On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

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.”