14. Sweet Little Lies

Was I interested in the job? I don't know. Yes, I told the editor I was interested; that's just the way we play the game. I liked living in New York, but did I have my heart set on living there? No. Unlike most journalists, NYC was never my goal. It may be the magazine capital of the U.S., but I didn't care. I loved Texas. I remember one time when I was a junior in college, I was in the Big Apple for a group trip to tour magazines. I was with one of my best friends, mentors, and previous editor, Gayle. I distinctly remember we were standing in Central Park, drinking coffee on a bridge, when she looked at me and said, "I don't want to live here. I'd be perfectly happy working at a big-city magazine in Texas. This isn't for me."
I took a look around. The trees were turning from green to gold, and I could hear the wind whistling through them. But behind that I heard the taxis honking, bringing me back to reality.
"Me neither." I said, and meant it.

So, how did I end up there? I graduated. All throughout college we were told if we did everything right, set ourselves apart, went above and beyond, we'd get hired before or soon after we walked across the stage. Well, that was bullshit if I ever heard it. I graduated Summa cum Laude, I had three national magazine internships on my resume and a handful of local ones. I applied for every magazine job in Texas. I had multiple interviews and pored over lengthy edit tests until my brain was fried. And guess what I ended up doing? I became a nanny. Three days a week I'd take care of the cutest little 3-month-old baby girl, and she was absolutely precious. Yes, I spent $80,000 on that journalism degree, and I was going to pay it back changing one diaper at a time. I really couldn't complain though. While the baby slept I'd get to read Laurell K. Hamilton books while doing crunches in the ab lounger with crappy daytime TV playing in the background. "So this is what it's like to be a graduate," I thought to myself.
Three months into my nanny career I received an interesting phone call.
"Hi, Whitney, I'm calling to see if you're still interested in the internship you applied for at our national women's health magazine."
"Of course I am!" I had no idea what internship she was talking about.
"Well, we looked over your resume and clips, and we love what we see! I'd like to set up a phone interview with an editor. You do know that the job is in New York, right?"
"Sure do. I actually have a place up there already, just looking for an excuse to move in." The lies just kept on flowing.
"Great! Let's set up a call with a senior editor named Lucia tomorrow at 2."
"Looking forward to it!"
I hung up and searched through my past sent emails, trying to figure out what the hell I was getting myself into. After all the Texas magazines rejected me, I started applying to anything and everything, whether I had heard of the publication or not. I found the email in my sent mailbox. I had applied for this job three months ago.
The phone interview with Lucia went well. I lied again about my apartment in the city and my strong desire to move there. I just really wanted to see if I'd get an offer.
A few days later the phone rang again. I got the offer. I'd work 40 hours per week at $10 an hour for 6 months. Did I accept? Oh, and could I start in two weeks? I suddenly saw it as an adventure, a challenge. Living in New York City making only $10 an hour? Let's do it!
I now faced two very big problems. I had two weeks to sell my car, my baby, my pride and joy. I loved that car. The other problem: My imaginary apartment wasn't going to come out of thin air. I wouldn't have the money to put a deposit on an apartment until my car sold. I was in quite a predicament.
I was supposed to start work Aug. 11, 2009. My car sold on Aug. 9. I jumped on a plane on the 10th and landed in LaGuardia, homeless. For some reason, I wasn't scared. I knew Craig and his mighty mighty list had my back. I hopped on Craigslist at the airport and looked for temporary housing, available that day. I found three options. I called the first one. The voice on the other end sounded friendly and encouraging.
"If you don't like it, you can always drop your bags off here and then go look at your other two options. That way you won't have to lug your bags around."
What a sweet offer. Could be a serial killer.
My taxi pulled onto Saint Marks Place, between 1st and A, and I fell in love. I didn't care if I was about to get murdered. I'd die happy. The weather was beautiful, everyone seemed to be outside, eating at an outdoor cafe or drinking on the patio of the bar. I got out of the cab and called Cole, the friendly potential serial killer.
"I'll be right down!"
I was so overwhelmed with the atmosphere on that street that I didn't think about what my last words might be.
"Whitney?"
I turned around to see an attractive blond guy with a welcoming smile holding his hand out to mine. Well, he sure didn't look like a murderer.
"That'd be me. Nice to meet you, Cole." We shook hands and I immediately wondered if he had a girlfriend.
He carried both of my bags up to the top of the fifth floor walk up before I could make it to the third carrying only my purse, wheezing and coughing. The apartment was located directly above a charming Irish bar. Awesome, I could get shitfaced and then just crawl back up to my apartment. When I finally made it to the fifth floor, red-faced and bent over at the waist, I walked inside the apartment and was pleasantly surprised. It was colorful. So colorful. The kitchen and living room shared an exposed brick wall, and the living room was painted with bright green and darker green stripes. An old antique couch sat on one side of the living room and a black leather chair on the other. A flatscreen TV hung nicely from a nail in the exposed brick. I believed this is what one might call luxury in NYC.
"And this is my room, soon to be your room if you decide to stay." While I hoped that was an invitation for a slumber party for two, I knew he'd be sleeping in his new apartment, a few doors down. I looked around the room. There was a full-size bed taking up three-fourths of the room, then there was a dresser and a closet that might fit one shoe and a jacket. One wall was painted dark crimson, and there was just enough room to walk from the door to the closet with a thin pathway between the bed and the wall.
"I'll take it."

