by Whitney G.
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
Seven years ago
Pittsburgh
MY ASSIGNED PARTNER in Criminal Courts and Judicial Processes was making me question Pitt’s admissions process. The son of a retired sheriff, he’d spent our first week bragging about how easy Pre-Law was thus far, and how he’d skated through all the required courses without ever completing any of the summer reading. He told me that he was going to “totally wing” his part of our project that was due at the end of the semester, and when I asked him what type of law he wanted to pursue after college, he said, “the courtroom kind.”
Dressed in his pajamas, he stood at the front of the classroom and attempted to bullshit his way through a mock trial with our professor. With each answer that dropped from his lips, I was thanking the universe that his grade on this wasn’t tied to mine.
“Given all the evidence against me,” he said, “I would like to plead the fifth.”
“For the umpteenth time, this is a mock arraignment, Mr. Brandon.” My professor sighed. “You can only plead guilty, not guilty, or no contest. We won’t get to the mock trial part until later this semester. So, now that we’ve covered Courtroom Ru
les:101 again—how would you like to plead?”
He didn’t answer.
“Mr. Brandon, can you please enter your plea so we can move on?”
“This is a trick question, isn’t it?” He smiled, and then he cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I would now like to call my first witness to the stand.”
Jesus ...
I couldn’t listen to this anymore. I held my phone under the desk, ready to scroll through my Facebook newsfeed, but I noticed a new email from Grayson.
Subject: A Question.
I need to ask you something.
—Grayson
Subject: Re: A Question.
My answer will probably be no. Does that help?
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: A Question.
This question isn’t about you.
I’m looking over my description for a sorority’s charity dating auction. One of the lines on my bio says I have a “smile that can make any woman’s panties wet.” So, my question is: Do you think that’s accurate? (More specifically, have I ever made you wet?)
—Grayson
Oh my god.
I could feel my cheeks heating and I looked up to make sure no one was paying attention.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: A Question.
Answers: Hell no. Hell no.
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.
Your first “hell no” is quite interesting, seeing as though the president of the sorority said you personally helped her write my description last week. (I don’t think I believe your second “hell no” either.)
—Grayson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.
Stop emailing me before I block you.
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: A Question.
:-)
—Grayson
“I know my rights, Professor Turner!” Brandon’s sudden shouting made me look up. “I know my rights!”
The professor shook his head and closed his book. “You know what? I think I’m done with this case for now,” he said. “I don’t even care that we’ve only met for twenty minutes today. Class is dismissed.”
Everyone in the room quickly packed up their books and rushed toward the exit.
“I told you I would win my case.” Brandon winked at me as he picked up his backpack. “I should charge you a fee for being my partner since you're guaranteed to get an A."
I rolled my eyes and stood to my feet.
“Can I talk to you outside for a second, Miss Taylor?” My professor called.
“Sure, Mr. Turner.”
He waited until all the other students left the room, and then he shut the door. “Look. I’m starting to get requests for letters of recommendation from other students who are—” He paused. “How can I put this? Stupid. Some are even stupider than your group partner, believe it or not.”
I nearly choked on my gum.
“So, I realized it’s that unfortunate time of year again when I have to waste my precious paper and ink by pretending that I’ve had the ‘pleasure’ of teaching students who will become ineffective lawyers and run our criminal justice system into the ground. Nonetheless, you weren’t a disappointment at all, so will you be asking me to write a letter on your behalf?”
“I was considering it.”
“Good,” he said. “Which law schools are you considering?”
"Stanford, Harvard, Brown, and a few others," I said, repeating what I told my parents. "But I may take a few years off after graduation and go to art school. I may pursue my master's in that and then go to law school afterward."
“Art school?” He gave me a pointed look. “Charlotte, getting a master’s degree in art is like telling the universe that you want to be homeless and broke for the rest of your life. That’s not the life you want, trust me. You should go to law school first.”
I nodded, not sure of what to say to that.
“Your LSAT score is impeccable, your essays on criminal reform were the highlight of my year last term, and every professor who’s been lucky enough to have you in their class agrees that you’ll make one hell of a lawyer.” He looked proud. “I happen to know the admissions team at each of the schools you mentioned. Although I highly doubt you’ll have any issues getting in, I’ll be sure to make sure I proofread your recommendation letter.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t do that for the stupid students.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”
“You’re more than welcome, Miss Taylor.” He opened the door. “See you next week.”
LATER THAT EVENING, I woke up to the sound of screaming and yelling. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and slipped into my flats, hoping this was all a dream. I opened my door and spotted a group of freshmen and a stack of mattresses by the emergency exit.
What the hell?
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “What are you all doing?”
“Hey, there, Char!” Nina, the girl on our floor who had yet to grasp the concept of ‘No smoking in the dorm,’ turned around and blocked me from getting any closer. “I can call you, Char, right?”
“Charlotte works better.”
