The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara

Forty-Four

The moment I wake up, I know three things for sure.

One is that sleeping only four hours is never a good idea if you’re approaching thirty.

Two is that Ethan is a gifted writer. Although some things in the novel were far-fetched, they didn’t take away from the beauty of the story or from hoping the characters would find a way to get past their heartbreaks and fears and just take a chance on each other. It’s hard to imagine all the twists and turns, drama, betrayal, and tragedy came from Ethan, but at the same time, it isn’t. A complicated, complex book. Just like him.

And three, which is strongly related to one… I overslept, missed my alarm, and now have only fifteen minutes to get ready. Ethan said eight-thirty.

I take a quick shower, put on my black pencil skirt and a light lavender shirt, grab my shoes—not Converse, although it’s tempting—and walk into the living room. The house is quiet. The door to Ethan’s bedroom is open, and he’s not there.

I hear something behind me and when I turn, Ethan is standing there, all dressed up. He bursts into laughter when he looks at me. Did I put my clothes backward or something? Then I realize what he’s looking at. We’re matching to a T like we’re one of those couples who go to weddings wearing coordinated clothes: black pants—black skirt, lavender shirt—lavender shirt.

I start laughing too. I’ve only seen him in short pants and basic tees until now. Except for that photo in the paper, but he looked like a completely different person there anyway, so I can’t even associate that image with this Ethan I know.

“Interesting choice of clothes,” he says with a snicker.

“Is lavender your color?” I ask.

“I hope not,” he says, smiling.

He grabs a set of car keys—they have a custom-made Mustang and a Porsche in the garage. Celine showed them to me and said she tinkered with both for years after getting the Mustang for almost nothing from its first owner and the Porsche at a car cemetery auction.

“Ready?” he asks.

Ethan gets in the shiny red Mustang. It seems brand new, although it’s from 1964.

“I wanted to thank you for doing this. I know I basically forced you, but you could’ve said no, and I appreciate you didn’t,” he says.

“Say no? Do you know Celine?” I ask and we both laugh. “By the way, she did a great job with this car. I heard it was a ruin when she got it.”

“She’s amazing. I wish she’d focus on this more. My sister is better than most mechanics I know. It’s because she’s technical but also creative and she does it with passion. She likes working at the café, but cars will always be her soft spot.”

“Why isn’t she doing it full time then?”

He shrugs. “A sense of duty, I guess. I told her I could take over Café Azure. I could hire a cook if she’s afraid I’ll mess up her recipes.”

I laugh.

“It’s true though. I’m no Bobby Flay,” he says.

“You can’t be worse than me. I did notice that most customers want either drinks or super simple food. Sandwiches, salads. I think if you took the complex meals off the menu, we could definitely do it.”

He turns to me for a moment, then back to the road.

“I read your book,” I say out of nowhere.

“Which one?”

“Need No Words.”

“Good. Don’t bother with the second. Not my best work.”

“You should’ve told me that before I bought it,” I say jokingly.

He snickers.

I feel like he wants to ask me what I think about it, but maybe he’s too proud.

“I really liked it,” I say.

“But—” he says.

“No buts. OK, fine. But that whole instalove is not something that happens in real life.”

“Instalove?” he asks, sounding amused.

“You know. That slow-motion, from across the room, the street, the bus station, the whatever. No words needed, just like your title. Just head over heels, forever and—”

“Ever,” he adds. “Yeah, I thought that’s what you meant. So, you don’t think people can fall in love just by looking into each other’s eyes, is that it?”

We’re waiting in line to take an exit and the traffic comes to a full stop.

I shake my head. “Not in my experience. And whatever it is they call love is just chemistry. There’s no such thing as looking into someone’s eyes and falling in love.”

He looks at me; I look at him. If the tension between people would be like auras, I’d be blind right now. I have a weird feeling in my stomach, my chest, and my heart is thumping.

“Hmm,” he says and looks back at the road when the line starts moving. “Are you sure?”

I shrug. “Anyway, I think you’re a talented writer,” I say.

I see a small smile in the corner of his mouth. “That’s quite the compliment when it’s coming from a fellow writer.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call myself a writer.”

“Do you not write?”

“I used to. Haven’t really, in a while. Anyhow, I haven’t published anything.”

“Not being published doesn’t make you less of a writer,” he says.

I shrug. “Tell me more about your new book,” I say.

“This is still professional interest?” he asks, looking over again, then back at the road.

“What else?”

He smiles. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that too—” He stops.

“Yes?” I say and hold my breath. Jeez, I hope he’s not onto me.

“Can I ask you something first?”

“Sure,” I say, all too eager.

“You said you’d like to meet Max Meridian.”

I gulp and nod.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

This would be my chance to come clean. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to. The lies are killing me because it’s not who I am. But before I get the chance to, we arrive at the Orpheum Theater. It’s about twenty minutes before the show starts.

I didn’t expect the theater would be this full and it takes us a few minutes to get to our seats, which are front and center.

Ethan lies back in his seat and closes his eyes.

“Are you going to fall asleep?” I ask.

“I hope so,” he says and snickers.

It’s about fifteen minutes in when I shuffle in my seat, and my leg accidentally touches his. He opens his eyes and looks at me. I look back and mouth, ‘Sorry.’

The next time I look to my left, Ethan is paying attention to the stage.

I lean over and whisper, “The chair not comfortable enough for your nap?”

I don’t know what makes me come up with these quips, but I must say, I enjoy teasing him. It’s not fun playing ping-pong with a wall, but it’s quite entertaining if you have a partner.

“We have over two hours back to Carmel. Thought I might as well have an opinion since judging by how into it you are, you’ll talk my ears off about it,” he whispers.

I wasn’t planning on discussing the show on our way back. We have far more important things to talk about. Like Max. But I like that he’s watching it with me; it gives me a good feeling. Not that I’m some musical aficionado; it’s just the idea of sharing this with someone. And to think that a few days ago I wanted to strangle him and hated the mere idea of him.

After the intermission, he’s doing something on his phone during the second act of the play and drops it. He’s trying to get it back, and by accident, our hands touch. I turn and look at him and for a moment we stay like that, eyes locked, then he mouths, ‘Sorry.’

That feeling I had the night I met him, and a couple—more like a couple of dozen—other times since then, I have it again. I don’t know what it is or how to describe it. I don’t know if it’s my guilty conscience or something else but being next to Ethan is both comfortable and nerve-racking at the same time. And I’m not used to confusing feelings. For me, things are either black or white. I don’t do well with grays and shades thereof.