On a Tuesday

by Whitney G.

  I turned off the TV. I couldn’t take anymore, and the words, “Sorry, I falsely accused you of rape” were never going to earn any sympathy from me. Her apology would never erase the unnecessary stares and cruel text messages I received over the summer, and it would never bring back the “friends” I thought I had. The only thing I gained from this incident was clarity and the lack of a desire to deal with any other girls on this campus.

  Except one, but she didn't count.

  “Well,” Kyle said. “At least they finally made her apologize in public to make sure that no one else has any doubts about what didn’t happen, right?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.” I stepped back, still feeling anger running through my veins. “I’m going for a run.” I didn’t bother changing into my sweats. I grabbed my phone, put on my running shoes by the door, and ran in the direction of lower campus.

  I ran down Forbes Avenue, past Pitt’s campus and onto Carnegie Mellon’s grassier estate. I ran until my mind was clear, and by the time I stopped, I was in the middle of Shadyside.

  Jogging back toward campus, I stopped when I saw Charlotte lounging on one of CMU’s lawns. She was holding a paintbrush in one hand and a small canvas in the other.

  The attractive girl who was sitting right next to her looked familiar, so I stepped a bit closer and squinted. Her sandy brown hair was waving in the wind, and she was painting pink letters on top of her caramel colored skin.

  Nadira?

  I pulled out my phone to see if I still had her number from the sophomore classes we took together, but it was deleted.

  Shit.

  I wasn’t sure why one glance at Charlotte was making me think about ways I could attempt to talk to her outside of study sessions, but I stood there thinking about it for at least ten minutes.

  I sent her an email and started to head home when I figured out an offer she probably wouldn’t refuse.

  Subject: Tuesday

  Can we meet somewhere else instead of the café this Tuesday?

  —Grayson

  Subject: Re: Tuesday

  Your room is completely out of the question.

  —Charlotte

  Subject: Re: Re: Tuesday

  Then, what about your room?

  (Don’t answer that.) How about the study room at the Rose Art Gallery?”

  —Grayson

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Tuesday

  That would be great, but are you sure they have a study room there? If they do, you might want to check to make sure there isn’t a fee.

  —Charlotte

  I did. It’s one hundred dollars an hour...

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Tuesday

  It’s free. Is that a yes?

  —Grayson

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Tuesday

  Yes.

  PS—Try not to be late this time.

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Tuesday

  Good.

  PS—I won’t be. Trust me.

  —Grayson

  GRAYSON: THEN

  Seven years ago

  Pittsburgh

  ON TUESDAY, I RETRIEVED the study room key from the art gallery’s front desk and ordered a carafe of coffee from their café. Charlotte arrived ten minutes later and gave me a smile instead of her usual sexy scowl. She also gave me an instant hard-on.

  Her gray dress was hugging her curves in all the right places, and I couldn’t help but envision her red heels being wrapped around my waist.

  “I used to come here every week for inspiration during my freshman year,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “I wish I’d known they had a study room back then. I could’ve used a quieter place to paint.”

  “Where do usually paint now?”

  “A few places.” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “There’s a studio downtown that lets me paint for free on Thursdays if I bring the owner coffee and breakfast. There are also two bridges with empty toll booths that I like. Oh, and since I'm an RA, I get roof access at my dorm. I'm only supposed to use it for fire drills, but I can't help but take advantage of the view from up there."

  “So, you are capable of talking about something other than studying.”

  “Not really.” She blushed and pulled out her blue box of pens and pencils. “Are you hiding your books somewhere?”

  “No. I still haven’t bought them yet.”

  “Why the—” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Okay. I guess you don’t technically need to read from them until two weeks from now, so which Bach essay do you want to discuss first?”

  “The contemporary one.”

  “Good choice.” She bit her bottom lip. “Okay, so, applying what you already know about feminist criticism—”

  “You’re fucking gorgeous.” I interrupted her, and her cheeks turned bright pink. “I’m disappointed in myself for not meeting you sooner.”

  She was still blushing, but she narrowed her eyes at me. “Grayson Connors ...”

  “It’s just Grayson.”

  “That’s what I said.” She crossed her arms. “I know these Tuesdays may seem like a strange concept to you, but I’m here to tutor you.”

  “I’m aware, unfortunately.”

  “Good. Because just for the record, I need you to know that you have zero—and I mean zero, chances of getting anything else from me.”

  “Are you implying that I want sex?” I smiled.

  “I’m not implying that you want anything. I’m confirming that you should stop with the unnecessary compliments, as they won’t get you any closer to what you’re after.”

  “I’m not after anything,” I said. “Yet.”

