by Whitney G.
Hey Grayson,
I’m moving into a different apartment complex this weekend. It’s not as close as the one I showed you before, but I’ll have a private art room so I’m sure I’ll like it much better. I’m including my address below and look forward to you visiting me as you promised.
I love you,
Charlotte
SUBJECT: :-(
Grayson,
I haven’t heard from you in three weeks. Please call me back.
Love you,
Charlotte
SUBJECT: DRAFT NIGHT Ticket
Grayson,
Draft night will be here soon and you haven’t sent me the ticket yet. Have you changed your mind about taking me as your date?
Love,
Charlotte
SUBJECT: REALLY?
I just saw you on TV and you looked right at your phone, Grayson. Call me, please.
Charlotte
GRAYSON: THEN
Seven years ago
New York City
ME: I WANT TO FLY TO California and see you next week. What’s the best day to come?
ME: Charlotte?
ME: Charlotte, it’s been over a week since I texted you. Can you text/call me back?
SUBJECT: WHERE ARE you?
Charlotte,
Are you ignoring me? Are you still coming to draft night? (I need you to be there.)
Love you,
—Grayson
SUBJECT: REALLY?
Charlotte, please answer me.
Grayson
SHE NEVER SHOWED UP for the draft night or returned my calls, but that didn't stop me from calling her every day for several weeks in a row. I sent her emails and text messages, and they all went unanswered. Her friends refused to talk to me. Nadira wouldn’t even make eye contact with me when I ran into her at JFK airport.
After a month of confusion, I called Stanford one morning. I was determined to get ahold of her since every flower delivery I’d sent to her address came back returned. Their phone attendants passed me around from department to department before finally passing me off to a donation line.
“How much would you like to donate to the Stanford Alumni Fund, sir?” a woman asked. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
"I'm not calling to donate. I'm looking for—" I paused. "I'm looking for my fiancée who I haven't heard from in a while. I would appreciate it if you all would stop sending me from line to line and help me, so I can figure out what the hell is going on. Please."
“Okay.” She let out a sigh. “I can pull up the registered student directory for you, but that’s all I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your fiancée’s full name, sir?”
“Charlotte Marie Taylor.”
“And you’re sure she’s enrolled here?”
“One hundred percent positive.” I heard the sound of a tapping keyboard.
"There's no student named Charlotte Taylor, sir,” she said. "There aren't any students here named Charlotte at all."
What? “She accepted Stanford’s offer.” I shook my head. “I was with her when she shipped her things and she sent me pictures of the campus.”
“Sir, all I can tell you is that Charlotte Marie Taylor is not listed as a student here,” she said. “And even that is too much information without knowing who you are. I have to go.” She ended the call.
I called the other law schools that accepted Charlotte.
I called the art schools. I called her advisor. Her parents. Her friends.
No one knew anything. So they claimed.
I spent countless nights unable to sleep because I had no idea why the hell she would ghost me and I wasn't sure how to deal with the unfamiliar ache in my chest.
WHEN I EXHAUSTED ALL the search options I could handle on my own, I ordered Anna to enlist the aid of private investigators.
GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
New York City
“HERE YOU ARE.” A BARISTA set two fresh lattes on the table at Rosy-gan Café. “Let me know if you two need anything else tonight.”
Charlotte brought her cup to her lips, still avoiding direct eye contact with me. We’d been sitting here for an hour, and the only words we’d exchanged were “Hello,” and “Hi.” Occasionally, a song we both knew came over the speakers and we’d make eye contact and smile, but that was it.
I’d spent my entire weekend writing down the events that transpired after our senior year, trying to see if I could find anything that changed my line of thinking that she was the one who left me. I couldn’t find a single thing, though. As much as I wanted us to rebuild what we had, I knew we couldn’t do that anymore. She didn’t trust me, and I knew she wasn’t going to agree to meet me for another Tuesday night of silence.
Reaching over the table, I tugged at the numerous charms on her bracelet. There was an easel, a gavel, a calendar with the word Tuesday etched across the top, numerous coffee cups, donuts, a television with Friends etched onto the screen, and a baby block.
My heart dropped.
“What’s wrong?” She finally spoke.
“I owe you a huge apology.”
"Yes..." Her hazel eyes looked hopeful, as if she'd been waiting for me to say that for years. "But for what?"
“For assuming you didn’t have any kids.” I tugged at the yellow block. “I also apologize for thinking that your first child was always meant to be mine. Then again, I guess I should’ve known you would find someone else to start a family with after all this time.”
I couldn’t stop tugging at the block. “How old is the child? And is it a boy or a girl?”
She didn’t say a word.
“Charlotte?” I looked up and noticed her face was ghost-white. “Charlotte, what’s wrong?”
“You said my first child should’ve been yours?”
