On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

“Something like that.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Well, for one, you’re full of yourself, cocky, and you tend to play women like pawns on a chessboard. That, and I’m pretty sure that you think you're God’s gift to women. So, yes. You have offended me previously. Now, which Literature courses are you taking this semester?”

“Not so fast,” he said, locking his blue eyes onto mine. “I think I deserve a chance to respond to that.”

I tried to think of something sarcastic to say and beat him to it, but he continued before I could speak.

“First of all," he said, “I am full of myself, but I have every reason to be.” He pointed to the bright blue and gold championship banners that were hanging above the bar. “I’ve earned this university one of those every year and I believe I won the Heisman Trophy last year, correct?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You would.” He leaned closer. “Second of all, I’m not sure I’d agree with me being 'cocky' but if your definition means that I’m well aware of how fucking good I am—both on and off the field—” He paused, looking me up and down. “Then feel free to call me that whenever you want.”

“You know what?” I felt my cheeks betraying me with a blush. “Let’s just get to work.”

“Third of all,” he continued, ignoring me. “I’m not even sure what type of metaphor you were going for with that chessboard line, but I’ve never used girls like pawns on a chessboard. I've just never believed in dating or girlfriends, and I make it perfectly clear what someone is getting when they're with me.”

“How romantic.”

“And lastly,” he said, as that familiar smirk returned to his lips. “I don’t think I’m God’s gift to women. I know that for a fact.”

“Please tell me you’re joking right now.”

“We both know I’m not.” He winked at me, and I was certain I was having an out of body experience, because I felt my cheeks reddening again.

“Anyway,” I said, finally. “Which Literature courses are you taking this semester?”

"As of today, these." He handed me a printout of his schedule and I looked at it. He had Creative Writing Appreciation, Modern Expressionism: Women’s Words in Post-Modern Literature, & Hidden Feminist Themes in Contemporary Works.

So he’s a feminist? Perfect.

“Okay, well ...” I uncapped my highlighter. “If you give me ten minutes, I can go over what I think our best course of action will be between now and next week.”

“What year are you?” he asked.

I ignored his question, looking up his first course and pulling up the syllabus online. I was scrolling through the required books, when he pushed the screen of my laptop forward—forcing me to look up at him.

“Yes?”

“What year are you?” he repeated.

“I’m a senior,” I said. “Why?”

“No reason.” He returned my screen to its place and leaned back in his seat.

I tried my best to ignore the fact that he was eyeing my every move, that his smile was even more alluring up close. I pulled up all three of his course syllabi—making sure that no major components were due during the next few weeks.

“Okay,” I said, handing his schedule back to him. “Next week, you need to make sure you’ve bought all the required books and read the first of three essays for the Creative Writing Appreciation course. The other two courses can’t be addressed until you have the books. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Several.”

“I’m listening.”

“When did you transfer to Pitt?” He looked genuinely confused. “There’s no way you’ve been here since your freshman year.”

“I was referring to questions about your courses. Those are the only questions I’m obligated to answer, Mr. Connors.”

“I see, Miss Taylor.” He smiled as if he wasn’t fazed by my rudeness at all. “So, the only thing I need to do between today and next Tuesday is buy the course books?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re meeting here at the exact same time?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have your phone number?”

“Never.”

He laughed and stood to his feet. “Okay, Charlotte. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“See you on Tuesday.”

HOURS LATER, I RUSHED down Forbes Avenue as my skirt fluttered against the wind. Thanks to the freshman who’d taken it upon herself to “accidentally” ring the fire alarm in our dorm, I’d spent the last two hours filling out paperwork with an angry fire chief, and I was now five minutes late for my date.

A hot Californian guy from my Humanities class, Peter Davidson was everything that most guys at this university weren’t: Kind, thoughtful, compassionate, and capable of having long and thought-provoking conversations.

I stopped in front of Kiva Han and smoothed my hair before walking inside. I looked around for Peter and spotted him waiting in a corner booth.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down. “Freshman dorm drama.”

“No worries.” He slid a cup of coffee toward me. “You look pretty today.”