9. My Head in the Cloud

I remember the first time he called me. It was a few weeks after he'd been back in London. I had just walked out of my office building and I was heading south on Third Avenue when my phone rang. I checked the screen and saw Cayden's name pop up. (As I'm sure you've assumed, I added International calling to my phone plan). I quickly looked around for a quiet place to stand, but I was in Manhattan, during rush hour, which, come to think about it isn't all that different from Manhattan during non-rush hour. Cabbies were laying on their horns, bike messengers were whizzing by with their bells ringing, and hordes of people were shoving past each other, even though they're all on their way to the same place, Grand Central Station. I didn't want to miss the call, so I just stopped at the corner I was at, 45th and Third Ave, under the blue awning of an bodega that recently closed.
"Hello?" I plugged my other ear with my finger, but couldn't block out the rest of Manhattan.
"Hello, Whitney! How are you?"
"Ah, I'm great! I'm sorry, it's a little hard to hear you. I'm on the street and there are angry, impatient cabbies everywhere."
"That's quite alright. I just wanted to give you a call before I went to bed."
"What?"
"Just calling before I went to bed."
I pushed myself as far against the brick wall as I could, moving a little farther east down 45th because most of the madness was on Third.
"I'm sorry, one more time?"
I turned to face the wall and pushed finger so hard against my ear it hurt. I tried to hunch over to create a barrier, a haven for the phone. Then I realized how ridiculous I must look to passersby. Like a crackhead with a mad case of scoliosis talking to a wall. (I'm not hating. I actually do have scoliosis, just not quasimoto-style yet)
"Just calling to say goodnight!" He almost yelled.
I was wishing my phone had a record-button accessible so I could play back that beautiful accent before I went to bed hours later. There's a five-hour time difference between New York and London, and it was a pain in my ass.
"Oh, OK. I'll email you before bed. Thanks for calling! Sleep well!"
"Gnight, Whitney!"
I hung up.
I then experienced one of those overwhelming bouts of happiness. The kind that force a huge, goofy smile on your face and kind of take your breath away. You want to laugh. You want to hug the stranger next to you. I looked to my left and saw a short bald man wearing a business suit, sweating profusely and barking into his cell phone about expense reports. No thanks. I never understood how businessmen could walk around the city in the 80-something degree heat decked out in full suit and tie. Here's a bright idea: Take off your damn suit coat.
The sun was still shining and I was practically skipping to Grand Central with a smile plastered on my face.
I was still smiling minutes later as I waited at the 4/5/6 downtown platform, being shoved and smashed between sweaty suited men and women with their shirts plastered to their backs with sweat. This is one of the reasons I loved my business-casual dress code at work. I could wear a tube top if i wanted to, as long as I threw some kind of cardigan over it and a chunky necklace to distract from the too-low-cut-for-work cleavage. As soon as I step out of work, the cardigan comes off. But then again, I probably would have been voted Most Likely to Wear Inappropriate Clothing to Work had anyone asked my coworkers. I think I still rock that title. My "work clothes" and my "going out" clothes are pretty much the same. Don't judge. You try making less than $15 an hour paying $1000/month in rent and then tell me what you wear to work.
The 4 train pulled up and we all shoved in like sardines. This was my least favorite part of my commute because once the seats filled, everyone reached for the ceiling of the train to steady themselves. Yes, that means armpits in your face left and right. I can't tell you how many times I dry heaved on the 4 train.
--
Every day, three times a day, Cayden and I shot emails back and forth. I'd always have one waiting for me when I woke up, and I'd send one to him before bed so he'd have a morning email as well. If I woke up and didn't have an email from him, I'd know a phone call was on its way, so I'd shower with my phone on the ledge (it's OK. I flushed it down the toilet once and it completely disappeared for 5 Mississippies, but it resurfaced and still works!). Then I'd get ready as fast as possible, make a hot cup of Cuban coffee and sit on my balcony enjoying the sun and the view until the phone rang.
Remember how I said I only understood half of what he was saying in person? Well, on the phone that percentage decreases to about 20 percent. I have to close my eyes and concentrate very hard separating and translating his words. I know it wasn't a different language, but it really was a struggle. The first time he called me in the morning, I didn't want to hang up, so I walked in 20 minutes late to work, but I didn't even care. I was always on such a high after I talked to him.
When I'd sit through my tedious, sleep-inducing, hour-long Monday morning meetings, I only thought about Cayden, and what his next email was going to say. I knew I'd have one waiting for me as soon as the torture fest was over.
"Whitney, the status on your story?" My managing editor and half the room turned to look at me. My story? The story of Cayden? Where to begin.
"Oh, umm, it's on track." I didn't even know what story she was talking about, but that's the answer everyone gives to cover their asses in the meetings.
I'd go back to my desk, completely forget about whatever story I was supposed to be working on, and spend the next 20 minutes reading and responding to his email. When I say we emailed every day, three times a day, I'm not talking about short emails. I'm talking about long, detailed, insightful, informative novels. Nothing dirty or romantic really (aside from a few "I wish we were lying in bed together" comments), just back-and-forth getting-to-know-you emails.
Within a month, we reached 200 emails. (No, I didn't count. Gmail does that for me)
That's when I realized I had completely fallen for Cayden. The Cayden without an accent. The Cayden without an amazing body. Those were now just perks.
I wasn't about to say I L-worded him. I mean, hell, it had only been a month! And I don't know what love is anyway. I knew what deep-down 100% friendship love was all about. I could write a book on it. That's what I had with Will, my best friend of four years turned senior year boyfriend. That was an amazing kind of love, and I still have that love for Will. I always will. But the other kind of love? I know nothing about that.