“I wasn’t trying to offend you. That’s just what I’ve always thought.”
“I thought you were—You said that...” She stammered, her eyes going wide. “Didn’t you tell me that—” She grabbed her coat and stood to her feet.
“You’re leaving?”
“No, I just need some air.” She started to walk away, but she sat down again.
“I’m confused, Grayson.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said. “Maybe we should just do this a different day.”
“No.” She gripped my wrist. “I’m confused about what you said about me having a child.”
“I understand why you moved on.” I tried to sound like I meant that. “Down the line, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to meet him—or her. You still have yet to tell me if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“I don’t have any kids, Grayson.” Tears fell down her face. “The one child I had was yours, and I told you that.”
“Had?” I leaned back against my seat. “What are you saying?”
“I called you so many times.” Her voice cracked. “So many times.”
“Wait, wait.” I moved to her side of the table and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “That can’t be true. I promise I never heard from you.”
“Because you chose not to. You chose to move on with your life like I never meant anything to you.”
“That’s not true either.” I wiped tears from her eyes. “Charlotte, please explain what you’re saying to me about the word ‘had’ and a baby. And I need to know why you still think I walked away from you, when it was definitely vice versa...”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
Seven years ago
California
ME: GRAYSON, WE NEED to talk.
ME: Grayson, it’s an emergency...
ME: Grayson, I’ve called you thirty times this week. Surely you can answer ONE call...
I SET MY PHONE DOWN and picked up the pregnancy test, staring at the two blue lines. This was my tenth test this week and the result was the same as all the others. Suddenly, my plans for getting through Stanford seemed insignificant, and I w
as thinking about moving to New York so Grayson could help me raise our child.
Unsure of what to do next, I didn't tell any of my friends or family. I wanted Grayson to know first, and I wanted him to be with me, even if it was just for a day.
I continued calling his phones—his old line, his new business line, his new personal line. He never answered, never returned a call. I sent him an email and carbon-copied his agent on it hoping for better results.
SUBJECT: URGENT: PLEASE open and answer.
Grayson,
I’m pregnant.
Charlotte.
STILL NO RESPONSE.
After three days passed, I began looking up flights to New York, but I received a “We’re on our way. Be at your place in an hour” text from Anna and felt a slight tinge of relief. I rushed home to make sure I’d be there when they arrived, but when they arrived, it wasn’t “they” at all. Only Anna.
“So, you’re pregnant?” she asked, barging into my living room.
I nodded. “Is Grayson with you?”
“No.” She tossed her bag onto my couch. “No, he is not with me, but he sent me to see you once he got your message.”
“Okay...So, is he coming tomorrow or another day?”
“He's not coming at all." She looked sympathetic and tapped a few things on her phone. "He's trying to move on and focus on his career, but he promised that he’ll fix this as long as you can prove that it's his. So, how much do you want for it?”
“It?”
“Yes. ‘It’ as in the albatross that’s currently growing inside your stomach. 'It' as in the anchor that you're hoping to tie around his neck in hopes of getting him to come back to you, even though it’ll probably never happen. Just say the amount and he promises to pay it.”
My heart dropped. “That’s what he said?”
“No, what he said was far crueler, but I would never repeat that.” She shrugged.
I stared at her.
“The quicker you tell me, the better. Of course, if you’re going to seek child support, you'll need to keep the lovechild a secret. Don't think about writing any books or going on any speaking tours."
“You can leave now, Anna.”
"A few last things," she said. "Grayson wants to make sure that you're not taking advantage of him and his future earnings, so you'll need to send me the ultrasound picture to confirm that you are pregnant. You'll also need to agree to go to a DNA lab of his choosing to make sure that the child is his and not someone else's." She picked up her purse and headed to the door. “So, just to recap, I’ll draw up the paperwork whenever there’s proof of your—” She glanced at my stomach and rolled her eyes. “Pregnancy. Unless of course—”
I slammed the door in her face.
I SCHEDULED A SUPER late appointment for an ultrasound on the same day as the NFL draft, hoping that I would be able to escape any and all news about Grayson, but my logic failed because a group of patients was watching it on the waiting room TV.
I forced myself to look on as the New York representative took to the podium.
“With our first round, first choice pick...” he said. “New York selects University of Pittsburgh quarterback, Grayson Connors!” The crowd cheered loudly and the camera panned to Grayson standing up from the table. He smiled at the cameras, and my heart skipped a beat as he walked to the stage to receive his New York hat and jersey.
Even though I was angry at him, I was happy he was number one. I pulled out my phone to text him a last-ditch Congratulations, but I dropped it to the ground when I saw a supermodel—Elizabeth Thieles, kissing him.