4. Three-way

I tried to pry one eye open to see what time it was. No luck. Last night's mascara must have united my top and bottom lashes while I slept. If I was drunk enough to forget to wash my face before bed, I knew a headache and the spins were waiting for me as soon as I sat up. Maybe if I try hard enough I can fall back to sleep and put off this hangover for another few hours. I stretched my arm across my bed just to see if I was alone. I was. Jon never sleeps over. He lives with his aunt and cousin, and he thinks it would be disrespectful to stay out all night. So he usually sets an alarm for 3 or 4 am, because he knows I like to cuddle before I fall asleep. But when it's really time for sleep, I roll all the way over to my side of the bed, on my stomach with my face turned away from him. That's just how I sleep. He didn't cuddle me last night though. People didn't leave our party until 3 or 4 anyway. After the fireworks we kept drinking and turned it into a dance party. Lea and I rocked out.

So as people were filing out, I kissed him goodbye and didn't ask him to stay. To be honest, I was still a little bummed Cayden hadn't shown up. It felt a little strange kissing Jon when Cayden's kiss was still fresh on my mind. I put a pillow over my head and prayed for sleep.
Then I heard my text-message alert and I shot up straight. Bad idea. My head swam. My temples throbbed. The good news is, my eyes opened all the way, although I may have lost a few lashes. I needed coffee and a shower, STAT. I looked at my phone and tried to guess who the text was from. Could it be from Cayden? Reaching out just one last time? Just my luck it was from one of last night's party goers asking if I found their shoe on my roof. How do you lose a shoe at a party, make it all the way back to your place via subway, only to find out later you made the trek one stiletto short?
I unlocked my phone and saw it. A new text from that same 15-digit phone number. My headache disappeared along with a strange tension in my stomach I didn't even know was there.
"Hi, Whitney. I'm pretty sure you're blowing me off at this point, but I thought I'd try just one more time. Care for a lunch date?"
AHHHHHH!
"Lea!" I yelled as I ran out of my room. That's when I realized I was still wearing last night's white shorts and teal tank. All signs of a good party.
"Yeah?" She sounded groggy and pissed. She HATED when I woke her up in the morning.
"Sorry to wake you, but you've got to see this."
She made her way slowly down the stairs. Her short light brown hair stuck straight up on one side. She squinted at me with a look that said, "This better be good."
I showed her the text.
"Wow. So what are you going to do?? You still have no way of getting a hold of him."
I was stumped. Of course, a smart person would have thought to run down to the bodega to buy a calling card YESTERDAY. But for some reason, that never crossed my mind. So I did the only thing I could think of. The thing I always do when I'm at a loss of what to do. I called Mom. She'll think of something.
I had already told her about Cayden yesterday, while I was getting ready for the party. She's one of my best friends. Some people think it's weird. A lot of times people say, "You told your mom about that??" When I lost my virginity at the age of 22 to my then boyfriend, I woke up the next day and texted my mom saying, "Your little girl is finally a woman." Yes, I was the LAST person to lose it in my family, and I have two younger siblings. Laugh it up.
Mom picked up on the second ring.
I quickly explained the situation and then waited for her words of wisdom.
"Why don't you call Meg? We added international calling to her phone while she was on her cruise. It should still work on her phone."
"Oh, my god. I love you."
I hung up and called Meg, my 21-year-old sister who lived down in Austin, Texas.
