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THE DAY AFTER GRAYSON surprised me with dinner at Station Square, he helped me make sure all my things were ready to be shipped to California.
He kissed me in the backseat of a cab when it was time for him to return to New York, and made me promise to call him when I made it Stanford the next day.
I called him the second I landed and got his voice mail.
He didn’t call me back until days later and our conversation was only five minutes. When we spoke again, it was a week later and we only had time to say, “I love you.”
And by the time I finished setting up my apartment for my first full semester, I realized we’d gone two weeks without any communication.
GRAYSON: THEN
Seven years ago
New York City
I WAS BEGINNING TO think that I should've spent my summer in California with Charlotte instead of preparing for a new life that was already annoying the hell out of me. I had yet to play a single minute in the NFL, had yet to get drafted, but my days were still filled with never-ending meetings.
There were endorsement offers from every footwear company, interviews with radio stations and podcasts, and nightly networking events that made me long for the days when I had enjoyable conversations. I was questioning everything I once thought about becoming a professional football player, and the only thing I was sure about was guaranteeing that I never lost Charlotte.
“You look pretty miserable for a future multi-millionaire.” Kyle set his menu down and looked at me. “I’m not sure this is how I want to remember you before we get drafted.” He waved his hand in front of my face. “Are you even listening to me, Grayson?”
“Charlotte will say yes, right?” I looked up at him. “Tell me I shouldn’t be nervous about proposing to her on live television.”
“Nervous? No.” He pulled the ring box from his pocket and handed it to me. “There’s another term I would use to describe you using your draft moment for a proposal.”
“I don’t want to know what you mean by that.”
“You definitely don’t.” He laughed. “But out of all the guys I know, I think you’re the only one who could honestly commit to one girl. Even though you’re young as hell, weeks away from being a multi-millionaire who could get pussy delivered to your doorstep, and—”
“Thank you, Kyle.” I interrupted him. “I appreciate your thoughts as always.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He laughed, then gave me a reassuring look. “Don’t worry, though. I don’t see any reason why she would say no.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
Seven years ago
California
SUBJECT: NEW ADDRESS
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.”