3. Fire Works

We were all gathered on my roof, staring out over Manhattan waiting for the Hudson River fireworks to kick off. We weren't sure exactly what we'd see from Brooklyn, but we were hoping for a kick-ass show. I was standing on a chair, my balcony railing about knee level. My head was buzzing from the two hours of drinking games we'd just wrapped up, and my lips were feeling numb. I smacked them together and felt a tingle move from my lips to my ears. That's when I know I'm drunk. My lips are the first to go. I looked behind me and saw everyone waiting patiently, the same buzzed expressions on their faces. Someone had killed the music so we could hear the first of the fireworks. Then I looked to my right and saw gatherings on every other rooftop in sight. I lifted my drink in cheers and saw multiple Solo cups move skyward from rooftops nearby. Who said New Yorkers weren't friendly?
I heard a pop and whipped my head to horizon to see if the fireworks had started. Too fast. I lost my balance and nearly toppled off the chair. A hand on my leg steadied me. Jon's hand.
"Are you OK?"
His little-boy face full of concern.
"A-OK, man! Good lookin' out."
Jon rarely drank, so he assumed people got wasted off a few beers. Little did he know I had once woken up after a house party wearing nothing but my bathing suit with no recollection of going to the hot tub. I was far from that point.
Cayden never showed. All night I had my eye on the stairway door, hoping he'd walk through it. Not likely, being that he told me he was going to the river. Oh, and then there was the whole he-thought-I-was-blowing-him-off thing.
"Hey, what's that?" Lea pointed toward the Hudson.
A big black cloud was billowing over what looked like Midtown.
"Is that a fire?"
My alcohol-buzzed brain jumped ahead to worst-case scenario: The barges holding the fireworks self detonated. Manhattan was on fire. The black cloud was going to take over Brooklyn. I should have been concerned about a lot of things, but the first thing on my mind was Cayden. Cayden was by the river. I clenched my Solo cup until the top rim cracked and warm beer splashed up in my face.
We all stood there staring as the black cloud grew bigger and bigger. I could see flames as the bottom of the cloud. That's when I realized the flames were coming from a building, not a barge. A building in Brooklyn.
"Someone better get that fire under control or it will block our whole view of the fireworks!" This from Lynn.
Fire truck sirens bounced off the buildings and drifted up to our roof. This wasn't exactly the Fourth of July I imagined.
Everyone started complaining. The fireworks better start soon, or this could turn into a black-out-in-a-bathing-suit kind of night.
As if on cue, a big, red firework lit up the sky, followed by another, and another. The entire horizon lit up in multi-colored sparkles. It was absolutely beautiful. I counted eight launching sites, stretching from what looked like SoHo to the Upper West Side. Everyone went silent. Jaws dropped. We ooooed, we awwed, we gasped. The actual sound of the explosions didn't reach our ears until a full four seconds after each color burst lit up the sky, leaving smoky streaks behind.
I bet it looked even better from where Cayden was standing.