“Okay!” She shrugged. “Well, how are you feeling tonight?”
“Just tell me what you’re up to, Nina, so I’ll know when I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”
“We’re just doing mattress rides.”
“Mattress ride coming down!” The girls in the stairwell shouted, and I caught sight of long, sandy hair flying wild as a girl rode her mattress down the steps. Then I realized that girl was Nadira.
“I see.” I tried to keep a straight face. “What’s the occasion?”
“You haven’t heard? Pitt has the top two players in the country, again!” She gushed. “But it’s really because Nadira said we went a whole week without an alcohol violation. She’s proud of us and she promised she wouldn’t snitch on anything we did tonight. That means you can’t snitch on us either.”
“I wasn’t going to snitch on you for this.” I was honestly tempted to join them. “How do you know Pitt has the top two players already? ESPN’s official rankings don’t come out until next week.”
“We’re not using their rankings.” She bent down and picked up a magazine, handing it to me. “Be right back. It’s my turn!” She ventured into the stairwell and I flipped the magazine over on its front.
It was a copy of Sports Illustrated—the college football edition, and Grayson was staring straight at me with an all-American smile. Dressed in his navy-blue #4 jersey and golden pads, he was holding his Heisman Trophy in one hand and his matching helmet in the other. The top headline read “Number One, Again: Grayson Connors,” and the smaller cover lines read, “Believe the Hype,” and “Why Grayson Connors and Teammate Kyle Stanton (Number Two) are Playing the Best Football We’ve Seen in a Long Time.”
I flipped through the pages, reading what the nation’s top journalists and sportscasters were writing about him. I noticed that there weren’t any direct quotes from him, though. I remembered a sophomore-year rumor about him refusing to speak to any journalists outside of game days, but as huge as his ego was, I found the idea of him resisting the extra attention hard to believe.
Then again, my dad had told me that the second he watched Grayson’s first game, that he was a “once in a generation” type of player but he “seemed uncomfortable with the media.”
That’s probably changed by now.
“What are you doing?” Nadira panted, taking the magazine away from me. “You can masturbate to your boyfriend’s face later.”
“What did you just say?”
“It’s the alcohol talking.” She pushed me toward the stairwell. “You can help me get sober by celebrating with one mattress ride for me, and two for Grayson!”
GRAYSON: THEN
Seven years ago
Pittsburgh
I WOKE UP TO THE FAMILIAR and annoying sound of sports analysts’ voices and stumbled
out of bed. Walking into the living room, I spotted Kyle lounging on the couch in nothing but a pair of bright yellow briefs.
“You told me you were out of your SpongeBob phase,” I said. “I guess not.”
He immediately jumped up and turned off the TV. “Oh, hey. I didn’t hear you come out of your room. Did you ice your wrist?”
“Yeah.”
“Coach couldn’t get ahold of you, but he wants you to make sure you have the trainers look at it this afternoon.” He bent down and picked up a magazine, then he tossed it to me. “Sports Illustrated dumped a bunch of early copies of it off last night after our game. I think they used a good picture of you for that cover and they didn’t twist any of the words in my interview. You excited about being number one again?”
I didn’t answer him. He only talked this fast and asked this many questions when he was hiding something.
I glanced back and forth between him and the television. “Turn the TV back on,” I said. “Let me see what you were watching.”
“It was cartoons.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Okay, it wasn’t.” He looked away from me. “I don’t think now is a good time for you see this though.”
“Now, Kyle.”
He let out a sigh and clicked the remote. The screen came to life, giving view to a blue tabled press conference and I immediately regretted my request.
“Let’s make sure we’re hearing this correctly,” a reporter in a purple dress said, clutching her mic. “You’re admitting that you lied about Grayson Connors sexually assaulting you over the summer?”
"Yes," Satan's reincarnate, i.e., a girl I'd never touched, responded. She looked at the camera with fake tears falling down her face. She smoothed the sleeves of her creamy colored grandma sweater for a failed innocent effect. "My representatives have asked me to read a prepared statement and I would like to do that at this time."
My blood boiled when she pulled out a set of reading glasses and wiped away more tears.
“My name is Mia Ryan, and this past summer I filed fake and baseless allegations against Grayson Connors,” she said. “On the night of July fifteenth, I went to the Pitt Police Station and claimed that he sexually assaulted me at a private party. I made this claim at the request of a friend who’d previously dated Mr. Connors, a friend who was upset that he was not willing to make her his girlfriend.” She paused to wipe away more tears. “I had no idea that the university would spend weeks and countless resources investigating the matter. I also had no idea that my lies almost damaged Mr. Connors’ reputation and his academic standing on campus. I stand before you to say that I am sorry for what I’ve done, and I hope that you all will forgive me. I also hope that Grayson is watching and that he knows that I am sorry, and that my friend in question was simply misguided in her intense feelings for—”
