The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Twelve
I open my eyes and realize I am lying on the beach. The last thing I remember is sending the text, then sitting in the sand, waiting for him to reply, but he never did. That must’ve been hours ago. Did I fall asleep here? Great, my first night of being homeless. My backpack is still next to me, so at least I didn’t get robbed. When I try to get up, something falls in the sand. It’s a dark-colored hoodie and definitely not mine. It’s too big and too… gray for me to ever wear anything like this. Someone must’ve put it over me while I was sleeping. A shiver passes through my body at the thought that people saw me like this and took pity on me.
I check my watch; it’s five-thirty. The sun isn’t up yet, and it’s chilly. Hope I didn’t catch a cold, I think and thank whoever gave me their hoodie. Carmel truly is a nice place with nice people. At first, I’m thinking of leaving the hoodie on the bench so whoever left it can get it back. But on impulse, I put it in the pocket of my backpack. A souvenir from Carmel.
My phone is in my handbag; I slept with my head on it, and I now have a massive headache. I take it out, and it’s almost out of battery.
No text, but I do have missed calls from him—ten of them.
Why did he call instead of texting? We said 6 AM. I’m not late yet, am I? The last call is from a few minutes ago. What if he can’t make it and wanted to tell me?
I imagined we’d see and hear each other face to face, but this is not one of my stories where every scene is written to perfection. I have to call him back and see what’s going on.
I take a deep breath and press call. It rings once and before it rings a second time, I hear his voice, do a double take, look at my phone, and then put it back at my ear.
“Maya, Maya, can you hear me?”
“David—” I say and can’t continue.
David got his phone back. How? When? What happened? What does this mean?
“Are you OK? Where are you? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I tried, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I lost it. Just got it back.”
Did he get it back straight from Max? Did Max leave it somewhere for him?
“How did you get your phone back?”
“Does it matter? I forgot it in a Lift yesterday.”
He’s acting like nothing’s wrong. Like he did nothing.
“Where are you?” he asks, his tone edgy. “Are you still at the airport—?”
Where else would a stupid woman like me be? At the airport, waiting for him.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then where are you?” he repeats.
“Carmel. You wouldn’t know it.”
“What are you doing in Carmel?” he asks.
I don’t respond. I don’t have to justify myself to him.
“I’m in Monterey,” he says, then I hear him talking to someone before talking to me again. “I’ll be in Carmel in less than ten minutes. Meet me at Hotel Marin.”
“David—”
He hung up.
Meet him? I don’t want to meet him. What is he going to say? That it wasn’t him with that woman? The only person I’m going to meet is Max, at six, at the bench. Is this what I want? I don’t know anymore. With David on his way here, things feel different. It’s like a wake-up call. ‘Hello, this is your reality. What are you doing?’ Am I brave enough to go through with this? It’s all so different in the daylight. As if I was living in this carefully constructed yet fragile bubble for the last day and now that the sun is almost up, the bubble has popped. I look a mess, I haven’t showered in a day, I have sand in my hair. I have sand everywhere. If I meet Max like this, he’ll take one look at me and run the other way.
Should I get on the bus and return to New York alone? But what will I do there? I have no place to live; I have no job. No, it’ll be Hartford and staying with my mom for a while.
It’s five-forty-five. What should I do? What am I doing?
Minutes pass, and the more I think about it, the more I panic.
I try to picture his face, waiting for me on the bench. I try to imagine his reaction when he sees me. I look down at my clothes and almost gag.
What if I’m going to regret this? What if this man is the one I was meant to meet? What if what I felt yesterday is the beginning of a love story unlike any other? The kind I write about. What if it could happen to me? I smile, thinking how I’m going to tell Alisa how he and I met.
With a swift move, I grab my backpack and run across the street to the Starbucks. Thank God for Starbucks. Nothing else seems open. I run into the bathroom, wash my face, clean up as best as I can, brush my teeth and change. Seven minutes all in all.
I run back out, ignoring the curious looks the barista is giving me.
I have to do this. It’s five-fifty-five. I should go; just risk it.
What’s the worst that can happen? When something feels so right, it can’t be wrong.
I put on my backpack and start walking back to the rocks he told me about; to the bench.
The streets are empty; it’s still so early.
My hands are shaking, I’m so nervous, but I can do this. I can.