.
Seven hours for the eighth day in a row. The longest I’d ever talked to any guy
on the phone.
Smiling, I undressed and headed to the shower room. Turning on the cold
water, I leaned back against the tile to make sure I was fully awake and sane.
That I was not wishing that I could stay on the phone with Grayson for the rest
of the day instead of going to class.
I decided to make a list of ten reasons why he needed to remain in the friend
zone, but by the time I finished my shower, I could only think of five. And the
top three were “Because he’s Grayson Connors.”
Still struggling to come up with another reason, I tugged on a pair of my
favorite jeans and vowed to figure this out later. With twenty minutes to spare, I
tossed my notebooks into my purse and took the steps to the lobby.
I buttoned my blazer as I walked outside, stopping when I saw Grayson’s car
parked right out front. Confused, I stepped closer.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Giving you a ride to class. It’s at Posvar Hall, right?”
“Yes, but ...” I didn’t move any closer. I just stared at him.
Say you need to pick up your latte. Say you need to—
“I picked up your latte,” he said, holding up a brown cup. Then he held up a
white paper bag. “And your bagel.”
There was no point in resisting his offer, so I gave in and got into his car.
“Thank you.” I took the latte from his hands. “Do you have an eight o’clock
class today as well?”
“No.” He smiled and leaned over me, pulling the seatbelt over my shoulder.
“I have someone I like, but since I also have the feeling that she’s going to try to
make excuses for reasons why she shouldn’t give me a chance, I feel like I need
to take a different approach.”
“What’s your typical approach?”
"I'm not sure," he said, steering his car onto the street. "I've never wanted a
girlfriend before.”
I blushed and looked out the window. I had no words to say to that.
He dropped me off at Posvar Hall four minutes later, and as I stepped out, he
gave me a smile that made butterflies flutter against my stomach.
“Do you need a ride anywhere else before our tutoring session today?” he
asked.
"No." I crossed my arms, hiding a smile. "But you know, I don't think you
need a peer tutor. Something tells me you would make A's without my help."
“Are you quitting?”
“No,” I said. “I just don’t think we need to call them ‘tutoring sessions’
anymore, especially since we only talk about your work for five minutes.”
“So, does that mean I don’t need to bring my work anymore?”
“I didn’t say that.” I shut his car door and laughed. “See you later.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
PITT’S FINAL RECORD for the regular season stood at an impressive 12-0.
The last win came after a seven-point nail-biter over Penn State, and it ignited a
night of wild parties and recklessness on campus. Cars and dumpsters burned,
blue and white fireworks lit up the sky, and glittering gold confetti sparkled on
the cathedral’s lawn.
To celebrate, I was supposed to accompany Grayson to a slew of parties. He
wanted me to dance with him at each one and remind him to say, “Thank you for
your support” to as many people as possible.
However, we’d been to six parties so far, and we hadn’t danced to a single
song. Instead, he’d pulled me into any available corner and kissed me as if no
one else was watching. And when we left one party to go to the next, he stopped
and kissed me in front of everyone just because he knew they were watching.
By the time we reached our seventh location of the night—an abandoned
warehouse off campus, my body was on edge. My lips were swollen from his
kisses, and I knew without even looking that he’d left claiming red marks on my
neck.
The smell of alcohol and marijuana clung to the warehouse walls, and the
music was so loud I could barely hear my thoughts.
“How many more parties do you have to go to?” I shouted over the music to
Grayson.
“What?”
“How many more parties do you have to go to?”
He looked at me in confusion and clasped my hand, pulling me across the
room to a makeshift bar. “Did you say you’re ready to leave?”
“No, I just wanted to know how many parties you had left tonight.”
“This is the last one.” He handed me a drink. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket. “I can take you home.”
“I’m not ready to go home,” I said.
He looked confused. “You just said you were.”
“I meant that I want to go back to your place.”
“Okay. Well, just so we’re clear, I’m not watching another Friends marathon
with you,” he said, smiling. “Three episodes was more than enough.”
“That’s not what I wanted to do either...”
He raised his eyebrow and stared at me.
“I said I was ready...” My voice was a whisper. “I meant it.”
“Okay.” He kissed my forehead and wrapped his arm around my waist,
holding me against his side as we made our way through the crowded dance
floor. When we stepped outside, he didn’t walk me to his car. Instead, he led me
through the streets of upper campus, making us take the long way to his
apartment.
When we arrived, the lights were dim, and Kyle was steering his car out of
the driveway.
Walking me into his room, Grayson helped me out of my coat and locked the
door. “I was kidding about Friends,” he said. “I’ll watch that with you if you
want.”
“That’s not what I want.”
He trailed his finger against my collarbone. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“I need you to say it.”
“Yes.” I looked into his eyes. “I’m sure.”
He pressed a quick kiss on my lips, and then he slowly pulled the elastic
band from my ponytail, forcing my hair to fall across my shoulders. Looking me
up and down, he grabbed the hem of my shirt and slowly pulled it over my
head.
“Turn around,” he whispered, and I obliged.
Blowing soft kisses against the back of my neck, he unclasped my bra and
pushed the straps down my shoulders one at a time.
“Are you still sure?” he asked again, softly palming my breasts from behind.
“Yes...”
He took his time trailing kisses in a line across my shoulders; then he
reached around my waist to unzip my jeans. Bending down to push them past
my thighs, he gently bit my ass. “Step out of your pants.”
I hesitated, temporarily distracted by the feel of his hands moving up my
body. He was caressing my nipples, and I could feel his cock hardening against
my cheeks. I heard him laughing softly, and before I knew it, he was picking me
up and carrying me over to his chair.
Rubbing his hands up and down my legs, he got on his knees and slid a
finger through the lace of my panties, pulling them down to my ankles. He
pressed a hand against my thighs, looking up at me when he noticed I was
shaking.
He cupped my face and brought my head down to his, kissing me deeply—
using the soft rhythm of his tongue to say, “It’s okay.” He didn’t let go of my
mouth until I was entirely breathless, and before I could catch my breath, he slid
his hands under my thighs and lifted me up—moving me to his bed.
