The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara

Eight

The mission is beautiful. I take a guided tour and it’s incredible how so much history is bottled up in this building. It dates from back in the 1700s.

An hour later, I emerge from the dark church and back into the sun and immediately turn my phone on again, feeling a bit of excitement. Has he texted me while I was in there? Should I text him? And that little feeling in my stomach makes me smile. I haven’t been this anxious since I was a teenager and was waiting by the landline for my crush to call.

I do have a text from him. How do you feel about biking?

A big smile on my face.

In general?

No. In particular. Ha-ha.

I haven’t ridden a bike since I was a child. Not sure if I still know how.

Do you know the expression, ‘it’s like riding a bike?’

Yes. But I don’t think it applies to me.

You’ll be fine. Plus, it’s electric, so won’t be as hard. 201 Mission Street.

As you wish, I text. Will he get the Princess Bride reference? He will, I think, and my certainty gives me pause.

I hope you’ll be a fool. That’s the best thing you can be,he texts back.

I hold my breath. This is what gives me pause the most. Not only that he obviously got the reference, but that he answered with his Great Gatsby one, which I immediately got.

Don’t be too impressed,he texts back, as if reading my mind. I have a photographic memory. I never forget anything I read. I am even more impressed now, I think, and smile to myself.

I’m at the corner of Ocean Avenue and Mission Street, in front of a shop that faces Red Eagle Lane and across from Tiffany’s. This town is as eclectic as they come. There are maybe eight or nine people on bikes and moving between us, a man dressed in a bright red T-shirt waves his arms above his head. “Everyone ready?”

An elderly couple cheers as they hold hands even on bikes. It’s lovely to see. Will it be bizarre if I take out my notebook from my backpack and write something on it? I have to do it.

“Hands on the handlebar,” I hear right behind me as the redshirt man spots my notebook.

I smile innocently and stuff it in the backpack. “Writers write,” I mumble, amused.

Before entering Pebble Beach, we take Scenic Road to cycle along what the guide tells us is the most beautiful stretch of coastal roadway in the US: 17 Mile Drive. It’s breathtaking. We pass the golf course, the Lone Cypress Tree where we stop, and I take a few photos with my phone. I text one to Max, who sends back smileys and asks me if I’m having a good time.

A blast!

Did you know this is the most photographed tree in the world?

I didn’t. Had no idea. Just like I had no idea that a day that started so disastrously would take me here. Despite the pain and the uncertainty of my future and the regret for the last four years—both at work and with David—I find myself smiling from ear to ear as Max and I text back and forth. I do not feel alone at all, as hard as that is to explain, even to myself.

The group is now at the Ghost Tree and Cypress Point Lookout, where we stop again. There are seals and otters on the large rocks in the ocean and the view and this moment take my breath away. This is by far the most amazing adventure I’ve ever been on.

We head on to Fanshell Cove, Seal Point, Point Joe and eventually to Spanish Bay. The group stops at the beach where there are lots of stacking stones and I take tons of photos. I’m sorry I didn’t bring my camera with me and even sadder it’s in David’s apartment, because I can’t even call it my own anymore. Whatever happens after today, I need to get my things out of there. Where to though, that’s the question. I guess back to my mom’s house? Moving back to Hartford isn’t something I ever thought I’d do, but then again, I should stop planning for anything, as it’s fairly obvious by now it’s completely pointless and it only leads to disappointment.

Knowing Max is a text away, giving me directions and helping me navigate this day is comforting. I feel safe and not lonely at all, although I’m practically alone here. And one of the best parts about this day and the greatest surprise for sure is how much I’m enjoying getting to know him. I find myself wondering when the tour will end—although I’m having a great time—so I can sit somewhere and talk to him again. And I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.

I say goodbye to my cycling buddies and text Max.

What an amazing town this is!

I’m glad you like it. It’s one of the prettiest in the Bay Area. Some say the prettiest. Do you want to relax a little? Catch your breath?

Yes, please,I say.

When I look at my watch, I can’t believe this whole cycling tour was three hours.

It’s mid-afternoon now and the sun is not so strong anymore. I’ve finished the two water bottles I bought for the ride—thankfully the guide reminded us to get some—and I’m thirsty and tired. But a good kind of tired. I’m still smiling and in awe of everything.

