The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara

Ten

The one I just told you about. The Woods, he responds a couple of minutes later.

I passed it already. I’m at the heart-shaped one, I respond and instead of feeling relieved, I feel disappointed. For a second, I thought that maybe… I don’t know what I thought. I think it was more than a thought, it was hope. A hopeless romantic’s hope. Sometimes I have a hard time separating my imagination from the reality of this life. Where things like this don’t happen.

Our House,he says.

Our House, yes. It’s surely the most beautiful one I’ve seen today. Absolutely dreamy.

I still feel the disappointment. How silly of me to think such things. What did I imagine? That he’s somewhere around? That’s ridiculous. Just because someone is kind doesn’t mean there’s more to it. And how would I even react if he was here? Would I be scared or nervous or excited? Why would I be scared? Alisa would tell me to get out of here; that he could be anyone, a psycho, a stalker. But he’s not anyone, is he? He’s Max. And I know Max. Not sure where all these questions are coming from, but now’s not a good time for this. I’m having so much fun. Someone is nice enough to guide me through all this, someone who didn’t want me to be miserable and spend the day alone in the airport. This might be a fairy-tale town, but my life is not a fairy tale. It’s not one of my stories. Silly thoughts from a silly woman.

I’m kind of hungry,I say after I see a few more houses.

Was hoping you’d say that. I have just the place for dinner.

Hope it’s not fancy because I’m not dressed the part. Or if it is, I could go change. You know what? I would like to change. Been in these clothes for too many hours.

He tells me where I can change—the bathroom of an inn close by—and I’m pleasantly surprised they treat me like I’m a paying customer and nobody’s giving me the stink eye. The woman at the front desk even compliments me on my outfit and wishes me a wonderful evening. I’ve changed into a black romper I had with me for my night out with David—ugh—put on a pair of flats and pulled my hair up in a bun. Glad for that lady’s nice words. Don’t entirely believe them, but this is a step up from my ripped jeans and Converse.

Where to?I text Max.

Mission Ranch Hotel and Restaurant. It’s on Dolores.

Right-o,I reply and make my way to the restaurant.

About to take a left turn, I spot a truly magnificent two-story house.

I send him a photo. You missed one. I thought Our House was my favorite, but I was wrong. This one! This one is it.

Describe it to me,he asks.

I’m usually good at describing things, but this perfect little cottage is just beyond words. How could you possibly not live a fairy-tale life here?

It still has the look and feel of a cottage, but it’s a bit taller, with a tiny balcony on the second floor—just big enough for two chairs—and white and blue flowers in pots, an arch above the front gate and tall walls protecting it from curious eyes, like mine.

I jump to see the yard. Behind it… there’s the ocean. The views you must have from here.

I can imagine myself watering the flowers every morning before having coffee on what I hope must be an ocean-facing terrace in the back.Feet up, no worries in the world, I add.

That’s Dolce Far Niente,he texts back. You have good taste.

When I arrive at the restaurant, the place is full. And it’s marvelous.

The hostess asks me for my name, then I see her looking in a big notebook.

“I don’t have a reservation,” I say, awkwardly smiling and wondering if this is the first stop on today’s incredible itinerary that won’t work out. All the tables are taken by sharply dressed men and women; couples, families. I definitely feel my romper—satin or not—is underwhelming for the occasion.

I look out the window and the view is breathtaking. A man explains to a woman, while they’re also waiting for a table, “That’s Point Lobos, and the Carmel River Beach.”

So that’s what I’ve been gawking at. I can also see the Pacific Ocean from where I am, and I suspect the views are equally amazing from everywhere in this fancy restaurant. The property itself seems to stretch for acres and acres, as far as you can see.

I hear a piano playing and wonder if there are speakers in the waiting area, but no. To my left there’s a Piano Bar and a man in a tuxedo is playing ‘Close to You’ by the Carpenters. The hostess comes my way with a tray with two glasses of wine—red and white. I take a step back to make room for her to pass, but she stops in front of me.

“Would you like something to drink, miss?”

I nod nervously and grab the red wine.

