GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
New York City
“ARE YOU SEEING ANYONE new, Grayson?” “Are you dating supermodel Elizabeth Thiele again?” “Why weren’t you at the team’s Super Bowl party in Vegas?” “Grayson? Grayson!”
I ignored the annoying questions from the paparazzi and slipped into my car, slamming my foot on the gas. I made it halfway across town and called Anna.
“Yes, Grayson?” She answered on the first ring.
“Could you kindly tell the manager of my condo that I’ll terminate my contract and make it public if he doesn’t do something about letting the paparazzi into the parking garage?”
“I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“Did my official MVP picture come in from the Oats Studio yet?”
“It did. I’ll have it framed and sent over right away.”
“Thank you.” I ended the call and sped down 43rd Avenue. I was an hour early for my meeting with Charlotte, and I was determined to get her to answer my questions.
I parked my car in a private garage and paid the guard an additional hundred bucks to keep it quiet. Then I pulled a hood over my head and made my way to the Rosy-gan Café.
When I arrived, an Adele song was playing in the background, and the cacophony of New York traffic was hitting notes of its own outside the windows.
There were no customers inside today, only employees who were hanging new art onto the walls. I wasn’t sure why I hadn't noticed it the day she stood me up, but the pictures they were hanging were undoubtedly hers. The pictures were all variations of coffee and rain, couples on football fields, and Pittsburgh bridges.
I looked over each one, wondering if she’d attended art school first instead of law school after all.
By the time I ordered my second cup of coffee, I noticed that Charlotte was half an hour late. I was tempted to leave now and head to her house, but I decided to give her another thirty minutes.
Five minutes later, she walked into the café and stopped at the counter for a latte. She plopped down in the seat across from me and unbuttoned her coat.
"You look beautiful," I said. "I've always loved you in gray."
“Thank you.” She sipped her latte. “So, what made you fuck Meredith Dawson?” she asked. “That was the first person you publicly slept with after we broke up, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or, was it Elizabeth Thieles?” She shrugged. “You two complemented each other pretty well.”
“You’ve already stood me up once and made your point, Charlotte. I don’t think you need to be hostile anymore.”
“I’m not being hostile,” she said. “If I was the one who disappeared on you and slept with tons of famous men, I’m sure you would want to know some of the details.”
“I wouldn’t.”
"Well," she said, shrugging, "I guess that’s where we’re different. So, tell me. Was she a virgin, too?”
I blinked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was. I picture you collecting V-cards like your MVP trophies—that’s clearly all you wanted from me.”
“Cut the shit, Charlotte.” I’d had enough. “You know damn well that isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” There were tears welling in her eyes. “If you ever write a book about your life story, I’ll appreciate it if you put in a section about how much you used me and then left me when I wasn’t of value to you anymore.”
“Stop this.” I grabbed her hand. “Please.”
She slowly moved her hand away from mine and sighed. “I’m sorry. I meant to start by telling you congratulations on winning the Super Bowl and the MVP trophy.”
“Thank you, but I honestly don’t care about any of that right now.” I stood up and extended my hand. “Let’s talk outside.”
I expected her to say no, but she nodded and put on her coat. She didn’t take my hand, though. She only motioned for me to lead the way.
We stepped onto the trail that led into Central Park and I resisted the urge to pull her against my side.
“Did you watch the Super Bowl?” I asked.
“No. I read about it the next day, though.”
“I see.” I wasn’t sure why her saying that cut deep, but I didn’t let it show. “Should I assume that you don’t go to any of the games as well?”
“Yes.” She looked up at me. “Football was one of the other things I started to lose love for over the years.”
Silence.
I stopped in front of a park bench and waited for her to sit down. I brushed off all the hostile words she’d said and faced her. “Are you a professional artist now?”
“I am.”
“Did you ever go to law school?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because—” She forced a smile. “Because the man I thought I was in love with at the time helped me to see that my heart belonged in art. My art is in all the Rosy-gan cafes.” She continued. “And I own a few art galleries in this city. What about you? Did you ever go into the NFL?” She let out a fake laugh. “I’m kidding.”
“I’m aware.” I was resisting the urge to close the gap between us. "I didn't sleep with anyone for an entire year after you left me, Charlotte.”
Her eyes immediately met mine.
“I didn’t sleep with those models you mentioned either,” I said. “They were staged photo ops. I wanted people to think I was off-limits when I joined the league so I wouldn’t have any distractions. But also—” I mocked her tone. “Because I thought the woman I was in love with at the time was bound to come back to me or sooner or later.”
“She tried to.”
“You never called me once.”
“I called you plenty of times.” Her face turned red. “I called you every day for weeks and you never answered.” She shook her head. “You didn’t answer one time, Grayson.”
“Charlotte, that’s not true." I was confused. "I never got any calls from you."
“I always knew you would say that.” Tears fell down her face. “You’ve probably painted me as a bitch who just disappeared so you could play the sympathy card, huh? I bet doing that made you feel better about all the pain you put me through, and I bet you took pleasure in ignoring all one hundred and seventy-two of my calls and sixty-five of my text messages. Yes, I counted. And yes, seven years later or not, I will never, ever forgive you for that. Never, Grayson.”
She began to cry, leaving me speechless.
I had no idea what calls and texts she was talking about, but I didn’t question her memory. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her against my chest.
She didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the day, and when Central Park’s lampposts turned on, I pulled her up and walked her to my car. I didn’t bother peppering her with questions during the short drive, I simply helped up her brownstone’s steps and told her I’d like to see her again next Tuesday. Not a month from now.
“I’ll try,” she said, not looking at me.
It took everything in me not to go inside with her, but I made sure she locked her door and rushed back to my car.
“Call Kyle Stanton, please," I commanded my system once I pulled off onto the street.
“This better be important.” He answered with a groan. “It’s late.”
“I need you to confirm that I’m not crazy.” I switched lanes. “Like, as my best friend, you would’ve told me if I was a long time ago, right?”
“You’re beyond crazy and I did tell you that.” He laughed. “Multiple times.”
"I'm serious, Kyle."
“No, you’re not crazy.” He cleared his throat. “But if this call is about Charlotte Taylor, I’m not drunk enough to deal with that right now. Try me tomorrow night.”
“Something isn’t adding up,” I said. “Charlotte is claiming that she called me for months. And that I was the one ignoring her, not vice versa.”