I think I know the answer to this question, but here it goes: the beach with snacks and a drink OR a terrace?

The beach,I answer without hesitation.

I only got to spend those few minutes on the beach earlier in the morning, and I’m dying to go back. I grew up dreaming about it. After I moved to New York for college, I never saw the ocean except for the occasional Long Island trip. And I had never seen the Pacific until now.

Max tells me where I can get something to drink and the fastest way to Carmel Beach.

Impressive how he gets all of his directions so right, but, as a Lift driver, you kind of have to know your way around, don’t you?

I text him from the shop the moment I see a rack full of sunglasses.

What do you think?I ask and send him three photos with three different pairs. I’m holding them in my hand, not wearing them, since we’re staying away from anything personal.

Get the pink ones. Seeing life throughrose-colored glasses is allowed on one’s birthday.

Back on the beach, I lie in the sand, staring at the clouds and listening to the waves. I could see myself living here. My life would be so different, wouldn’t it? New York is always in such a rush. Time seems to stand still here. It gives you room to catch your breath.

Whose turn is it?I ask.

Yours if you want.

Alright. Let’s go with number 22.

What’s your pet peeve? he asks.

This is like the list of fears. Too many to count. But I’ll try: loud chewing, being late, people who say honestly before telling a blatant lie, and those who say literally before a non-literal thing, people stopping suddenly in the middle of the street.

That last one is such a NYC pet peeve, he says. And it’s a good thing we don’t know each other in real life because I’m that guy who chews loudly, is always late and says literally and honestly all the time. Honestly.

Ha-ha-ha. I don’t believe you,I text.

Why not?he asks.

You just don’t seem like that type of person.

What type is that?

The obnoxious one.

I just fooled you because I’m a master texter.

Although I’m pretty sure it’s a joke, it does make me think. And it’s never a good thing when I think. Because I don’t just think. I overthink and then I analyze and overanalyze. Normally, I’d talk to Alisa about this, but it’s midnight in London, and her phone goes to voicemail. So I’m left to do this by myself. What if he just has a great way with words? This man I don’t know. We’ve now been talking for seven hours and I’ve found out more about him than I did about David in the first seven months of our relationship. Yet, I don’t really know him. I picture him in a certain way, but he could be way different. His voice might be squeaky or deep. His mannerisms might be maddening. Age is just a number, so whether he’s in his twenties or his thirties that wouldn’t make a difference—and I doubt he’s older than that. There’s just something about our conversation so far that makes me believe we might be relatively close in age. Could we be friends if we met face to face? Would I want us to be friends? I don’t know why I keep going back to this. As we’re texting now, I’m even trying to write down some thoughts about him. What kind of character would he be? What kind of story would I give him?

And the funniest, funniest thing happens. I’m jealous of the woman character I would pair him with. This is ridiculous, but it’s what I feel.

I look at my phone and I’m tempted to call. I’ll just wait until he says hello so I can hear his voice. Then I’ll know if his voice matches his personality. What am I? Five? Calling and hanging up? No. I’m not going to call him to hear his voice or for any other reason. It wouldn’t be appropriate, and it would most likely ruin everything. Anyway, he would’ve called me if he wanted to. Why didn’t he want to?

Now I’m in my head like I always am. Does he have a family? He’s not married, I know that—or I think I know. But maybe he was married before, maybe he has children, old parents who need care, or needs to take rides instead of texting with me. Or just do something else today. Am I imposing on his time? Maybe I should cut him loose. He might feel like he owes me something, and he clearly doesn’t. He’s done enough for me as it is. Much more than anyone—especially a complete stranger—ever did before.

I was thinking, you know you don’t have to keep me virtual company all day. If you have other things to do, you can just tell me the names of the places in advance, I say.

Are you trying to get rid of me? he texts.

I rush to answer. I don’t want him to think that’s what I want. No, no. Not at all. I’m quite enjoying your company.

Am I flirting with him? Is that flirting? I’m so obviously not good at it, if I don’t even know what it sounds like.

Good. Because I’m enjoying yours as well and I’m not planning on going anywhere.

I look at the phone and smile. The kind of smile I shouldn’t have after today.