The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Sixteen
I know what I must do. I think I’ve known it for a while…
As soon as he leaves, I call my mother. I usually call her on Saturdays and we already spoke yesterday, so she’ll immediately know that something is off.
“Don’t tell me? You’re not coming next weekend?” she asks.
“Actually, I was thinking I’d come over today.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes. Just fine.”
“Is David coming?”
“No. He’s away.” I stop. “He asked me to marry him.” I don’t know why I tell her that.
“Finally! So happy for you, Maya. I can’t wait to see the ring and tell everyone.”
“I haven’t given him an answer yet. I don’t—”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I see. I thought this was a sure thing. Your relationship. When two people are together for five years—”
I interrupt her. “I know, Mom. I know.”
She must suspect I’ve been struggling lately. That I have doubts. Maybe she doesn’t know the cause, but a mother always senses these things.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
“I hope so.”
“Are you coming just for the day?”
“I have some figuring out to do and might stay a bit longer if that’s alright with you.”
“Of course it is. However long you need. But what about your job?”
My job has been making my skin crawl more and more lately. It’s always bothered me, but it’s gotten worse since I came back. The newsroom is toxic. That whole environment is toxic. If someone doesn’t cry on any given day, it means they were either on vacation or took Xanax in the morning. It’s just not a place where you’d want to go and definitely not a place where you should spend twelve hours a day if not more. Five years. I’ve been there for almost as long as I’ve been with David. I only now make the correlation between the two.
“I have a ton of vacation days accumulated. I’ll ask for time off. Maybe a week or so.”
I feel relieved that I thought of this. I do need a break from that place. Although a week won’t work miracles, it’s better than nothing.
“Great idea. I’m so excited you’re coming. We’ll do girls’ stuff. Mani-pedis, go to the movies. It’s been so long since we’ve had a full week, just the two of us.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say robotically. I need some alone time to think and I don’t know if I’ll be the best company, but I don’t want to make her sad.
“Just come home, darling,” says my mother. “We’ll talk everything through.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re always welcome here. This is your home, no matter what.”
I’d argue against it. There were many times when I felt that if anything happened, I would not be able to go home, that I would not be welcomed with open arms. And it wasn’t just a hunch. It was the reality of my late teens and early twenties. My relationship with my mother was rocky through high school, almost nonexistent in college. Only a couple of years after I graduated it started, slowly, to patch together. It’s been better lately.
The one with my father never recovered from the fallout ten years ago. One of the reasons I gave David another chance after what happened in Carmel was my father. I was sixteen when he cheated on my mother and denied it, just like David. Only my mother didn’t forgive him—or try to—she kicked him out. He seemed depressed for a while, but that didn’t last long. A few months later, I found out he was remarrying and his new wife was expecting a child. I accused my mother of throwing him into the arms of another woman. I accused him of never loving us. I haven’t talked to my father in nine years and haven’t seen him in just as long. And he didn’t make an effort either. As if his new family was more important than us.
I had blamed my mother for breaking up our family for so long that when I was faced with that same choice, I made my decision as if to prove I’d always been right. What I ended up doing was proving it was my mother who was right all along. You can’t keep someone tied to you just because you have a home together, and you’ve spent years together. You can’t pretend to believe someone if deep down in your heart you don’t trust them. Trust, once lost, it’s almost always lost forever. And most of all, you can’t force yourself to love someone.
I look around the apartment and make a mental list. All my stuff should fit in two suitcases. My books in boxes, and whatever else is left, I’ll just put it in the trunk of my car.
At the bottom of a drawer, I find my old notebooks. Seeing them makes me sad. I could hardly write any of my stories this past year. The one thing I did write is hidden in a thick yellow envelope among them. My manuscript; the fastest 80,000 words I ever wrote. The story of that day in Carmel, of us. I promised myself I wouldn’t write another novel, but I couldn’t not write this one. I couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t do anything else until I finished it. Well, except for the ending. I couldn’t bring myself to mirror real life and break my character’s heart like that. It was too cruel. But every other option also seemed unrealistic and far-fetched. So, it’s almost finished.
I never showed it to anyone, especially not to Alisa. I know she’d have the absolute best intentions and she’d be nice about it, but I don’t think I could take yet another disappointment. This story is too important for me and I won’t let anyone tell me it’s not good enough. I place the manuscript with my ‘important’ documents folder and put it in a box. Then I change my mind and move it to one of the suitcases. I’m not letting it out of my sight.
Three hours later, I’m all packed, and my letter to David is sitting on the kitchen table.
David,
I’m sorry. I wish I could start this letter with something other than regret, but—
I’m sorry I haven’t been more honest about my feelings over the last year. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you all this to your face. You know I’m always much better in writing. I tend to get flustered face to face and I back down, let myself be influenced and persuaded. And I guess that’s why I’m doing it now. Because you cannot look into my eyes and convince me to give this another chance. I haven’t been happy. It’s hard to explain why, but it’s not only your fault. I did accuse you of cheating and was never able to get past that, but that’s not the only reason.
You see, that day in California, I met someone. Someone who changed my life and I’ve been feeling rather lost since then. I feel trapped in our life. In New York. In my job. I need to get away and start fresh. You deserve someone who is just like you: they know who they are and what they want, and they are set on getting it no matter what. You deserve someone who loves you above everything else. I’m afraid and I’m sorry to say, that person is not me.
I’m struggling with what I want and who I want to be. I know I’m kind of old for this and I should have it all clear by now, but I don’t. I’m struggling with what kind of relationship I want and what I think I should feel for the other person to be sure they are the one for me.
I’m not certain you cheated on me. Either way, I should’ve been strong that day and ended it, but I wasn’t, and I’m sorry I dragged this on for as long as I did, when deep down I knew there was no road ahead for the two of us, together.
I know you will be OK and you will find your happiness. I’m sorry it wasn’t with me.
Goodbye,
Maya
Maybe my departure will surprise him. Perhaps my letter will make him sad at first. But after he gives it some thought, I’m sure he’ll feel relieved. We’re not right for each other and although I don’t hold grudges, I do have regrets. One in particular.
The backpack I had with me in Carmel last year is by the door. Seeing it there, remembering that day, I realize how much the last three hundred days have weighed me down.
Maybe at twenty-two, I was too young to know. At twenty-three I thought I was in love, at twenty-four I was blinded by the possibilities, and at twenty-five, he made promises I wanted to believe. Maybe at twenty-six I still hoped. But at twenty-seven, I knew what I should’ve done, and I didn’t do it. This is my regret. Not wasting five years but one. And undoubtedly, never having the opportunity to get that one year back, the year that could’ve forever changed my life.