The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Thirty-Six
I think I’m doing OK, but when more and more people come in and a long line forms, I begin to panic. When is she coming back? I get my cell out of my pocket and start typing a message to her, then change my mind. I don’t want her to think I can’t handle this.
“Hi,” says a man who’s been waiting patiently in line for a while.
“Hello,” I say, looking at him and putting my phone down, almost missing the counter. His eyes are mind-blowing. And just, his face… in general. He’s one of those men who capture everyone’s attention because they have a certain something. Black, wavy hair, tousled, too long for my liking, but not that long that it needs to be kept in a ponytail, a clean-shaved face with a strong, almost square jawline, and I’m back to those eyes. Green—and when I say green, I mean really green, like contacts. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and has a big tattoo of something I can’t identify on his muscular arms. I gulp and look away. Why am I staring like I haven’t seen a man before? Get a hold of yourself, Maya.
“I’ll just be a minute. Thank you for your patience,” I say as I make the last order for a group.
Even as I prepare the coffee, I keep looking to my right at him. He’s looking at me too and I realize I must be so obviously staring. I try to look away.
What was it? Macchiato, I think. Maybe. OK. I take the drink to the table and come back to the green-eyed god. “Sorry about that.” My cheeks are on fire. “What can I get for you?” I ask, still staring. There’s something about him. The way he handles himself, a particular look in his eyes.
“I’m—” he says, but a voice interrupts him.
“Excuse me, miss,” says the woman I just made the caramel macchiato for.
“Excuse me for a second,” I say to him and go over to see what’s going on.
“We asked for an almond milk macchiato, and I believe this is regular,” says the woman.
“I apologize,” I say. I’m usually good at remembering orders, not sure why I’m so flustered. “I’ll make a new one and bring you our pastry of the day. On the house, of course.”
“This will be just a few more minutes. I need to redo this,” I say to the man. “Sorry,” I add, for the tenth time in five minutes.
“It’s OK,” he says.
I make a new macchiato. “I’ll be right back,” I say as I pass him on my way to the table.
When I hear the sonar ringtone, I close my eyes and clench my jaw, and I know I’m turning red. I can’t believe I forgot to switch my phone to silent.
Everyone’s head snaps toward the counter. A man rolls his eyes, a woman gives me the stink eye, and the green-eyed man turns around and leaves.
I reach the counter in one move and reject the call. It was David. It figures!
Celine returns soon, and the rest of the day is thankfully uneventful.
“Any word from your brother?” I ask Celine as we’re closing for the night.
She shrugs. “I called him a few times and left voicemails, but no word.”
We decide to skip dinner and jump straight to wine and the pretzels Celine kept telling me about, but we’re out of both, so Celine goes to the store while I jump in the shower.
It’s maybe ten minutes or so later when I hear the doorbell. She must’ve forgotten her key. It happened the other night too, when she went to the front gate to get the pizza; that’s when I found out our door locks from the inside when you close it behind you.
I wrap myself in a towel and rush to open the door.
With one hand holding the towel and the other on the doorknob, I freeze.