19. The Replacements

There were a few more back-and-forth emails that I won’t bore you with. More of him explaining how much he likes me, but he’s just trying to be realistic. More of me saying I was hurt because it seemed like he didn’t think I was worth the hassle of a long-distance relationship. We were going in circles, and I knew I shouldn’t respond, but I couldn’t stand the thought of not talking to him, even if I was only accusing him of not caring about me.

Finally, I cut off communication. Every once in a while I’d respond, write down any mean, hurtful thing I could think of. But I’d delete it before I’d send it. I had to forget about him.

A facebook chat popped up later that week from my friend Brady. We had a *thing* back in college. It wasn’t dating because we didn’t go on dates. But it wasn’t just hooking up, either, because I can count the number of times we had sleepovers on one hand. I met him at a party. He was tall with brown hair and green eyes, and I could tell by the way his shirt tightened across his chest that he had a rock-solid body under there. He kissed me that night. I was drunk and thrilled.

Turns out we had a class together. Ballroom dancing of all classes. We waltzed, tangoed, foxtrotted, and cha-cha’ed together the rest of the semester. He’d come over on Monday nights to watch Laguna Beach. It was his guilty pleasure. He’d kiss me when he left, and sometimes he’d put his hand on my leg while we watched TV. But nothing ever came of us. He was switching schools after that semester, moving to Texas to attend chiropractic school, so he wasn’t interested in a serious relationship of any kind. That, and I’m pretty sure I was more interested in him than he was in me. Anyway, he moved that December and we kept in touch every now and then. He started dating a girl named Rae when he moved to Texas, fell in love, and had been with her ever since. Lucky bitch.

That was four years ago, so the random Facebook chat caught my attention.

B: Are you busy?
W: Not really, what’s up?
B: Things aren’t good with Rae.
W: Aww, I’m sorry. What’s going on?
B: I messed up.
W: Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.
B: We broke up. Well, she broke up with me.
W: OK, I’ll ask the obvious. Why?
B: Her mom and I kissed, and she found out.
W: WHAT???
B: We were really, really drunk. She kissed me. I didn’t pull away in time. Her cousin saw it and told Rae.
W: Holy shit. That poor girl.
B: I know, I really, really messed this up.
W: Well, I don’t really have sympathy for you right now, because that’s pretty fucked up. So, being that I’m not full of words of wisdom for you, is there anything else I can do for you?
B: Yes. I can’t stop thinking about her. I just want to call her, but she doesn’t want me. So, can I call you instead? You know, so I don’t call her?

Well, wasn’t that convenient? I needed someone to take my mind off Cayden, and he needed someone to take his mind off Rae. I knew I had to be careful though, because we were both vulnerable, and I was about to move back to Texas, where we’d be living in the same city. Sounded like a perfect set up for some really bad ideas down the road.

W: Of course, call me whenever you’d like.

My phone rang.

----

My roommates threw me the best going away party I could have asked for. We all dressed up and went out to a fancy restaurant none of us could afford. Then we threw a huge bash on our roof. Everyone came. That night, we had the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen in my time in NYC. Hell, it was the prettiest sunset I’d seen in my life. It symbolized a beautiful ending. An ending to my time in NYC. An ending to me and Cayden.



After the party, I wanted nothing more than to email Cayden to tell him all about it.

So I called Brady.

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.

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.