My heart was beating so hard and loud against my chest that I was certain he
could hear it.
I watched as he took off his shirt in one smooth motion and untied his
sweatpants before climbing on top of me. He blew warm kisses against me,
leaving a wet trail all the way down my body.
My legs shook as he softly blew against my clit and slipped a thick finger
inside of me. I grabbed the sheets as he teased me relentlessly, as he pressed his
other hand against my stomach to keep me still.
Unwrapping a condom, he kept his eyes on mine as he put it on. He grabbed
my hand and placed it against him, making me touch his length as he spread my
legs apart. Positioning himself over me, he pressed his mouth against mine once
more, and he pushed his cock inside of me, inch by inch, making me tense at the
unfamiliar pain.
When he was halfway inside of me, I dug my nails into his arm.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, not pushing himself any further.
I didn’t answer.
“Charlotte?” He kissed me. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No...”
He stared at me for a few seconds, as if to make sure, and then he entwined
his fingers with mine and thrust his cock deeper, completely filling me.
“Ahh...” I cried out, and he bit my bottom lip. I shut my eyes, and he
whispered, “Don’t do that. Look at me.”
I obliged and kept my gaze locked on his as he thrust in and out of me. I
cried out with each one—feeling a mix of pain and light pleasure.
“Grayson...”
“Yes?” He slid inside of me again, burying himself deep.
I moaned, unable to say anything else. Just as I was adjusting to his length
and his rhythm, grabbing onto his hair to hold on, he suddenly pulled out of me.
Catching me completely off guard, he gave me a quick kiss on my lips and
flipped me onto my stomach.
Planting kisses up and down my spine, he positioned himself between my
legs and slid his cock inside of me.
I couldn’t help but clench the sheets as he established a slower but more
reckless rhythm, as he filled me again and again. I shut my eyes as he gripped
my sides and controlled me, as he made love to me for what felt like forever.
I felt him stilling behind me—moaning, and he held my hips a little tighter as
he found his release.
He whispered something I couldn’t comprehend before pulling out of me and
getting out of the bed.
I lay still, unable to move a muscle and seconds later he returned.
“Are you okay?” He pulled me into his arms
“Yes.” I nodded, and we lay entangled in the darkness—his lips casually
pressing kisses against mine as I rubbed my hands against his chest.
“What are you thinking about?” he whispered against my mouth hours later.
“Something I want to ask you.”
“Something bad?”
“Not really.”
He rolled me on top of him, looking concerned. “What is it?”
“Can we do that again?”
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
I UNLOCKED THE DOOR to my gallery at five o’clock in the morning and hit
the lights. I didn’t normally come to work this early, but my latest collection was
drawing record attention and I was struggling to keep up with all the orders.
Determined to finish my current work-in-progress, I turned on a pot of coffee
and set up my easel near the windows. I rinsed my favorite brushes and set out
my newest range of reds.
Checking my emails, I noticed there was a new one from Nadira.
I BRACED MYSELF FOR a “Why the hell not?” message, but I didn’t need to
explain myself.
The morning I was supposed to meet Grayson, I felt dread and anxiety in the
pit of my stomach. I’d written all the things I wanted to say, and most of those
things were a mix of “You’re a douchebag,” “I never want to see you again,” and
“I can’t believe I’m even speaking to you after what you did to me.”
I’d managed to get dressed and make it halfway to the cafe, but I broke down
in tears in the middle of Fifth Avenue, so I returned home and hoped he wouldn’t
show up at my place. I hoped he would get the message and do his best to move
on like I had.
Nadira’s name popped onto my screen via phone call and I hit the speaker
button.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me.” Her voice was terse. “Why didn’t you show up
to meet him, Charlotte?”
“I told you,” I said. “I’ll never forgive him for what he did, so there’s no
point in catching up or rehashing old memories. I’m over him.”
“You’re over him?”
“Beyond over him.” I slumped in a chair. “I mean, he’s still attractive and
sexy to me, but there are no feelings there. I wish I’d known he was going to be
at the reunion, though. I would’ve never showed up.”
She sighed. “I told him you were going to be there.”
“What?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
“Nadira, you know what he did.” I felt my blood boiling. “How could you do
something like that to me?”
She didn’t answer.
“You know how much pain he caused me. How he literally dropped me like
some type of used toy at the end of our relationship. Yet, you told him I was
going to be there? I can’t believe my so-called best friend would—”
“Shut the hell up, Charlotte.” She interrupted me, sounding as if she’d been
wanting to say those words to me for a long time. “Just shut up.”
Silence.
“I told him you were coming because I think the two of you need to talk,”
she said. “Because seven years have gone by and all you’ve done is live in the
shadows of a relationship that was probably one of the best things that ever
happened to you.”
“Yes, being treated like crap at the end was definitely one of the best things
that ever happened to me.”
“Do you know that he’s called me six times a year since you broke up just to
ask if I’ve heard anything from you?” she asked. “That he begged me, time and
time again, for your fake overseas address because he wanted to find you?”
I was silent. In the years since college, Nadira had never mentioned Grayson
in any of our correspondence.
“So, yes.” She continued. “Yes, I told him you would be there. I did it in
hopes that you would finally get over yourself and maybe get some much-
deserved closure. As much as you like to lie to yourself, you are not over him. If
you ask me, you never will be.”
“I didn’t ask you.” Tears were falling down my face. “I didn’t ask you
anything because you’re beyond wrong on this.”
“Am I?” She scoffed. “Why do you think all of your relationships end in
failure before they can even begin?”
“Because I have an affinity for douchebags.”
“Or you can’t help but compare everyone to the man you’re still in love
with,” she said. “Why do you think your latest art collection is doing better than
anything you’ve ever done?”
“Because it’s my best work.”
“You don’t think the fact that it’s inspired by your college years has anything
to do with it?”
