On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

“I thought it was my turn to drive.”

“No offense,” she said, looking as if she couldn’t believe I offered. “I’m never getting in a car with you behind the wheel again. Not until you go one full year without getting a speeding ticket.”

“I can’t remember the last time I got a speeding ticket.”

“You got two last week, Charlotte. Last. Week.”

“Fine.” I laughed and headed toward the door.

“Wait,” Nadira called before I stepped out. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said about you just being friends with guys this year. The last few guys you’ve dated honestly didn’t deserve you, Peter included.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, if your current tutor-boy ever offers to go out with you, I personally think you should make an exception for the hell of it. You’ll be doing it more-so for me than for yourself.”

“Goodbye, Nadira.” I stepped out and shut the door. “See you at eight!”

GRAYSON: THEN

Seven years ago

Pittsburgh

SUBJECT: NEXT TIME You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...

How about making sure that you won’t burn down the grounds in the process?! How about ASKING your neighbors if they’ll mind having five hundred students in their streets until three in the morning?

I know damn well that this was not a “team” idea and whenever KYLE and GRAYSON want to own up to this shit, I’ll reduce the extra five daily miles you all now owe me, to three miles.

I’m waiting.

—Coach Whitten

SUBJECT: RE: NEXT TIME You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...

It was me, Coach.

Grayson had nothing to do with it this time. He didn’t even show up. Speaking of which—

Dude, where were you? I fucked like three girls from this bonfire. You probably could’ve hooked up with at least five. I don’t think I’ll need another blowjob for a month after how amazing these were.

PS—Are you back at our apartment yet? I need to tell you these stories in person when Coach isn’t acting like this shit is a big deal.

—Kyle

SUBJECT: RE: RE: NEXT Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...

Kyle,

Meet me in my office at the complex NOW.

—Coach Whitten

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?”