Positive thing Number 172: Contrary to what I was feeling this was not the end of the world. So what if I had lost my phone in a foreign city located in a country so different from mine that even the roads were in the wrong side. So what if I had gotten lost for a whole hour - outside in the cold summer air until common sense told me to just find the nearest store and call for help. And so what if said café's line was so long that it put NYC's Starbucks rush hour to shame.
This was part of the experience of finally being Independent. This was part of being in London. This was the reason why I had beg father to let me visit Uncle Gardiner by myself, a gift - I explained - for attending NYU and living at home instead of opting to move to another state and having the full college experience.
'I could be partying and sleeping around.' I told him. 'Instead I'm here with you, reading history books. Do you really want me to feel so claustrophobic that I move out of state for my sophomore year? Do you really want me to leave you alone with only mom, Mary, and the twins as company?"
He bought me a plane ticket immediately after.
The rush of excitement rushes through my veins. After 18 - excruciating- years I'm finally free from nosy family members and controlling mothers.
It's been two days since I arrived in London and the most exciting thing I have seen thus far has been the news punctually at six o'clock sharp with Uncle Gardiner. And even then it has been a let down since they've been very tame compared to American news but who can beat: Local New York man gets high on nutmeg, wrestles a rat while crowd of Pokémon cheer.
Not that I did not have the desire to explore London. God knows that I was so excited to be here that I had worn for a whole week different shirts with the United Kingdom flag. Steeping so low to even wear a: Keep Calm I'm Going To London t-shirt at the JFK airport. Even now I'm wearing a white T-shirt with the face of Princess D on it.
But alas Uncle Gardiner has been busy with work and Aunt Gardiner has been busy taking care of four children with the flu. Who gets sick with the flu in summer? Apparently English children. So after two very anti-climatic days I finally gathered enough courage to explore a city as big as London with only my phone and a bag full of brochures and pamphlets that I had hoarded from the airport.
Which brings me here, to a crowded Coffee shop. With a line moving so slow that it is putting Pluto's cycle around the sun to shame.
I don't know what drove me here. To this specific café in the middle of Square mile. I took the subway and got off on a stop which looked like a financial district. It was a pretty place, spent my day in the markets.
Positive thing Number 173: I did not die being lost in the busy streets of London. Contrary to what mother has said I do have great survival skills. Not only have I not gotten kidnapped I have proven to myself that I could be dropped into any city and still make it out with my organs intact.
But my self confidence in my intelligence only lasts a moment as it is quickly shattered when a phone rings.
A ring that sounds eerily similar to mine.
But that can't be right, I lost my phone somewhere between leaving Uncle Gardiners home and trying to find Buckingham palace.
It rings and no one answers it. It goes silent after a minute and then the phone starts to ring again. This cycle goes on a total of three times.
No one inside the Coffee shop makes a move for their phone. Instead a tall man in a business suit awaiting his order beside my line coughs. I turn my attention to him, his face obscure as he looks down at my bag.
I look down. The ringing is coming from my bag.
My cheeks go red.
Unfortunately the ringing stops the moment I open my purse. Wearily I dig through it. Through the snacks I packed and the brochures I hoarded. Carefully I start to remove all the objects inside it and place them gently in the counter. Ten different lipsticks, receipts after receipts, hair ties after hair ties, napkins from every fast food restaurant I went to this past month - which were pathetically a lot - and maybe about fifteen pens that I had been gathering since school let off for the summer.
And in the bottom of all this, in the depths of pockets that I had forgotten existed, is my phone.
"Oh fuck me."
It starts to ring again. I quickly answer it.
"Lizzy!" An excited and sweet voice says through the phone
My embarrassment quickly disappears, just hearing Jane's voice puts an end to my horrible day. People always assume we would not get along. Which is understandable, people would expect that by the way mother made us compete against each other since a young age. But that never happened. Instead we bonded together by our similar childhood experiences. No one - except Jane - would ever understand how it felt to have Francine Bennet - with her southern accent - list all the things she was disappointed in you for.