“Nothing at all.” I gritted my teeth. I wasn’t going to let her change the
subject. “Nadira, I can’t believe—”
“Especially the picture of that couple kissing in the middle of a football
field,” she said, not stopping. “I really like that one.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“That may not, but Rosy-gan Cafes & Galleries does.”
“Excuse me?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re fooling, Charlotte?” She sounded
exasperated. “You couldn’t bring yourself to name your business under your own
name because you knew he would find you.”
“That’s not true.” It was more than true.
“And if you think for one minute that I never figured out that the name
‘Rosy-gan’ is a goddamn anagram for Grayson, you’re in even more denial than
I thought.”
I hung up in her face and tossed my phone across the room.
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
“I’M COMING, I’M COMING!” I stumbled down the steps the following
morning, thanking the universe that my weekly wine delivery was early. I made
sure my bathrobe was tied tightly and opened the door, expecting to see a
delivery man, but it was Grayson. A beautiful ‘I look perfect even in sweatpants
and a white T-shirt’ Grayson.
I tried to slam the door in his face, but he wedged his foot between the
doorframe.
“You didn’t show up for our meeting on Tuesday,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“Did you forget?” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Nope.” I shrugged. “I decided you weren’t worth my time.”
He glared at me, saying nothing. He moved his foot from the doorframe, but
instead of leaving he pushed his way inside, backing me into my hallway.
“I waited for you for six hours,” he said, his voice terse. “Six. Hours.”
“Did you get a chance to drink any of the coffee?”
“Stop fucking with me, Charlotte.” He pinned me against the wall with his
hips. “We had an agreement.”
“We once agreed we wouldn’t hurt each other and you broke that promise
pretty easily, so I guess we’re even now.”
“Six hours.”
“I’m not sorry,” I said, ignoring the frantic racing of my heart. “But if you
give me another six months or so, I can consider meeting with you to take
random trips down memory lane. You’ll have to fill in a lot of the blanks for me,
though.”
“You don’t remember?” His lips brushed against mine and every nerve in my
body came to life.
“I only remember the ending.”
“Nothing about what we had before that?” He hissed.
“No. Nothing we had was that memorable. We were young.”
We stared at each other, not saying a word. Within seconds his mouth was on
mine, and my arms were around his neck.
He tore open my robe exposing my naked body and lifted me up by my
thighs, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist. I moaned as I fought for
control of the kiss, as he fought back with rough and demanding bites of my
bottom lip.
His cock hardened against me, and I reached down to free it from his
sweatpants. He briefly tore his mouth away from mine and kissed my neck,
biting my skin as I massaged him with my hand.
Returning to kissing me recklessly, he let me down onto the floor and tore
open a condom before putting it on. He glared at me, looking hurt and angry all
at once.
“Put your legs around my waist,” he commanded, lifting me up again. I
obliged and he thrust his cock inside of me with one stroke—stretching and
filling me deep.
Moaning, I closed my eyes and tried to adjust to his length, he didn’t give me
the chance. He pulled back and pounded into me again and again.
“You don’t remember this?” he said, fucking me harder.
His eyes never left mine, mine never left his.
He continued owning my body like no other man could, bringing me to back
to back orgasms—making me accept that he would always be the best sex I’d
ever had.
He gripped my thighs as his cock throbbed inside of me, holding me steady
as we both reached our release at the same time. Keeping his eyes on mine, he
gently let me go and set me on the floor.
Without saying a word, he re-tied my robe shut and smoothed my hair back
into place.
I watched as he tossed the condom into the trash and readjusted his pants. I
tried to say something, but I couldn’t get any words to fall out of my mouth.
He looked me up and down one last time and headed toward the door. He
looked over his shoulder, a hint of hurt still in his eyes.
“I expect you to show up next Tuesday.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
Present Day
New York City
“ARE YOU SEEING ANYONE new, Grayson?” “Are you dating supermodel
Elizabeth Thiele again?” “Why weren’t you at the team’s Super Bowl party in
Vegas?” “Grayson? Grayson!”
I ignored the annoying questions from the paparazzi and slipped into my car,
slamming my foot on the gas. I made it halfway across town and called Anna.
“Yes, Grayson?” She answered on the first ring.
“Could you kindly tell the manager of my condo that I’ll terminate my
contract and make it public if he doesn’t do something about letting the
paparazzi into the parking garage?”
“I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“Did my official MVP picture come in from the Oats Studio yet?”
“It did. I’ll have it framed and sent over right away.”
“Thank you.” I ended the call and sped down 43rd Avenue. I was an hour
early for my meeting with Charlotte, and I was determined to get her to answer
my questions.
I parked my car in a private garage and paid the guard an additional hundred
bucks to keep it quiet. Then I pulled a hood over my head and made my way to
the Rosy-gan Café.
When I arrived, an Adele song was playing in the background, and the
cacophony of New York traffic was hitting notes of its own outside the windows.
There were no customers inside today, only employees who were hanging
new art onto the walls. I wasn’t sure why I hadn't noticed it the day she stood me
up, but the pictures they were hanging were undoubtedly hers. The pictures were
all variations of coffee and rain, couples on football fields, and Pittsburgh
bridges.
I looked over each one, wondering if she’d attended art school first instead of
law school after all.
By the time I ordered my second cup of coffee, I noticed that Charlotte was
half an hour late. I was tempted to leave now and head to her house, but I
decided to give her another thirty minutes.
Five minutes later, she walked into the café and stopped at the counter for a
latte. She plopped down in the seat across from me and unbuttoned her coat.
"You look beautiful," I said. "I've always loved you in gray."
“Thank you.” She sipped her latte. “So, what made you fuck Meredith
Dawson?” she asked. “That was the first person you publicly slept with after we
broke up, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or, was it Elizabeth Thieles?” She shrugged. “You two complemented each
other pretty well.”
“You’ve already stood me up once and made your point, Charlotte. I don’t
think you need to be hostile anymore.”
“I’m not being hostile,” she said. “If I was the one who disappeared on you
and slept with tons of famous men, I’m sure you would want to know some of
the details.”
“I wouldn’t.”
"Well," she said, shrugging, "I guess that’s where we’re different. So, tell me.
