The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Thirty-Four
June 17? That’s eleven more agonizing days of not knowing. And she doesn’t have a copy of the book. Great. Just great. I should’ve just stayed in New York. Then I realize it’s pointless to think that way. I wouldn’t have stayed in New York anyway. Right now, I’d be in my mother’s kitchen, alone, while she’s in the next room sleeping. So, what am I complaining about? It is what it is. I just hope I didn’t make the trip for nothing, and when Ethan Delphy comes, he’ll tell me where Max is and who he is.
“They’re all the translations,” she says, pointing at the books. “Like thirty or so for every book. What kind of books do you write?”
“Love stories.”
“You too? That’s awesome. You and Ethan will have a lot to talk about then.”
I doubt it. Well, except for him telling me who Max is.
“And they’re not books. Just manuscripts nobody wants,” I say, realizing I sound bitter.
“How come?”
“They got rejected by agents. I have a new one I never submitted, but—”
“Do you know how many times Ethan was rejected before he found his agent?”
I stare.
“I’d say over a hundred times.”
Because he’s a sucky writer who steals other people’s stories. Does his agent know?
“You should try again,” she says. “Why don’t you?”
I don’t have an answer to that question. At least not an answer I can give now.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Fear of failure, maybe?” she asks. “I know about that all too well.”
Maybe we’re more alike than I thought. Although Celine seems to have it all together, there’s regret in her voice. I recognize regret. It’s my thing.
“Talking about my famously annoying brother, I should give him a call,” she says.
“Now? Isn’t it late in Florida?”
“Ethan is a night owl. He writes at night and edits during the day. Don’t ask me why.”
I wasn’t planning to. I couldn’t care less how he lives his life. Who was it that said they write drunk and edit sober? Maybe this is his own interpretation.
“I promised I’d tell him when there’s news, so I have to call him.”
“What’s the news?” I ask.
“You,” she says with a smile. “Plus, I need to ask him something.”
She dials his number and puts him on speakerphone.
“Hey, bro, what are you doing?”
“Writing. How’s everything back home?”
“Good. Great. I won’t keep you long. Just wanted you to say hi to my savior.”
“Don’t tell me the miracle happened? You finally found someone for the café?”
“She came all the way from New York to help me,” says Celine and winks at me.
“Heh,” I say. “Well—”
Celine nudges me forward.
“Maya, say hi.”
The plan is for me to be over-the-top friendly and get him to tell me what I need to know.
“Hi,” I say. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ethan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Silence.
“Hey, Ethan, are you still there?” asks Celine.
“Yes, sorry, you broke up a bit.”
“Ugh,” she says. “Maya just said hello.”
“H—Hello,” he says.
“For a writer, you sure are bad with words. Say welcome and thank you for helping my chaotic sister.”
“Welcome, and thank you for helping my chaotic sister,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking. Either way, his voice is getting on my nerves already. Not as much his voice as his tone. Like he can’t be bothered. It perfectly matches the face in the photo.
“OK, enough chitchat,” says Celine. “I called because I wanted to know when you’re coming back.”
There’s a crackling noise, and we hear half of a word that I don’t even understand.
“Stop mumbling,” she says and laughs.
“I said this week.”
She looks at me and makes funny faces. “This week? Did Mom and Dad kick you out?”
“Aren’t you the one who has been pestering me to return to California for months?”
Celine laughs. “That must’ve been some other sister. So, when’s your flight?”
“Soon.”
“OK, that sounds vague enough. So it might be this week, but it might be June 17, right?”
She covers the phone with her hand and says to me, “Typical Ethan”, then uncovers it. “Will you let me know in advance? I’ll come to the airport, do a banner and everything.”
“No thanks,” he answers dryly. “I’ll see you soon.”
Thank God. This might work out after all.