The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Eighteen
I grab my backpack and go downstairs, get into my beat-up Elantra. I’m holding my phone in one hand and propping myself on the wheel with the other; I just don’t know what to do. Should I drive to my mother’s and continue the search from there or stay here? If this Ethan guy lives in New York, like most writers I know, then perhaps it’s easier if I’m here too.
I google the author’s name on my phone and get a ton of links. He wrote and published three novels; this would be his fourth. The other three were love stories too. On Wikipedia, I see the first photo, not that I’m particularly interested in how he looks. It’s one of those ‘at your desk, act professional and writerly’ images. He has dark hair, cut short, a bushy dark beard, eyes of an undefined color, perhaps brown, behind the kind of glasses people wear for kicks—thick, dark frames, ‘intellectual’ written all over them. And to top it all, he’s wearing a black polo neck. He has a slight, lopsided smile.
I stare at the photo; this is the man who’s writing my story. He doesn’t look like he knows anything about love and the more I think about it, the more I get worked up. I never agreed to anyone sharing my day in Carmel with the world. Maybe I want to keep it all to myself. It’s a private thing. That’s why I didn’t send my manuscript out. Maybe. Never mind my reasons. The bottom line is that this is a beautiful yet painful matter of the heart. And it’s mine. Mine and Max’s. Definitely not Ethan Delphy’s.
I read on.
Ethan Delphy is an American novelist and screenwriter. He has published three novels and one non-fiction book, all of which have been New York Times bestsellers, with over 5 million copies sold worldwide in more than 25 languages.
Born: August 8, 1985 (age 33 years), Carmel by the Sea
Spouse: Isabella Delphy (m. 2014)
Books: Need No Words, Early Summer Dreams, A Million Minutes
Early life
Ethan Delphy was born to Tim Delphy, an investigative journalist, and Anne Marie Delphy (née Thoene), a baker and restaurateur. Ethan has a twin sister, Celine Delphy who runs the family business—an Art Nouveau café in the Bay Area.
Delphy is of French, English, and Irish ancestry.
He was raised in Carmel by the Sea where he was active in sports during school. He subsequently attended UCLA, graduating with an English major and then got an MFA in Creative Writing from UC Irvine.
Personal life
In 2013, while vacationing in Europe, he met his future wife, Isabella Andres of Madrid, Spain. Delphy and Andres were married on September 1, 2014. They live in Carmel by the Sea.
Career
Delphy began writing in his first year of college. He is said to base his stories on real events and his characters on real people. He calls his impressive circle of friends and acquaintances ‘an unending, ever-surprising source of inspiration’.
Published works
2012: Need No Words
2013: Early Summer Dreams
2014: A Million Minutes
(upcoming) 2019: June After Midnight
I hate the title. June After Midnight. It’s so irrelevant and bland.
And my plan to stay here because he might be here is obviously a bust. Wikipedia says he lives in Carmel. It makes me wonder if ‘Max’ lives in Carmel too. That would explain why he knew the town inside and out.
Carmel is a small town, maybe three thousand people. If I went there… how hard could it be to find a famous author? He probably stands in the town square with blinking lights on his head. “It’s me! The talented, successful, rich writer who steals other people’s stories!”
What am I saying? No, going there to find him would be crazy.
The more I think about the book, the more I get worked up, and all my anger is targeted at the writer. Who gave him the right to tell my story? Is he even a good writer? Did he do a good job? If it’s my story, our story, then I’m part of it. How could he possibly get right how I felt that day and what it meant to me? How that town and that man changed me forever?
I mumble to myself and notice a woman passing by who gives me a strange look.
“This is New York. I’m allowed to talk to myself in my car,” I say to her through the window.
I look again at the writer’s photo. So stuck up.
“His impressive circle of friends,” I mumble. “Who says that?”
He should’ve asked for my permission. I’m a journalist; I know how this works. One source of information is not enough, and it doesn’t make a story. You need to have at least two. He should’ve contacted me and asked me about it, and I would’ve gotten the chance to tell him, ‘NO. No, you can’t write about my life’.
So frustrating that he knows what I don’t. He knows what happened. Why Max didn’t show up. Why he broke my heart. What happened to him after. I punch the wheel. I don’t care how many books he wrote and how many millions he sold. This is not his story to tell. It’s mine. And I wrote it. I hate this guy!