The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Twenty-Four
I find my way to the inn as if I’ve been there a hundred times, not once. It feels so nice to be here and have this familiar feeling. I don’t usually get attached to places—or people—that fast, but this small town has left a strong and obviously lasting impression on me. Maybe just the adventure, the almost magical—fairy-tale-like—feel of that day, perhaps just its beauty and serenity, the friendly people, the ocean, the hope of a life I didn’t even know I wanted.
“Good evening,” says the woman at the front desk as I put down my luggage. I hope they have a vacant room. After all, this is an oceanside town, and it must be popular in the summer if it’s anything like Cape Cod or Newport on the East Coast.
I look up at the price list on the wall. I can afford it for three nights; four, if I don’t eat anything. That should be fine; I doubt I’ll need more time.
“Good evening. I was wondering if you have a room. Three nights for now, but it might be more; I won’t know until tomorrow.”
“I have good news and bad news,” she says. “We do have a room, but only for two nights. We have two large groups of tourists arriving Tuesday. The madness started on Memorial Day and it won’t stop until Labor Day.”
Not exactly what I want to hear, but at least I have a place to sleep for now. I’ll have to go around town tomorrow and find other options.
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
I give her my ID and my credit card and after a few short minutes, she gives me a key. Room number 7.
“Are you on vacation?” she asks. “Will anyone be joining you?”
“No. It’s just me,” I say.
I’m not comfortable talking to strangers. I try not to come off as unpleasant or too good for chats, but it’s just who I am. I guess that’s why I hold on so tight when I do get close to someone. Because it’s hard for me to warm up to people and let them in. It’s strange, if I think about it, given my profession in the last five years. As a journalist, you have to talk to a lot of folks. But that’s just a job, not real life.
It was one of the things that struck me last year, when I arrived in Carmel. How quickly I became comfortable smiling at and talking to strangers all throughout that day. Almost as if someone else inhabited my body or I had left all my insecurities and inhibitions at the airport, and a different Maya boarded the bus.
The most surprising of all, was how lightning fast I became familiar with Max, talking to him about anything and everything. How easily I let him in. Maybe it’s because we only texted. I don’t think I would’ve ever been that open and flirty or agreed to meet him in real life.
I’ve thought about it many times, wondering if I would’ve gone through with it if David hadn’t shown up. Maybe I would’ve chickened out anyway or hid somewhere to see what he looked like and then left. I don’t know. My behavior that day was so out of character, it still haunts me. Anything could’ve happened, but I didn’t see the dangers of it. I only saw the excitement, the adventure. I do remember I was happy. Although alone in a new place, I was so absorbed by my surroundings and my growing fascination with him, that I let down my guard and didn’t put up the walls I usually surround myself with. I was so curious about how that text ‘relationship’ would translate into real life. It’s maybe because I’ve never hit it off with someone so quickly, someone with a similar—albeit quirky—sense of humor, someone who seemed genuinely kind and just right for me. I’ve never felt so much in such a short amount of time for someone.
Look at me now, a year later. The mere thought of standing in front of him makes my heart gallop, my hands sweaty, and my stomach do somersaults. I still can’t believe I’m so close to meeting him.
It’s too late in the evening to start my search now, though, so I ask the same woman who gave me the room—who introduces herself as Susan—if I can have something to eat at the inn. “Even if it’s just a sandwich or a soup that’ll be fine,” I say and she tells me there are a couple of options I could choose from if I move quickly. “The kitchen closes in thirty minutes,” she says.
I sit alone in a small dining room with a pretty view of the inn’s garden and ten minutes later, Susan brings me a Cobb salad, which I finish in a hurry.
Tomorrow’s a big day and I need to take a shower and get some sleep.
I text my mother to let her know I arrived safely and that I’ll call her on Saturday, as usual. It’s around eleven at night when I call Alisa, right before going to bed.
“All good. Got here, have a room at an inn,” I say.
“Great. I was about to call you. How was the flight? You sound tired.”
“I am beat. Any news?”
“No, It’s only 7 AM,” she says. “The day is just starting.”
True. I always forget about the time difference. “Let me know, OK?”
“Of course. You let me know too, promise?”
“Promise.”