You should come root for me in person.
—Grayson
I STARED AT HIS EMAIL, trying to think of a viable excuse to get out of going, but I couldn’t think of one.
Wait. I don’t have my car today.
Before I could tell him that Nadira was using my car, so I didn’t have a ride to the game, he sent me another message.
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
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RIDE.
You’re welcome. By the way, I think now is the right time for you to finally give me your phone number.
—Grayson
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Ride.
I’ll think about it.
—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
“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT, Charlotte.” My latest ex-boyfriend yelled at me over the phone. “I give you an extra month to consider moving in with me, and you dump me instead?”
“I’m very sorry, Craig,” I said. “I just don’t think this is going to work out, and I think I should be honest with myself and do it sooner rather than later.”
“You could have at least given me the news in person, preferably on a different day that wasn’t my birthday. Today is my birthday! I now see exactly why you never get past the six-month mark with your boyfriends. It’s not because you don’t trust easily, or because you’ve been hurt so badly before. It’s because you’re a fucking cunt.”
I ended the call and he sent me a new thread of text messages.
CRAIG: C-U-N-T. CUNT! You. Are. A. Cunt.
CRAIG: I was going to ask you to marry me. Glad I found out you’re a heartless bitch first ...
CRAIG: Please disregard my last two messages. They were out of anger, and I think you’re just being wishy-washy because you’re afraid of commitment. I know deep down you love me and I love you, too. Call me when you’ve thought everything through.
I blocked his number and looked outside the backseat windows of my cab. Today was the fourth day in a row that I couldn’t bring myself to drive to and from work. Ever since I saw Grayson in Pittsburgh, I’d had trouble sleeping. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw him sitting across from me in that café.
Tears fell down my face as I remembered the way he looked when I told him where I lived. I was trying to convince myself that was exactly what I needed for closure. That maybe after seeing him looking as hurt as he’d once hurt me, that I would finally be able to let him go.
Over the past seven years, I did my best to give other men a chance, but they all paled in comparison. The standard Grayson set was impossibly high, and no matter how many times I tried to let go and ‘fall’ for someone else, nothing more than a faint feeling ever came.
“Okay, we’re here.” The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “That’ll be thirty-five dollars and seventy-four cents, Miss.”
“Thank you.” I handed him two twenties and held a newspaper over my head before stepping out and rushing up the steps of my brownstone.
Rushing right into my parlor room, I did what I always did to make myself feel better: Paint. I unpacked my bag of brushes and filled a few cups with water. I took out my easel, but before I could set it up, there was a knock on my door.
Craig?
I walked over to the door, prepared to say, "I am sorry about dumping you over the phone. Oh, and Happy Birthday," but when I opened it, I found myself face to face with a red-faced Grayson. Dressed in jeans and a drenched gray shirt that was clinging to his muscles.
My heart jumped out of my chest at the sight of him, and I lost my train of thought.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.
“Stalking is a crime, Mr. Connors.” I stepped under my brownstone’s awning and shut the door behind me. “Don’t make me call the police.”
“You’re not going to call the police.” He clenched his jaw. “Is now a good time?”
“Never would be better.”
“Charlotte.”
“Grayson.”
A loud round of thunder roared in the distance, but we didn’t move. We continued staring at each other as the rain fell harder.
“I’m going to give you five seconds to invite me inside your house,” he said.
“I can hear you just fine from right here.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the door. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer. He waited for exactly five seconds, and then he stepped forward and grabbed me by my waist, picking me up and tossing me over his shoulder. He opened the door and carried me inside, quickly setting me down in the hallway before locking the door behind us.
“Where’s your living room?” he asked.
“Breaking and entering is also a crime,” I said. “You’re two for two.”
“So, you still have a smart-ass mouth.” His eyes were on mine. “Good to know something I liked about you hasn’t changed.”
“Too bad I can’t say the same for you.”
Silence.
“Can we try to talk again?” he said.
“No, I’ll pass on that. That went terribly wrong last time, but I wonder why.”
“Probably because the woman I’ve been looking for, for years, has been in the same goddamn city as me this whole time and never said a fucking thing about it.”