Was she a virgin, too?”
I blinked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was. I picture you collecting V-cards like your
MVP trophies—that’s clearly all you wanted from me.”
“Cut the shit, Charlotte.” I’d had enough. “You know damn well that isn’t
true.”
“Isn’t it?” There were tears welling in her eyes. “If you ever write a book
about your life story, I’ll appreciate it if you put in a section about how much
you used me and then left me when I wasn’t of value to you anymore.”
“Stop this.” I grabbed her hand. “Please.”
She slowly moved her hand away from mine and sighed. “I’m sorry. I meant
to start by telling you congratulations on winning the Super Bowl and the MVP
trophy.”
“Thank you, but I honestly don’t care about any of that right now.” I stood up
and extended my hand. “Let’s talk outside.”
I expected her to say no, but she nodded and put on her coat. She didn’t take
my hand, though. She only motioned for me to lead the way.
We stepped onto the trail that led into Central Park and I resisted the urge to
pull her against my side.
“Did you watch the Super Bowl?” I asked.
“No. I read about it the next day, though.”
“I see.” I wasn’t sure why her saying that cut deep, but I didn’t let it show.
“Should I assume that you don’t go to any of the games as well?”
“Yes.” She looked up at me. “Football was one of the other things I started to
lose love for over the years.”
Silence.
I stopped in front of a park bench and waited for her to sit down. I brushed
off all the hostile words she’d said and faced her. “Are you a professional artist
now?”
“I am.”
“Did you ever go to law school?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because—” She forced a smile. “Because the man I thought I was in love
with at the time helped me to see that my heart belonged in art. My art is in all
the Rosy-gan cafes.” She continued. “And I own a few art galleries in this city.
What about you? Did you ever go into the NFL?” She let out a fake laugh. “I’m
kidding.”
“I’m aware.” I was resisting the urge to close the gap between us. "I didn't
sleep with anyone for an entire year after you left me, Charlotte.”
Her eyes immediately met mine.
“I didn’t sleep with those models you mentioned either,” I said. “They were
staged photo ops. I wanted people to think I was off-limits when I joined the
league so I wouldn’t have any distractions. But also—” I mocked her tone.
“Because I thought the woman I was in love with at the time was bound to come
back to me or sooner or later.”
“She tried to.”
“You never called me once.”
“I called you plenty of times.” Her face turned red. “I called you every day
for weeks and you never answered.” She shook her head. “You didn’t answer
one time, Grayson.”
“Charlotte, that’s not true." I was confused. "I never got any calls from you."
“I always knew you would say that.” Tears fell down her face. “You’ve
probably painted me as a bitch who just disappeared so you could play the
sympathy card, huh? I bet doing that made you feel better about all the pain you
put me through, and I bet you took pleasure in ignoring all one hundred and
seventy-two of my calls and sixty-five of my text messages. Yes, I counted. And
yes, seven years later or not, I will never, ever forgive you for that. Never,
Grayson.”
She began to cry, leaving me speechless.
I had no idea what calls and texts she was talking about, but I didn’t question
her memory. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her against my
chest.
She didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the day, and when Central
Park’s lampposts turned on, I pulled her up and walked her to my car. I didn’t
bother peppering her with questions during the short drive, I simply helped up
her brownstone’s steps and told her I’d like to see her again next Tuesday. Not a
month from now.
“I’ll try,” she said, not looking at me.
It took everything in me not to go inside with her, but I made sure she locked
her door and rushed back to my car.
“Call Kyle Stanton, please," I commanded my system once I pulled off onto
the street.
“This better be important.” He answered with a groan. “It’s late.”
“I need you to confirm that I’m not crazy.” I switched lanes. “Like, as my
best friend, you would’ve told me if I was a long time ago, right?”
“You’re beyond crazy and I did tell you that.” He laughed. “Multiple times.”
"I'm serious, Kyle."
“No, you’re not crazy.” He cleared his throat. “But if this call is about
Charlotte Taylor, I’m not drunk enough to deal with that right now. Try me
tomorrow night.”
“Something isn’t adding up,” I said. “Charlotte is claiming that she called me
for months. And that I was the one ignoring her, not vice versa.”
“Right...So, on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you can just let her
go at this point?” he asked. “He said vs. she said never ends well for anyone,
especially when one person is lying. She’s lying to you, man.”
“She’s not lying.” I knew she wasn’t by the way she’d acted today, and I
knew I needed to figure this out before she changed her mind about us meeting
again. “Walk me through everything I told you about the end of our senior year
again.”
“Right now, Grayson?”
“Right now.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
SUBJECT: HEY.
Did you forget about our date today?
—Charlotte
I SIPPED THE LAST OF my latte and left the café. Ever since Grayson signed
with Anna, his schedule became packed with endless advice sessions, training
preparation, and mock media interviews. Our alone-time was now relegated to
Tuesday night coffee sessions, the occasional date, and late-night talks whenever
he finished his day.
He was unable to pick me up for classes in the mornings, but he let me drive
his car since the campus police always let me out of speeding offenses whenever
they realized it was his car. And even though he couldn’t hang out with me as
much, he made it a point to have flowers and donuts delivered to my dorm a few
times a week with sweet notes. He insisted that I “didn’t need to worry,” and to
be honest, I didn’t. I was happy he was getting everything he deserved, and I was
looking forward to seeing his hard work pay off.
Checking my phone one last time to see if he’d responded, I crossed the
street and headed toward the law library. When I approached the student union
crosswalk, I saw Grayson through the bookstore windows.
Looking exasperated, he sat across from Anna and spoke as she typed on her
keyboard. Mid-sentence, he leaned back in his chair and waved to someone I
couldn’t see.
Seconds later, a blonde walked over to him and smiled. She took a seat next
to him and rubbed his shoulder—whispering something into his ear. She
managed to get three seconds of words out before he grabbed her wrist and
pushed her hand away.
I wasn’t the best lip reader, but I could definitely make out his annoyed
“Don’t fucking touch me like that. You know I have a girlfriend.”
