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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.”