2. Wake-up Call

Saturday, July 4, 2009
Better known as Fourth of July

I woke up with the sun shining through my third-story window. It was so nice to wake up without a hangover on a Saturday. I yawned and stretched and squinted as I looked out across the short, industrial buildings of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, across the East River, letting my eyes pan across Manhattan, from the Williamsburg bridge to the Empire State Building. Sure, I was paying $1,000/month for that place, but the view was absolutely worth it.
The clock next to my bed read 11:30. I felt so rested. What time did I go to bed last night? Last night. Cayden. Accent. Kiss. Sometimes my body wakes up before my brain does. This would be one of those times. Parts of our conversation came back to me. He was here with his two "flatmates" and they were "on holiday" visiting from London. Half of the time I didn't understand the words coming out of his mouth, but I was more than entertained watching him talk, so animated, so lively. That British accent had me hanging on every word, whether I knew what the word meant or not. He could have been talking about pig shit and republican politics and it would have sounded beautiful. But he wasn't. At least I hope not.
I saw my phone flashing from my bedside table. I got that eager feeling I'm hoping everyone gets when they know they have a text message waiting for them. It could be awful news. It could be a mass text. It could be your phone company texting to let you know your next payment is due. It doesn't matter. It's the not knowing that gets me. I picked it up hit, hit the unlock button, and saw that I had a text message from a 15-digit phone number.
"Hey Whitney. Lovely meeting you last night. I finally figured out the international codes so we can text. What time should we come over tonight?"
We tried to exchange phone numbers last night as Nicole, Lynn, and Danielle were dragging me out the door. But there was some confusion about international codes and ones and zeros and area codes. So I grabbed his phone, put my Brooklyn address in his phone, and told him I was having a Fourth of July BBQ on my rooftop the next night, so just show up.
"So nice meeting you, too! Come over around 9?"
I was pretty sure the shin dig was going to kick off at 8 or so, at least I remember Jon saying he'd be there at 8.
SHIT.
JON.
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
How could I forget? I was dating someone. I was dating Jon. Jon is coming to my party. Cayden is coming to my party. Sweet, modest, soft-spoken, Dominican Jon. I got that awful sinking feeling in my stomach—that one you get right after you hear the crunch of your car backing into someone else's, or right after you accidently text the wrong person, talking shit about that person? It was a good thing I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. It would have ended up in a nice little pile on my shiny hardwood floor.
Should I call Jon? Tell him the party's off? Too bad I hadn't lost my breakfast. I could have taken a picture of it and sent it to him and it would just be implied. Ah, technology. No, I can't do that to Jon. But I couldn't even think about bringing myself to text Cayden to cancel. I just had to see him again before he went back to London.
So, I adopted my motto that's gotten me through many a situation. "I'll cross that bridge when it comes."
If they both show up, they both show up.

I pulled on a pair of shorts and stepped out of my room to survey the living room to see how much cleaning we'd have to do before the party. The living room could use a good sweep, and the kitchen a good scrub. Alexa's door was still shut. She wasn't home when I came in last night, so she'd probably be waking up with a hangover within the next hour or two. I heard Lea pad across her hardwood floor upstairs, and she slowly descended our metal spiral staircase. That staircase had caused more than one deep-tissue bruise and maybe a cracked tailbone. So whether she was moving slowly out of caution or drowsiness, I couldn't be sure.
"Let's go get a bagel. I have to tell you about last night."

Around 3 pm, I got another text.
"Hey Whitney. I never heard back from you, but my mates want to watch the fireworks down by the river. So, do you fancy a lunch date tomorrow?"
First of all, fancy a lunch date? How adorable is that? Secondly, he never heard back from me?
I tried to call.
"We are sorry to inform you that your service does not make international calls. Goodbye."
I stared at my phone.
Double shit. I suppose that applies to international texts as well.
I had no way of getting a hold of him. He thought I was blowing him off. Why didn't we just exchange emails like normal people in 2009? We were both sporting smart phones, but apparently "smart" ended at our cellular devices.
Although every part of me had this need to see Cayden one more time before he went back to London, I had to get real. He was leaving in two days. He lives 6,000-something miles away. Jon was coming to my party. Cayden was not.
Looks like I won't have to cross that bridge.
I decided to write it off as meeting a random beautiful guy one night, and leave it at that.
He was probably too good to be true, anyway.