“On the house,” the woman says with a sleek smile as if sensing my worry about how much all this is going to cost me. “Your table will be ready in a few minutes,” she adds, which is quite surprising given how busy it is.

The hostess keeps her word. Shortly after, she returns and leads me to a window table.

“Our restaurant offers the most spectacular views on the Monterey Peninsula. Those are the Santa Lucia Mountains in the distance and that is Point Lobos,” she explains with a smile.

I nod and smile back. “Beautiful,” I say in a low voice.

A waiter comes by before I even get the chance to properly look at the menu. When I ask what he recommends, he kindly gives me five options but mentions the filet mignon twice.

“Filet mignon in red wine and roasted shallot glaze, seasonal vegetable, potato gratin,” he adds. “The chef’s specialty.”

“Filet mignon it is,” I agree.

“Have you been here before, miss?” he asks, holding a fishbowl filled with folded notes.

“No, it’s my first time. What is that?” I ask, pointing at the bowl.

“It’s something special we do for our customers,” he says and hands it to me. “You need to pick one. It’s your fortune, miss.”

I’ve only experienced this with Chinese restaurants, but I’m not complaining; I like fortunes.

“They’re said to be true, these ones,” he says, before leaving.

Love, because it is the only true adventure.

I can’t help but smile. Not that I believe in fortune cookies, Asian or American, but this time, I want to think this is some sort of sign. Just this once.

Did you get your fortune? he texts me a bit later.

I did.

Was it a good one?

An unexpectedly good one, I text. Just like today.

You know so many details about Carmel. Do you spend a lot of time here?I ask.

I know it’s a personal question; it’s just, he’s like a bona fide guide.

Everyone who lives in the Bay Area knows Carmel. I’ll let you enjoy dinner and not bug you with messages,he says.

Who am I going to play the game with then? Maybe I should ask someone here. See if they’d want to,I tease.

Am I flirting with him? My cheeks are hot again, so I must be.

No, don’t do that,he responds in seconds.

Give me a number. It’s your turn.

Number 44.

I type and send. Do you have a secret you’ve never shared with anyone?

It’s a couple of minutes before he replies. If I share it, it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it?

It’s true. But I’m not anyone.

Here I go. I did it again. I’m not a flirt or a tease. There’s just something about this unconventional, unexpected arrangement of ours that’s both exhilarating and freeing. And it makes me say and do things I wouldn’t do in my everyday life.

No, you’re not. But this is one secret I’m not yet ready to share.

Is it something bad? I ask.

Are you asking if I’m wanted by the Police or on the FBI’s Top 50?

Are you?

No. I might make their top 100 though.

I hold my breath. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s kidding.

Just kidding. No, it’s nothing bad.

I let go of the breath.We continue talking all through dinner and I make sure to thank him for an absolutely perfect choice.

The dinner is indeed exquisite. The food finger-licking, the wine—though I’m not an expert—a perfect pairing. And with that view and the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean, I find that I’m feeling content and I might even say happy. I’m alone, but not uncomfortable as I’d normally be. And not lonely, although I should be. Because I’m only physically alone. Going from being ‘alone in two’ with David to tonight, it’s like being bumped from coach to first class.

Let’s raise a glass,he texts as the dinner is coming to an end. It’s your birthday after all.

I’ve known for quite a few hours I would’ve loved if he was here with me, but this is the first moment I actually start typing that message to him.

I wish we could toast in person.

I delete it. I write it again. I can’t. It’s just not who I am. And if he wanted to, he would’ve suggested it. He obviously doesn’t want to. I delete it again and push my phone away.

Do you think you have the energy for one more thing or would you like me to suggest a place where you can sleep for the night? There’s that inn where you went—

I’m not tired. I hope that didn’t sound too desperate or eager.

I don’t want the night to be over. I don’t want to think about what’s next. Returning to New York. I’m not ready.

Great, I was hoping for that. On weekends there are bonfires on the beach. The closest one to you is at 10th Avenue and Scenic Road. I think you’ll enjoy it.

I’ve never been to a bonfire. I’d love to; great idea.

Pretty much everything I did today was an absolute first. Not pretty much. Everything.