I laughed and called Anna’s phone, watching as she held it up to her ear.
“Hey Charlotte!” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Are you with Grayson?”
“I am,” she said. “Hold on.” She handed the phone to him and mouthed, “It’s
Charlotte.”
“Hey,” he said. “I apologize in advance if you’ve called or texted me today. I
left my phone in Kyle’s car at lunch, and he’s still downtown.”
“I figured there was a good reason. Did you forget about our date today?”
His face fell. “I did...I’m sorry, Charlotte. Where are you right now?”
“Across the street.”
He looked out the window and ended the call, returning Anna’s phone. He
grabbed his jacket and left the café, walking over to me.
“I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “Let me make this up
to you.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I do.” He kissed my forehead. “I feel like we’ve been off a bit lately and I
don’t want you getting ideas.”
“Ideas about what?”
“Us not being together when I go to the league. Tell me three things I can do
this week to make tonight up to you.”
I smiled. “You can watch a Friends marathon with me at your place over
donuts and coffee.”
“Can you try to pick something a little less painful?”
“Nope.” I laughed. “You can also let me paint you this weekend. Oh, and you
can give me a massage—with my clothes on.”
“Why do your clothes need to be on?”
“Because every time you give me a naked massage, you flip my body over
halfway through it and fuck me.”
“Okay.” He let go of my waist and clasped my hand. “I’ll wait until after I’m
done with the massage this time. Let’s do that option first.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
“BE STILL,” I SAID, pointing my brush at Grayson a few days later. “I can’t
finish painting your portrait if you’re moving.”
“I’ve been sitting still for three hours.”
“No, you’ve been sitting still for one hour.” I smiled. “You spent the first two
hours taking phone calls.”
“Noted.” He walked over to me and kissed my cheek. “I want you to come
with me to the marketing session with Anna tonight. I promise I’ll sit here for as
long as you want me to when we get back.”
“You can’t bring me to every business meeting, Grayson.”
“Does that mean you’re not coming?”
“I am coming.” I locked my brush into its box. “But I think you need to find
some new people to add to your ‘cabinet’ since I won’t be able to go to all these
meetings with you when I’m at Stanford.”
“You can if I buy the plane tickets.” He kissed me. “You can also fly with me
this weekend to New York if you like.”
I couldn't help but laugh. This was Grayson's tenth time asking me to join
him in New York for a weekend of workout sessions. Since New York's team
held the first choice in the draft and was in desperate need of a quarterback, him
landing there for his first season was a foregone conclusion.
“I need you to be as focused as possible when you’re there,” I said.
“Speaking of which, I made you something for your future condo.” I pulled a
pink box from under my bed and handed it to him.
“More donuts?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Open it.”
He untied the satin ribbon and pulled the top off the box. He pulled out a
smaller box and tore off the pink tissue paper.
"Coffee mugs." He ran his finger across the blue and gray sentences on the
back side and read them aloud. They were all quotes that gave a timeline of our
relationship—everything from, "Are you, Charlotte Taylor?" "You still haven't
given me your phone number," and, "I think I'm falling in love with you."
On the front of the mug were the words, “Yes, I’m that good” in huge bold
print, with a small black and white picture of him kissing me stamped within the
two “O” letters.
He remained silent for a long time.
“I know this gift is super simple.” I got the sudden feeling the wasn’t as
enthused about these as me. “But since you and Kyle never had any actual coffee
mugs in your apartment and we always had to use red cups, I thought this would
be a good idea. Especially now that you drink coffee as much as I do.”
He set the box on the dresser and then he stared at me.
“You could at least say something,” I said. “I hand-painted each letter onto
those and it took me twenty drafts to get them right.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“Well, fine.” I crossed my arms. “I’ll send you off to New York with a box of
donuts and maybe—” My sentence ended on his lips.
“I fucking love you, Charlotte.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
SUBJECT: :-(
Grayson,
I haven’t heard from you in three weeks. Please call me back.
Love you,
Charlotte
SUBJECT: REALLY?
I just saw you on TV and you looked right at your phone, Grayson. Call me,
please.
Charlotte
GRAYSON: THEN
ME: I WANT TO FLY TO California and see you next week. What’s the best
day to come?
ME: Charlotte?
ME: Charlotte, it’s been over a week since I texted you. Can you text/call me
back?
SUBJECT: REALLY?
Charlotte, please answer me.
Grayson
SHE NEVER SHOWED UP for the draft night or returned my calls, but that
didn't stop me from calling her every day for several weeks in a row. I sent her
emails and text messages, and they all went unanswered. Her friends refused to
talk to me. Nadira wouldn’t even make eye contact with me when I ran into her
at JFK airport.
After a month of confusion, I called Stanford one morning. I was determined
to get ahold of her since every flower delivery I’d sent to her address came back
returned. Their phone attendants passed me around from department to
department before finally passing me off to a donation line.
“How much would you like to donate to the Stanford Alumni Fund, sir?” a
woman asked. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
"I'm not calling to donate. I'm looking for—" I paused. "I'm looking for my
fiancée who I haven't heard from in a while. I would appreciate it if you all
would stop sending me from line to line and help me, so I can figure out what
the hell is going on. Please."
“Okay.” She let out a sigh. “I can pull up the registered student directory for
you, but that’s all I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your fiancée’s full name, sir?”
“Charlotte Marie Taylor.”
“And you’re sure she’s enrolled here?”
“One hundred percent positive.” I heard the sound of a tapping keyboard.
"There's no student named Charlotte Taylor, sir,” she said. "There aren't any
students here named Charlotte at all."
What? “She accepted Stanford’s offer.” I shook my head. “I was with her
when she shipped her things and she sent me pictures of the campus.”
“Sir, all I can tell you is that Charlotte Marie Taylor is not listed as a student
here,” she said. “And even that is too much information without knowing who
you are. I have to go.” She ended the call.
I called the other law schools that accepted Charlotte.
I called the art schools. I called her advisor. Her parents. Her friends.
No one knew anything. So they claimed.