What the hell? I watched to see if he would kiss her back, and he did. Then he gave her a hug and walked off stage, shattering any faith I had of us getting back together. He’d changed just like he said he wouldn’t, and I was going to have to accept that.
“Miss Taylor?” Someone called my name.
“Yes?”
“You can come to the back now.”
I followed her into a small room and undressed, simply going through the motions while my heart continued to break inside of my chest.
I lay back on the table and shut my eyes as the nurse spread a cool gel across my stomach.
“Just keep still, Miss Taylor,” she said softly. “Based on what you wrote on the form, you’re probably about eight weeks, but we’ll verify that in just a second. We’ll also have to prescribe vitamins and get you assigned to a personal doctor near Stanford. But for now, let's just get to my favorite part. Are you feeling okay?"
I didn’t answer. I’d never felt so hurt in my life.
“Okay...” The nurse was still trying to talk to me. “I’m turning on the screen and I’m using this wand that I’m pressing against you...” She moved the wand against my stomach. “This is so we can get a shot of the growing baby—i.e., little Charlotte, and the heartbeat. Feel free to look whenever you’re ready.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her, forcing myself to smile. Then I looked at the screen.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Well, the embryo is here.” She pointed at a gray blip on the screen. She zoomed in on the image a few times, but she didn’t say anything else.
“How far along am I?” I asked.
“You were eight weeks.” She looked at me with sympathy in her eyes.
“Were?”
“There’s no fetal heartbeat, Miss Taylor.” She squeezed my hand. “At this point, in a viable pregnancy, we would see that on the screen. However, we’re going to run tests to see why this pregnancy is no longer viable, and you’ll have what you need to know in the future.” Her words chilled my skin. “You can choose to wait for your body to naturally miscarry or we can schedule a D&C procedure.”
“An abortion?”
“It’s not an abortion,” she said, softening her voice. “It’s a standard dilation and curettage procedure we use for women who have a miscarriage. It enables us to clear your uterine lining, but it’s not required. It’s just an option.”
My mind was still spinning, still processing the words “no fetal heartbeat.”
“Miss Taylor,” she said softly. “Are you aware of what I’m saying to you?”
“I don’t have a baby anymore.” I couldn’t look at her. “Is that correct?”
“That is correct.” She squeezed my hand again. “I’m very sorry, Miss Taylor. I’m going to grab my lead doctor and psychiatrist so we can run some tests and make sure you're stabilized, okay?”
I didn’t say anything. I lay there numb and in shock, unable to feel anything but heartache and tears falling down my face.
Going against my better judgment, I pulled out my phone and called Grayson again. It rang three times and in the middle of the fourth, there was a brief gap and a beep, the tell-tale sign of him hitting ignore.
“This is Grayson,” his voicemail said. “You've reached my private line, so that means I know you personally. Leave a message and I promise to get back to you."
I didn’t bother. I hung up and sent an email instead.
SUBJECT: THANK YOU + Best of luck
Grayson,
I want you to know that you are EXACTLY who I thought you were when we first met, and that you’ve taught me to trust my first instincts for the rest of my life.
I promise I’ll never call/reach out to you again.
I hate you,
Charlotte
A response came back within seconds.
Subject: Re: Thank you + Best of luck
This message has been blocked from the intended recipient as the delivering address is flagged and on the spam list.
CHARLOTTE: THEN
Seven years ago
California
SUBJECT: WITHDRAWAL
Dear Stanford Admissions Team,
My name is Charlotte Taylor and I would like to thank you for awarding me the Honors Fellowship for my full term at your university. Unfortunately, due to personal reasons, I am withdrawing from the program in hopes
that someone else will be able to take advantage of such an incredible opportunity.
Thank you for understanding,
Charlotte M. Taylor
SUBJECT: ACCEPTANCE
Dear Ketchikan-Alaska Art Fellowship Admissions,
Thank you for considering my late application. I am honored to gain acceptance into your one-year program and this email serves as my official commitment statement.
Thank you,
Charlotte M. Taylor
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
THE LOOK ON GRAYSON’S face said a million words. Still speechless, he was staring blankly at the block on my bracelet and running his fingers through my hair. He shook his head every few seconds and sighed, but he didn't say anything else.
My heart felt heavy at the realization that I’d been manipulated for all these years, that everything I thought I’d known was never true. I wasn’t sure why, but a small part of me still needed to hear Grayson say that he didn't know what was happening with me back then.
“Anna never told you anything about me being pregnant?” I asked.
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I take it she never actually sent you your ticket for draft night?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He turned to face me. “I need you to believe me when I say that I would’ve dropped everything and flown to see you immediately if I knew you were pregnant.” He clasped my hand. “Everything. No questions asked.”
“I believe you.”
“And I’m sorry you had to suffer through a miscarriage by yourself.” He looked wounded. “Someone should’ve been there for you.”