  She shut her book. “You’re never going to see me as your tutor, are you?”

  “Very much so.” I leaned over and opened her book. “Tucker’s analysis fails to adequately address all of the issues with the post-modern society.”

  She raised her eyebrow.

  “This is the part when you ask me why I feel that way,” I said. “Unless you’re the one not taking me seriously.”

  She shook her head before asking, and for the next hour, I did my best to stay on topic—to not get distracted by how fucking sexy she was, how she blushed every few minutes, and how she bit her bottom lip whenever she was contemplating a thought.

  “I think your analysis is good enough for you to get an A on your first paper,” she said over an hour later. “Do you have any final questions?”

  “Are you seeing someone here?” I asked. “If not, who’s my competition?

  She blinked. Then, just like she did the last time I tried to ask her something personal, she simply stood up, pushed all her things into her bag, and left the gallery.

  This is strike one. No, strike two.

  If she were any other girl, I would've immediately emailed my advisor and demanded that she be replaced with someone else, but I was beyond intrigued for some reason. I shut my notebook and went after her, catching her at the light. “Charlotte, wait. Can we start over?”

  “Can you buy your books?”

  “Under a few conditions." I extended my hand. "I'm Grayson Connors, the number one college quarterback in the country and the sexiest guy you'll ever meet in your life."

  “This is you starting over?”

  “I listed all my other accolades the first time we met, and you didn’t seem too impressed with those.”

  Her lips curved into a slow smile and she shook my hand. “I’m Charlotte Taylor, your tutor who is beyond fed up with you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Charlotte. I think you should come with me to get my books right now. That’s what the new version of you in our relationship would do.”

  I expected her to reject the idea, but she crossed the street with me.

  “I have to pick up a few new books, too,” she said.

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, and when we arrived at the bookstore, she followed me to the literature section.

 
; “Do you not trust me to get them on my own?” I asked.

  “Given your track record, no." She laughed and headed down the feminist aisle. "I'm assuming you didn't pick your courses this semester anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know too many guys who would pick one feminist course, let alone three.” She picked up one of the books I needed and handed it to me.

  “Why not? It’s the perfect way to meet new women and potentially knowing them a bit more intimately outside of the classroom.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.” I stepped in front of her. “I would’ve never met you if I didn’t take these classes.”

  “I’m going to email my advisor right now and tell him that I don’t want to tutor you anymore.”

  “Prove it.”

  She pulled out her phone, but I could tell she wasn’t going to do anything by the blush that crossed her cheeks.

  I picked up one of the other books I needed and noticed she had a tattoo on the back of her left leg. It was far too small for me to make out from where I was standing, so I made a mental note to get a closer look at it later.

  “Good first game, man.” A guy walked down the aisle and tilted his hat at me. “Wishing you guys another good season this year.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “I heard you guys won over the weekend. Congratulations.”

  What? “What did you just say?”

  “Congratulations?”

  “No, before that.” I was certain I didn’t hear that right.

  “Um. I heard you guys won over the weekend?”

  “You heard?”

  “Yeah.” She looked confused. “Was I misinformed?”

  “You didn’t go to the game?”

  “No, I gave my dad my ticket. I’ll watch the replay later this week since I’m not that big on college games.”

  Strike three.

  She picked up a book from an endcap, and I followed her to the register.

  “Will this be together?” The cashier asked.

  "Yes," I answered before Charlotte could and took out my wallet. "You can pay me back with your phone number."

  “In that case, it’ll be separate.” She started to take out her credit card, but the cashier swiped mine.

  I handed Charlotte her books and we left the store.

  “So,” she said, looking up at me, “You promise to take the next Tuesday seriously?”

  “Only if you promise to treat me like someone who is just trying to be your friend.”

  “I will. Just my friend.”

  “Good.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll need your phone number now, or a damn good reason why I still can’t have it.”

  “It’s because I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

  “Why don’t you give it to me and find out?”

  “I’ll pass.” Her cheeks were bright red again as she took a step back. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, Grayson.”

  “See you on Tuesday, Charlotte.”

  For the next couple Tuesdays, I tried to be on my best behavior. I was on time or early and I stayed on topic. I only got distracted by the sight of her sexy, pouty red lips twenty times instead of fifty, and I only lost my train of thought whenever she took off her sweater and exposed what had to be C cup breasts. I also managed to discover that she had two tattoos: One of a pair of swallows on the back of her shoulder, and one of an infinity symbol and a rose on the back of her ankle.

  And for some reason, I found myself not caring that we always spent an extra two hours talking at the end of each session.

