The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara

Twenty-Six

I call Alisa on my way to the café, but she doesn’t pick up. She might be in a meeting.

I text her instead.

Got something from the bookstore. Bad news. Delphy’s not here but his sister has a café in town. Fingers crossed. Call me. No, better text. Not sure who will be around.

I’m standing in the middle of the street, at the intersection of Seventh and Dolores. I’m right across from the coffee shop and my face drops. Café Azure. It’s Café Azure.

Max gave me two options and I chose the place owned by his friend’s sister. Really? What was the other one? His friend’s brother? Mother? I would hate to think he played me and got me here so they could all check me out and see if I was ‘worth it’. No, I can’t believe Max would do that. On the other hand, how would I know what Max would do?

The place was super nice, I remember that. The tables in front of Café Azure are all taken up, and there are a couple more now than I remember. I walk in, although I don’t have a clear plan just yet. She might not be here and even if she is and I find out who she is, how do I go from that to asking where I can find her brother? Inside, it’s even busier than last year; the line goes almost all the way to the door.

Behind the counter, I see a woman, who just like this place, is familiar. Is she the one who served me last year? Or maybe I met her somewhere in town. I was so focused on my adventure and my texting, that although I met many people, my brain put everything but Max into a big ‘Carmel’ bubble. Names, faces, places.

It’s almost ten minutes until I finally reach the front of the line.

“Hi,” I say, still studying her, unsure if my memory serves me right.

“Hello,” she says, looking at me with the same expression I probably have.

“I know you,” she says. “Wait, don’t tell me.” She squints.

I laugh. “I was here exactly a year ago. Maybe that’s why.”

She smiles. “The Parisian girl,” she says, an air of recognition on her face. “Yes. I didn’t know your name, but I called you the Parisian girl. You just had that air about you, sitting out there at that table,” she says and points to where I had my breakfast last year.

“Your memory is excellent.”

“You reminded me of myself when I lived in Paris.”

“You lived in Paris?” I ask with a mix of admiration and envy. “That must’ve been so wonderful. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“You should,” she says. “I was an exchange student there for a semester. It feels like a lifetime ago,” she says with a slight smile.

I doubt it could’ve been that long. She can’t be older than twenty-five, twenty-six maybe.

“Wish it was longer than just a few months,” she says, visibly nostalgic. “But look at me, talking and talking. What can I get for you today—” She pauses.

“Maya,” I say. “Although I like Parisian girl too.”

She laughs. “Maya. So nice to have a name to go with the pretty face,” she says kindly. “Thank you for coming back,” she adds.

“I’ll just have a coffee. Double shot espresso with regular milk,” I say, looking up at the menu written in chalk and then, gazing at the display fridge on my right, I’m tempted. “Can I also have a brie and avocado sandwich?”

“Sure,” she says, then scours the café, “Look, a table just cleared. I’ll clean it up for you in no time,” she says. There are now ten, maybe twelve people in line behind me.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else working here, which seems crazy to me given how busy this place is. Is Ethan’s sister a scrooge? Shocker. She’s obviously overworking this poor woman. It’s a bustling café. I doubt one person can handle all this madness and keep their sanity or physical health.

I hear some grumbling behind me, and I know the other customers are not happy that she just left and went to get a table ready. The pretty woman must’ve heard it too, because she turns toward the line, as she’s wiping my table, and with a big smile says, “I’ll be just a minute. Thank you for your patience.”

The grumbling continues though.

It’s not the same as being outside in the sun and looking at passersby, but I’m enjoying my lunch and the atmosphere, nevertheless, despite the crowds. Good music, a shelf of books, one with newspapers and magazines. I wonder if living in Carmel feels like you’re always on vacation or if it’s just the summer and the tourists that are making it seem that way.

With its people and its bohemian vibe, this town fascinates me now just as much as it did last year, and I realize how much I’ve missed it.

I’m staring absentmindedly out the window when I see a man parking across the street and getting out of his car. My heart skips a beat. Is that a Lift sticker on his window? I’m not surprised I’m having this reaction here in Carmel—where Max probably works and lives—but remembering I reacted the same way in New York makes me cringe. There was no point doing it there, obviously, but I just couldn’t help it. I lean to the side to see better. It is a Lift sticker; I didn’t imagine it. The man crosses the street and walks straight to the café’s entrance.

I freeze.

He’s about the right age—or so I think. He’s in his mid-thirties maybe, good-looking. Not that it was a pre-requisite, but he is. He’s now standing in line and I shamelessly stare. Not too tall, average build, which means the wind won’t blow him away but you won’t find him in the gym every day either. He’s tanned and has light-colored hair. He kind of reminds me of David with that surfer look but that’s where the similarities end.

He gets to the front of the line and orders and I’m still staring and my ears prickle, trying to hear his voice. Would I even know if it’s him by his voice? I don’t know and I can’t hear anything anyway; the place is too loud.

When he looks around, trying to find a table, all I want to do is grab him and say, ‘Hey, you can sit here with me. Are you him?’

Our eyes meet and he doesn’t look away for a few seconds. Is it him? Did he recognize me? How could he? He doesn’t know what I look like.

I get up and I’m about to do something even crazier than coming all the way to Carmel. I’m about to just go to him and ask, when he turns around and leaves. And before I know it, his car speeds away.