And anyways it wasn't a competition. And even if it was, Jane would win by a landslide.
"Jane! You will never believe what happened to me!"
"Oh god, did you forget to wear a bra again?"
I huff, "No." I touch my chest, "No." I say with more confidence, "That was one time Jane. Once."
"You're forgetting the time you bet Charlotte that you could do a backflip and end it with a split and instead ended flashing Lower Manhattan."
"Okay twice. I've forgotten to wear a bra twice."
"What about the time y-"
"Okay, lets end that topic there. I'm wearing a bra today so no chances of me flashing anyone. Thank you for your concern. And anyways that was not the news that I wanted to tell you."
She laughs, it's a soft laugh that reminds me of summer days at the beach. "Just tell me, no need to make it dramatic. You know I worry for you whenever you start a story with 'you'll never believe what happened to me.' "
"I lost my phone."
"That's it? That's your news? You always loose your phone Liz."
That's true. But I'll never admit that to her. "Okay, changing the subject again. How's Nigeria?"
"It's great." She says sweetly. She's a med student currently serving in the Peace Corps in Nigeria. And I repeat, if this was a competition of who could make our parents proud, Jane would win by a Landslide.
Nothing like me who dreams of becoming a lawyer, a career my mother says is for conniving snakes.
As she's telling me all about her patients and the children she works with in Nigeria, It's my turn to order.
I quickly say my goodbyes, forgetting to ask her why she was adamantly calling my phone.
I don't have to look at the menu. I know what I'm going to order. Hot Chocolate. I can't stand the taste of coffee. Way too bitter no matter how much sugar and cream you put in.
Surprisingly they have my order done quickly, I scan for a free table. Which there is none. Everything is packed. Which is no surprise since it is lunch hour.
Well, I guess I'm going to have to share, I murmur under my breath. A guy hears me and smiles, pointing to his table. I politely decline the 40-ish guy with the creepy smile because he has been staring at my chest these past minutes.
I scan the room again. In the back of the room close to the back exit is a two-person table by a corner, occupied by the guy in the suit who was the only nice person to alert me that my phone was ringing.
He seems fairly normal. He's scrolling through his phone, he reminds me of the men who work in the finance district back home. Their hair perfectly combed and their clothes screaming I-Am-Superior-To-You
"Well, girls, I hope he doesn't have a fascination with you, too," I whisper down at my boobs, as I head to the back table. Sure they're relatively small and most days I forget they're down there, but men are weird.
As I get closer, I take stock of my hopefully soon-to-be table partner: Black-midnight hair that curls at the end, extremely pale skin, probably spends his days inside an office where the sun never touches him. I can't see his face yet because his eyes are still glued to his screen as he types away.
"Hey, do you think I can sit here since there's nowhere else to sit?" I ask quickly when I get to his table. "I mean there are other tables I can share, but between you and me, you're the lesser of two evils," I say, nodding toward the 40 year old creeper. Who is still staring at me.
The man finally tears his eyes away from his phone long enough to look up, and the moment he does I almost stop breathing. His eyes, his eyes are the most - beautiful, gorgeous, heart stopping - piercing blue eyes I have ever had the honor of seeing.
They are clear like the Caribbean sea, and as icy blue as the artic ocean. So blue that I want to jump inside them and swim in them forever. In my 18 years of life I had never seen such an improbable color.
They must be fake.
"Dude, are you wearing contacts? You are aren't you?" I blurt out as I take a seat at his table, not waiting for his answer.
"Excuse me?" he asks, startled.
Positive thing Number 174: Everything sounds better with an English accent. Case in point the man in front of me, his accent making me want to close my eyes and purr like a cat.
"Your eyes," I say, pointing to them, "are they contacts?"
He looks very confused. "No, why would you think that?"
I shrug, "They're too pretty." I say as I take a sip of my hot chocolate.
He fidgets in his seat, "Are you coming on to me?"
I spit my drink, splattering chocolate all over his face. He closes his baby blues as he murmurs underneath his breath what I can only guess are curses. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. I have napkins." I tell him as I dig through my purse and retrieve a Burger King one.