  WEEKS LATER, I STEPPED inside the Engineering Building and headed straight for the Physics Department. I needed to put an end to this chase sooner rather than later.

  “Um, hi.” Nadira looked up at me as I stepped into her student lab. “May I help you with something?”

  “You and I took a few classes together our junior year.”

  “Okay, and?” She closed her book and smiled. “I sold my notes to someone else already.”

  “I’m not here for your notes,” I said. “I’m here because I need your help with something.”

  “Something?”

  “Someone. Someone we have in common.”

  She gave me a blank stare.

  “You’re best friends with Charlotte Taylor,” I said. “I saw it on your Facebook page.”

  “Why were you trolling my Facebook page?”

  "That's not the point." I stepped closer to her desk. "I have questions, and they need to be answered."

  “Do I look like Charlotte to you?” She laughed. “Why don’t you just ask her?”

  “She only wants to talk to me about studying.”

  “Well, she is your tutor, so that makes perfect sense.”

  “I need to know what my chances are of seeing her on a personal level.”

  “Well, in that case, I would probably guess zero.” She laughed again. “Wasn’t it you who told her, you make it ‘perfectly clear’ what someone is getting when they're with you? Oh, and you also specifically said you don’t do close relationships or girlfriends.”

  “So, she does talk about me with you?”

  “No, never.” The sudden blush on her cheeks gave that lie away. “Between you and me, she's way too good for you and out of your league. Don't get me wrong, you have that whole smoldering, super sexy James Dean going on, but I think you should save yourself some wasted time and stick to the girls you're used to."

  I ignored that last comment. “Can you at least tell me a few things she likes?”

  “She likes when guys who don’t have her best interest at heart leave her the hell alone.” She slid her reading glasses over her eyes. “That’s her favorite thing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She also likes when people show up to their tutoring sessions on time and don’t stare at her lips for several minutes at a time.” She shrugged. “I think that’s pretty much it.”

  “Thank you.” I headed toward the door. “You were more helpful than I thought you were going to be.”

  “Wait,” she said before I stepped out into the hallway. She let out a breath and walked over to me. “Her favorite color is blue, even though she tells everyone it’s orange. She looks for every excuse possible to get out of going to football games, but she knows the sport pretty well, thanks to her dad. She claims she’s allergic to seafood, but I’m willing to bet that she’s never tried it. And just in case you’re not exactly who we both think you are ... She goes to Highland Coffee every morning for an eight-dollar caramel latte that she really can’t afford, but it makes her happy because it reminds her of the lattes she used to buy in her hometown.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Nadira.”

  “You’re not welcome.” She smiled back. “This conversation never happened.”

  CHARLOTTE: THEN

  Seven years ago

  Pittsburgh

  “HAIL TO PITT!” NADIRA tossed back two shots of vodka and cleared her throat. “Hmmm. This is pretty smooth for a vintage vodka.”

  I looked at the bottle she was holding, the one that looked a little too similar to the bottle we’d confiscated on our floor last night. “You’re supposed to pour the alcohol down the sink whenever you find them drinking it, Dira. Not keep it for yourself.”

  “Really?” She walked over to her dresser and pulled the bottom drawer open, revealing at least twenty bottles of confiscated liquor. “I had no idea that was the rule. Are you going to report me?”

  “Absolutely.” I tossed a pillow at her.

  "Do you want me to bring you back anything from the game today? Some school spirit, perhaps?"

  “I’ll take a caramel apple.”

  She laughed and grabbed her sweater, offering me one final chance to go to the game with her and the other RAs, but I turned her down.

  Half an hour later, I walked down to
the lower campus and watched the start of a typical game day unfold. Tons of yellow buses lined the street, ready to head to Heinz Field. Cars honked at each other for a space in the congested city traffic and the smell of tailgating BBQ filled the air.

  I slipped inside one of my favorite bars and took a seat in the back. As the waiter set down a menu in front of me, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. An email from Grayson.

  SUBJECT: TODAY’S GAME.

  Are you coming?

  —Grayson

  SUBJECT: RE: TODAY’S game.

  No, but good luck.

  I’ll be rooting for you to win.

  —Charlotte

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: TODAY’S Game.

  “Friends” go to each other’s games, Charlotte. Do you need a ticket?

  —Grayson

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Today’s game.

  Well, since I don’t play a sport and I don’t recall ever asking you to show up to anything, I think we’re even on that point. (Tickets are sold out, as usual)

  I really will be rooting for you.

  —Charlotte

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Today’s Game.

  I show up every Tuesday while you continuously play hard to get. Same concept. (I just left a ticket in your name at the ‘will call’ window.)