“Don’t come in my house and curse at me like that.” I glared at him, hating that he was capable of making me feel so many different emotions at once. “You have ten minutes to say whatever the hell you have to say and then I want you to leave.”
I walked into the living room, feeling him close behind me. I stood by my windows, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t say a word. He stared at me for several seconds and looked around. Then he walked into my kitchen and opened my cabinets one by one.
Without asking for permission, he made two cups of coffee. He added caramel syrup, sugar, whipped cream, and then one final drizzle of caramel on top—the exact way I liked it, before handing one of the mugs to me.
“Thank you,” I said softly.” Now you have six minutes.”
“Okay, look.” He set down his coffee, keeping his eyes on mine. “I haven’t been able to sleep since I saw you in Pittsburgh. Have you?”
“I have. My sleep has never been better.”
He ignored my lies. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I think you owe it to me, to tell me why you left me senior year without any explanation.” He pressed his finger against my lips before I could interrupt. “You owe it to us. I’m spending my offseason here in New York and I would like it if we could meet up a few times to go over some things. Can you give me that?”
“No.” I pushed his hand away from my mouth and shook my head. “No, I can’t do that for you.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I don’t owe you anything, and you can’t walk back into my life and think that things can go back to how they used to be when you’re the one who messed them up in the first place. You, Grayson. Not me. I guess now that you’re tired of screwing A-list actresses and supermodels, you want to go on a self-redemption tour? Can you hear how insane you sound right now?” My chest heaved up and down and hot tears fell down my cheeks.
He stepped closer and wiped them away with his fingertips. “Since when do you believe what people write in the tabloids?”
“Two minutes.” I looked away from him. “I hope whatever else you have to say is short because I’ve heard enough.”
He gently cupped my face and tilted my chin so I was facing him again. “We both know I’m not going to stop pursuing you, so even if I leave today, I’ll be right back here tomorrow.”
I let out a breath, remembering just how long he pursued me our senior year. "What do you want from me, Grayson?"
“To see you again, maybe just for a few times this week so I can—” He paused. “I would prefer not to let you go again, but if that’s not possible, I would like to finally know what I did to you so I can have definite answers about why we ended. I’m sure you would like some final closure, too.”
I would. “I can’t meet you multiple times in one week.”
“Is it because of your job?” He looked around my living room. “Did you end up going into art or law?”
“None of your business.” My heart ached. “It’s not because of my job, though. It’s because I don’t think I can handle seeing you that often. How about once every six months?”
“How about, I don’t think so.” He narrowed his eyes at me, but his expression slowly softened. “Once a week.”
br /> “Once a month.” I felt my heart begging me to accept ‘once a week’ but she’d failed me in the past when it came to Grayson and I wasn’t going to let her steer me down a path of pain again. “I can do once a month.”
“For how many months?”
“Four.”
“Fine.” He looked upset, but he didn’t push it any further. “Can I trust you not to stand me up?”
“If I do, you know where I live.”
A faint smile crossed his lips, but he didn’t let it stay. “Where would you prefer to meet?”
“Rosy-gan Café near Central Park. The first week of every month.”
“In the morning?”
“Evening,” I said. “The owner will let us pay in advance to keep it open late if need be.”
“Okay.” He stepped back. “Is my time up now?”
I hesitated to answer. By the way he was looking at me, I almost gave in and told him that I was having problems sleeping as well. That we should just catch up right here, right now. But the second I remembered how wounded and raw he left me at the end of our relationship, I couldn’t bring myself to say that.
I opened the front door. “So, we’ll meet once a month, four months only, and we'll both get the much-needed closure and leave each other alone?"
He didn’t answer that.
“That’s the agreement, right, Grayson?” I repeated, but he still didn’t answer. I stepped back so he could walk past me.
“Wait,” I touched his arm before he walked into the rain. “On what day are we meeting?”
He tilted his head to the side, and the sexy smile that still invaded my dreams at night spread across his face. “I’m sure you already know the answer to that.”
GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
New York City
OUR FIRST NEW TUESDAY came weeks later, and I wasn't the slightest bit surprised that Charlotte never showed.