Please pick up the phone. Please pick up the phone.
"Hi guys, you've reached Meg. Leave me a message."
I wanted to scream.
"Meg, call me back. Like, NOW."
Then I sat there, staring at my phone. She's a bit oblivious at times, so I wouldn't be surprised if her phone were right next to her and she'd left it on silent.
I tried again.
Voicemail.
"Meg. Seriously. Call me back."
Then I sent her a text.
"CALL NOW."
I was hoping she'd see it and think I was being held at gunpoint and she was my one phone call. You know, freak her out a little bit so she'd call back.
I put my phone on the glass patio table and sat there staring at it. Then I checked to make sure it was on high volume plus vibrate and I had a full signal. I was sitting on the roof, so I decided to start cleaning up remnants of last night's party. It was mostly just plastic cups and empty beer cans. Finally, the phone rang.
"Dude, what do you want? I'm at work, hiding in the bathroom right now to call you back."
"Damn it. What time do you get off?"
"Four."
"OK. Call me back as soon as you get off work. Or if you get a break. Or if it's not too busy."
Meg was a bartender at a Cajun restaurant. Surely there couldn't be that many people boozing at noon. But that meant I couldn't plan on a lunch date with him, and he would surely think I was blowing him off. He wouldn't try again.
I thought it was a little strange that he hadn't given up already. Surely he was picking up all kinds of girls with that charming smile and beautiful accent. So why was he trying so hard to see me? Maybe he was having that same feeling I was having. The feeling that I just had to see him one more time before he left. I don't know why. I'm hell bent against long-distance relationships, and why am I even thinking about that after one kiss at a random bar? Sometimes my mind goes into overdrive.
I cleaned my room, did my laundry, talked Alexa's ear off about Cayden. She loves British guys, too. So she understood my urgency to see him again.
Finally 4:00 rolled around and I answered my phone before the first ring ended.
"Long story, but I need you to call this guy on three way so I can tell him I'm not a bitch."
"What did you get yourself into?" She laughed, assuming the worst.
"Flash over and dial this number and then flash back over."
I had copied the phone number down onto a Post-it note. I read her the number and then waited anxiously.
She flashed back over.
"Whitney, you there?"
"Yep!"
I heard the line start to ring and my stomach did flip flops. I couldn't wait to hear his voice.
The ringing stopped and a fast busy-signal filled my ear. Meg ended the call and came back to me.
"Um, let me try again."
Again, it rang and ended in a busy tone.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you. We can try again later?"
Bummed wasn't even the word. Defeated. Pissed. Those don't quite describe it either. I thanked her for trying, and then I sat there. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't be a big baby.
Wait, I'm an editor, I should know to factcheck these things. I compared the number on the Post it to the number saved in my phone, and sure enough, it was off by a number.
I called Meg back in a frenzy. I gave her the new number, and then I sat there, while she punched in the numbers.
She came back on the line, and I heard the ringing.
"Hello?"
That was it! His voice! Complete with that adorable British accent.
"Cayden! It's Whitney!"
"Whitney! I thought I'd never hear from you again!"
"My phone can't make international calls or texts. So give me your email address and we can text that way."
We exchanged email addresses and then said goodbye, because I knew the call wasn't cheap. As soon as he hung up, Meg said, "Oh my god! That accent is so hot! You better call me back and tell me how it goes!"
"I will. I promise. But don't wait up."