I spent countless nights unable to sleep because I had no idea why the hell
she would ghost me and I wasn't sure how to deal with the unfamiliar ache in my
chest.
Present Day
New York City
“HERE YOU ARE.” A BARISTA set two fresh lattes on the table at Rosy-gan
Café. “Let me know if you two need anything else tonight.”
Charlotte brought her cup to her lips, still avoiding direct eye contact with
me. We’d been sitting here for an hour, and the only words we’d exchanged were
“Hello,” and “Hi.” Occasionally, a song we both knew came over the speakers
and we’d make eye contact and smile, but that was it.
I’d spent my entire weekend writing down the events that transpired after our
senior year, trying to see if I could find anything that changed my line of
thinking that she was the one who left me. I couldn’t find a single thing, though.
As much as I wanted us to rebuild what we had, I knew we couldn’t do that
anymore. She didn’t trust me, and I knew she wasn’t going to agree to meet me
for another Tuesday night of silence.
Reaching over the table, I tugged at the numerous charms on her bracelet.
There was an easel, a gavel, a calendar with the word Tuesday etched across the
top, numerous coffee cups, donuts, a television with Friends etched onto the
screen, and a baby block.
My heart dropped.
“What’s wrong?” She finally spoke.
“I owe you a huge apology.”
"Yes..." Her hazel eyes looked hopeful, as if she'd been waiting for me to say
that for years. "But for what?"
“For assuming you didn’t have any kids.” I tugged at the yellow block. “I
also apologize for thinking that your first child was always meant to be mine.
Then again, I guess I should’ve known you would find someone else to start a
family with after all this time.”
I couldn’t stop tugging at the block. “How old is the child? And is it a boy or
a girl?”
She didn’t say a word.
“Charlotte?” I looked up and noticed her face was ghost-white. “Charlotte,
what’s wrong?”
“You said my first child should’ve been yours?”
“I wasn’t trying to offend you. That’s just what I’ve always thought.”
“I thought you were—You said that...” She stammered, her eyes going wide.
“Didn’t you tell me that—” She grabbed her coat and stood to her feet.
“You’re leaving?”
“No, I just need some air.” She started to walk away, but she sat down again.
“I’m confused, Grayson.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said. “Maybe we should just do this a different
day.”
“No.” She gripped my wrist. “I’m confused about what you said about me
having a child.”
“I understand why you moved on.” I tried to sound like I meant that. “Down
the line, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to meet him—or her. You still have yet to
tell me if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“I don’t have any kids, Grayson.” Tears fell down her face. “The one child I
had was yours, and I told you that.”
“Had?” I leaned back against my seat. “What are you saying?”
“I called you so many times.” Her voice cracked. “So many times.”
“Wait, wait.” I moved to her side of the table and wrapped my arm around
her shoulders, pulling her close. “That can’t be true. I promise I never heard
from you.”
“Because you chose not to. You chose to move on with your life like I never
meant anything to you.”
“That’s not true either.” I wiped tears from her eyes. “Charlotte, please
explain what you’re saying to me about the word ‘had’ and a baby. And I need to
know why you still think I walked away from you, when it was definitely vice
versa...”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
I SET MY PHONE DOWN and picked up the pregnancy test, staring at the two
blue lines. This was my tenth test this week and the result was the same as all the
others. Suddenly, my plans for getting through Stanford seemed insignificant,
and I was thinking about moving to New York so Grayson could help me raise
our child.
Unsure of what to do next, I didn't tell any of my friends or family. I wanted
Grayson to know first, and I wanted him to be with me, even if it was just for a
day.
I continued calling his phones—his old line, his new business line, his new
personal line. He never answered, never returned a call. I sent him an email and
carbon-copied his agent on it hoping for better results.
STILL NO RESPONSE.
After three days passed, I began looking up flights to New York, but I
received a “We’re on our way. Be at your place in an hour” text from Anna and
felt a slight tinge of relief. I rushed home to make sure I’d be there when they
arrived, but when they arrived, it wasn’t “they” at all. Only Anna.
“So, you’re pregnant?” she asked, barging into my living room.
I nodded. “Is Grayson with you?”
“No.” She tossed her bag onto my couch. “No, he is not with me, but he sent
me to see you once he got your message.”
“Okay...So, is he coming tomorrow or another day?”
“He's not coming at all." She looked sympathetic and tapped a few things on
her phone. "He's trying to move on and focus on his career, but he promised that
he’ll fix this as long as you can prove that it's his. So, how much do you want for
it?”
“It?”
“Yes. ‘It’ as in the albatross that’s currently growing inside your stomach. 'It'
as in the anchor that you're hoping to tie around his neck in hopes of getting him
to come back to you, even though it’ll probably never happen. Just say the
amount and he promises to pay it.”
My heart dropped. “That’s what he said?”
“No, what he said was far crueler, but I would never repeat that.” She
shrugged.
I stared at her.
“The quicker you tell me, the better. Of course, if you’re going to seek child
support, you'll need to keep the lovechild a secret. Don't think about writing any
books or going on any speaking tours."
“You can leave now, Anna.”
"A few last things," she said. "Grayson wants to make sure that you're not
taking advantage of him and his future earnings, so you'll need to send me the
ultrasound picture to confirm that you are pregnant. You'll also need to agree to
go to a DNA lab of his choosing to make sure that the child is his and not
someone else's." She picked up her purse and headed to the door. “So, just to
recap, I’ll draw up the paperwork whenever there’s proof of your—” She
glanced at my stomach and rolled her eyes. “Pregnancy. Unless of course—”
I slammed the door in her face.
SUBJECT: WITHDRAWAL
Dear Stanford Admissions Team,
My name is Charlotte Taylor and I would like to thank you for awarding me
the Honors Fellowship for my full term at your university. Unfortunately, due to
personal reasons, I am withdrawing from the program in hopes that someone
else will be able to take advantage of such an incredible opportunity.