"Yes, I noticed." He says with a deep serious voice as he wipes his face with it, "and also about the entirety of the worlds pens and chocolate bars."
I laugh at that. He must have been shocked when he saw all the things I had been hoarding, he does not look like the type to have a chair in his room with a mountain of clothes he has been meaning to fold.
He seems to relax when he hears my teasing laugh. "I'm not coming on to you by the way," I tell him, "if I was that would make me the worlds worst flirt. But I am curious, what made you think I was flirting with you?"
He raises his eyebrow, "You really don't know? Ms. No bra and 'you have pretty eyes.'"
My cheeks go red, "You heard that?"
"I think everyone heard that, you speak concerningly loud. My guess is that that's the reason why that man has been starring at your chest for the last fifteen minutes." He nods his head towards the 40 year old looking man who wanted to share his table with me.
I chuckle away the embarrassment, "That makes sense, I suppose he's been trying to see if I was lying about actually forgetting to wear a bra today."
He shakes his head trying to suppress a smile as he places his phone he has been holding down on the table. I wonder what he does for a living. He seems to be in his mid twenties. He must work in some building nearby. Maybe an accountant or stock broker.
I wonder what he thinks of me, does he see me as a college student who only came to party her summer away in his country? Or does he see me as an academic student who came to study his land and his countries history? How old does he imagine me to be? I'm tall, which makes people believe I'm older then what I am. Today I decided to wear my curly brown hair down instead of its usual place that's in a bun. I even went as far as trying a natural looking makeup tutorial from YouTube, which I daresay came out looking pretty good. I did all this because I wanted to give a good impression of what Americans looked like.
"You're very paranoid. Has anyone mentioned that to you before?" I finally say to him.
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
"Hell no dude. You have Paranoid tattooed in your forehead and it's written in bold letters."
He grins, "Dude?"
I scrunch my eyebrows as I realize he's teasing the way I speak.
Bastard.
I shrug my shoulders. "I'm American. I can't help the way I talk." I take a sip of my hot chocolate.
He's cute, I'll give him that. And he can clearly keep up with my conversation, a feat not many guys can brag about. Plus he looks nothing like the boys I'm use to seeing in the university.
But then again this is not a boy.
This is a man.
A man who looks like he has his life together by the looks of things, who does not go and wash his clothes on weekends at his parents place.
He's a man with a rare combination of extremely dark hair and crystal clear blue eyes, blue eyes that look like they belong in a wolf instead of a human being.
All I can say is that those are some pretty good genes.
"So, Girl From America," he says interrupting my thoughts of his pretty eyes, "what part of the states are you from?"
I raise my eyebrows at this. "Girl From America?"
"Well, I don't know your name yet." He gives me a small smile and looks back down at his coffee. I get the impression that he doesn't ask a girl for her name very often. He shifts in his seat and looks back up at me.
He's shy.
Extremely shy by the way he has yet to stop fidgeting with the Burger King Napkin I gave him.
"Elizabeth," I say, extending my hand for a shake. He grabs my hand and gives it a firm shake that matches the three-piece-suit he's wearing.
He's obviously use to shaking a lot of hands in his place of work.
"Do you have a last name, Elizabeth?"
I shake my head. "My mother always warned me not to talk to strangers," I respond. "For all I know, you're an assassin or a bank robber. So I think it's better if you don't know my last name. I wouldn't want you to use it to steal my social security number. Where would I be without a identity?" I continue to tease him. "And, just so you know…" I bring my head a little closer to his, conspiratorially, and whisper, "…if you even think of offering me candy, I will run."
He looks up at me with that slightly confused look again, but starts laughing when he sees me smiling. He has a very rich laugh that seeps through your bones. He starts to look a little self-conscious and quiets his laugh.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth, from?..."
"Manhattan."
He nods at this, and does that shy coffee looking thing. He looks up again, smiles and finally says, "Well, Elizabeth from Manhattan… I'm William."