Thank you for understanding,
Charlotte M. Taylor
SUBJECT: ACCEPTANCE
Dear Ketchikan-Alaska Art Fellowship Admissions,
Thank you for considering my late application. I am honored to gain
acceptance into your one-year program and this email serves as my official
commitment statement.
Thank you,
Charlotte M. Taylor
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
Present Day
New York City
SUBJECT: URGENT.
Anna,
Meet me at my condo. Now.
—Grayson
Present Day
New York City
DEAR CHARLOTTE,
I met you on a Tuesday.
Became your best friend, then your lover, on a Tuesday.
And if I’m timing this right, you’ll receive this letter on a Tuesday.
I’m going to do my best to keep this simple.
1.) I’m still in love with you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever
met—inside and out, and the day I fell for you, I knew no one else would ever
stand a chance. Seven years later, this still holds true.
2.) I miss you and I have missed you. During my first season, when I won the
Offensive Rookie of the Year Award (Was there ever any doubt I would win this?)
I wanted nothing more than to look out into the crowd and see you standing
there. During my second season, when I won The Most Valuable Player Award
for the regular season, I wished that you were sitting next to me at the ceremony.
Not Anna, not Kyle, not my teammates. You. (For brevity purposes, and since
you haven’t been watching me on the field: you should know that I’ve won an
award every single season. (Because yes, I’m that good :-)) And every single
time I felt as if someone was missing from the moment.)
3.) I want to be with you. Period. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I
saw you in Pittsburgh, haven’t been able to get through a single day without
wondering what you’re up to, and I don’t want to go another day without having
you by my side again.
If you feel the same and if you think what we had in the past is worth a
second chance, please write me back and let me know.
I’ll wish you well and I’ll still love you no matter what you choose.
Grayson
PS—Is the name of your café & art gallery (“Rosy-gan”) an anagram for my
name or is that a coincidence?
PSS—I wanted to call you and say all of this over the phone, but I forgot to
ask for your current phone number. (What’s the wait time on getting that from
you these days? :) )
CHARLOTTE: ON A TUESDAY
Present Day
New York City
Epilogue
Two years later
Epilogue
Two years later
I WRAPPED THE LAST of today’s canvas orders and made sure I’d signed my
name on their boxes in bright, pink ink. Within the past two years, Rosy-gan
Cafés & Galleries had become one of the top ten gallery collectives in the city.
I’d gone from owning eight locations to sixteen, and my team was composed of
some of the most talented artists in the world.
Our art was displayed in over twenty international hotels, and we were
receiving design requests from corporate businesses by the hundreds. We also
had a new, twenty-year contract with the National Football League to paint ten-
foot portraits of each season’s MVP.
“Are you guys still open?” a soft voice called across the showroom.
I set down a box and headed downstairs. “No, we’re actually about to—
Nadira?” I walked over and hugged her. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to buy some of your art.”
“You hate my art.”
She laughed. “No, I hated your last collection. I love everything else.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming into town?” I asked. “I could have
made dinner reservations.”
“I’ll remember that next time.”
“Did you fly all the way here because you really think I won’t tell Grayson
I’m pregnant?” I asked. “Because I’m going to do it tonight. I promise.”
She didn’t answer. She simply smiled and walked over to my work-in-
progress.
Before I could ask her how long she’d be in town, my parents walked inside.
Then Eric. Then Kyle.
What the...
“You all know the hours of my gallery.” I crossed my arms. “You all also
know that I’m not done with your orders from this month, so if this is your
sneaky way of banding together and forcing me to put your orders in front of my
paying customers, then you have another thing coming.”
Nadira and Eric looked at each other and laughed. My parents shook their
heads and gave me their typical, “Oh, Charlotte...”
“So, wait,” Kyle said. “If that was our intention tonight, does that mean it’s
possible that I can get my MVP portrait sooner? Because, I mean, I can totally
rethink my presence here and I’ve already cleared the space in my condo for the
replica version.”
Nadira slapped the back of his head.
“Is it someone’s birthday, then?” I asked, glancing at the calendar on the
wall. It was October sixteenth, a Tuesday—and that date didn’t apply to any of
their birthdays or milestones.
They ignored my question and started talking amongst themselves, leaving
me beyond confused.
I pulled out my phone to ask Grayson if I’d somehow forgotten about an
important event, but he suddenly walked through the doors, making me lose my
train of thought. It still amazed me that after all these years, he was still capable
of making me blush at the very sight of him. That I never failed to feel a
magnetic pull in his direction when he entered a room.
“Hey.” I walked over to him and kissed his lips. “Am I forgetting something?
Why is everyone here?”
“Because they all know I was supposed to do this nine years ago.”
This? I turned around and looked at them, but they were now staring at me.
“Grayson, what—” I gasped when I turned around and saw him getting down
on one knee. His ocean blue eyes were locked on mine, and he looked more
nervous now than I’d ever seen him.
“Charlotte Taylor...” He grabbed my hand and kept his voice low. “The past
two years have been the best two years of my life, and I know for a fact that the
seven before never felt quite right because you weren’t in the picture.”
Tears welled in my eyes as he pulled a box from his pocket.
“I fell in love with you months after we met in college, and I knew then that
you were the only one for me.” He squeezed my hand. “You are undoubtedly the
love of my life, and I want to be with you forever. I know you always need
weeks to give me an answer to my questions, but I’m hoping you’ll make an
exception for this one. Will you—”
“Yes.” I didn’t give him a chance to finish. “Yes.”
—The End—
A Letter to the Reader
Arizona Turner has been my best friend since fourth grade, even when we
“hated” each other. We’ve been there for one another through first kisses, first
“times,” and we’ve been each other’s constant when good relationships turned
bad. (We even went to colleges that were minutes away from each other...)
Throughout the years, and despite what anyone says, we’ve never crossed the
line.
Just friends.
We’re just friends.
I’m only saying this until I figure out if she’s still “just” my best friend...
Carter
I CAN STILL REMEMBER, with the type of clarity that makes the hairs on the
back of my neck stand up, the very beginning of bullshit. At least, in my own
life.
I was ten years old, and my parents— “The James at 1100 Joyce Avenue,”
were holding a fundraiser in our home. In the middle of the thousand-dollar-a-
plate dinner, my father decided to give an unnecessary speech.
There he was—six foot four, genuine American blue eyes, and genuinely
greedy, talking about how he wanted to invest in healthier menus for the kids in
school. He also wanted to help invest in better disciplinary ideals since he knew
of a certain child (it was me) who couldn’t stay out of trouble to save his life.
Still, none of those ideals warranted the bullshit label—the next ones did: As
he was toasting to all of his sponsors in the room, he lifted his glass and said, “I
consider everyone here tonight to be a friend of mine. If you’re not a friend, it’s
only because you’re family, and family is forever. The main reason I’m saying
this right now is because my own late father taught me a very important lesson
that has stuck with me for all these years: Some people come into your life for a
reason, some a season, and some a lifetime.”
There was loud applause, lots of cheering and heartfelt “So true...So true...”
responses tossed around the room at that moment. And then an older man
stooped down to my level and said, “Your father is right, you know? Remember
everything he just said.”
“What did he just say?”
“He said some people come into your life for a reason, some a season, and
some a lifetime.” He smiled. “You should keep that in mind as much as you can
in your life.” He winked at me and walked away.
I didn’t know it then, but my father and his fickle follower had practically
predicted my future...
A few years after he gave that speech, he must’ve figured he’d obliged his
“reason” in me and my mom’s life because he left us both. Several years after
that, my mother decided her “season” of motherhood was done, and decided that
she was tired of being a mom—that her real calling could be found in smoke
bars and casinos. As far as for ‘a lifetime,’ I could only think of one person who
ever came close...
Fourth Grade
Carter
I SMILED AND HANDED the letter to my mom, hoping that this time would
be the charm—that she wouldn’t make me rewrite it all over again.
I was beyond tired of Arizona getting me into trouble and laughing about it.
She thought she was so smart because she knew the answers to all the questions
in class, but I knew them, too. Especially because I knew where our teacher kept
the answer key and I always stole it at lunchtime.
My parents knew her parents personally because they always had to go to
conferences about me “picking on her” and “making her cry,” but no one
believed me when I told them that she was the one who started it.
She always started it...
“Carter...” My mom took a deep breath and shook her head. “This is a
terrible letter. It’s worse than the last three you wrote.”
“How? I didn’t call Arizona any names this time. I just said I wanted her to
die.”
“You don’t think you’re hurting her feelings whenever you call her ugly?”
“She is ugly.”
“She’s not ugly.” My father stepped into the room. “Now, those braces in her
mouth might be, but as a whole? She’s pretty cute.”
“Seriously?” My mom glared at him, and he laughed.
“Sorry.” He walked over and patted me on the back. “It’s not nice to call
someone ugly, son. No matter how much you hate her. You’ve got to stop letting
this Arizona girl get to you. This is the fifth time this year you’ve gotten in
trouble.”
“Eighth time.” My mother corrected him. “He pushed her off the swings
when she was in mid-air last week.”
My father looked at me. “And what did you do this time?”
I didn’t answer him. I looked down at the floor instead.
“He stood up in the middle of a math test and said, I hate you, Arizona,” my
mom said. “He then proceeded to grab the poor girl’s test paper, ball it up, and
throw it across the room. He missed and knocked his teacher’s favorite glass
pens to the floor.”
Shaking his head, my dad sighed. “Just stop talking to this girl, okay? Don’t
even look her way. You’re going to have to learn to ignore her, no matter what.
Something tells me she won’t be a ‘lifetime’ person for you anyway. She’s just
seasonal, so she’ll go away soon. Trust me.”
“Glad to see you finally acting like an adult about this.” My mom ripped my
letter in half and focused her attention on me. “Now, sit down and write a nice
letter to your teacher, an even nicer one to Arizona, and tell her that you’re not
going to be mean to her anymore. Try to think of something nice to say, too.
Maybe mention something about those pretty dresses she always wears?”
I groaned, but I picked up my pen and wrote.
It took me five more letters to get it right since she made me take out the
words “stupid,” “hate,” and “die,” but I finally got it perfect around midnight.
Then I promised myself that after I gave Arizona my letter tomorrow, I would
never ever speak to her again.
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, I set the sorry note on my teacher’s desk super
early and walked down the farthest row—plopping down in the very last seat.
Then I took out my homework and tried to finish a few more math questions
before class started.
I counted four times seven on my fingers and saw Arizona taking the seat
next to me.
“Good morning, Carter,” she said.
I pretended that I didn’t hear her.
“Carter?” She tapped my shoulder and I wrote twenty- eight on my paper.
“Hello?” She tapped my shoulder even harder. “Carter? Carter?”
“WHAT?!” I finally looked at her.
“Don’t you have something for me today? Something nice and important?”
She smiled her huge mouth of metal.
Ugh. She’s so ugly... “Nope.”
“Your mom didn’t make you write me another ‘I’m very sorry’ note?” She
crossed her arms. “Because that’s exactly what she told my mom on the phone
this morning.”
“Well, your mom must be deaf and dumb because I didn’t write anything for
you.”
“What?” She gasped. “Take that back or I’ll snitch!”
“Go ahead and snitch!” I shrugged, waiting for her to raise her hand and tell
on me like always.
She didn’t. She just stared at me. Then she reached into her pocket and
tossed a folded note onto my desk.
I wanted to crumple it into a ball and throw it right at her face like I should
have done yesterday, but I opened it instead and read.
DEAR CARTER,
I am sorry that I made you act bad and break Miss Carpenter’s pens
yesterday, but I am not sorry that I HATE you. You are ugly and you talk
way too much. That’s why I always get you in trouble because you can’t
shut up and you think you know everything BUT YOU DON’T! I really
wish you will get hit by a bus one day soon because you suck. You suck A
LOT.
Not Sincerely,
Arizona
Erotic Romances:
Contemporary Romances
Sincerely, Carter
Sincerely, Arizona
Forget You, Ethan*
The Beautiful Series*