The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Eighty
It’s time for us to go back to the train and, from there, back to Carmel. I’m sorry this evening has ended. I wish it could’ve lasted longer. Of all the days we’ve spent together, I think this was my favorite, because we got to do a bit of everything, and I enjoyed it so much.
“I hope you had a good time,” Ethan says to me in the car.
“I did. Thank you.”
We drive in silence for a while. Even the driver is quiet.
“How are we on the hating part?”
“The what?” I ask.
“You hating me and all that? Have I scored any points today?”
He smiles, but it’s only a half-smile.
“Not that many,” I say. And I obviously mean it as a joke. Isn’t it clear I don’t hate him? I think I’m as far from hating him as anyone can possibly be.
“Too bad,” he says. “I’m running out of time.”
I have a knot in my throat. I didn’t want to think about this. Time. Our time together. The looming deadline. I’m not ready for it to be over. Not ready at all.
The driver drops us in front of the cottage.
“I’m not looking forward to Monday,” Ethan says out-of-the-blue once we’re out of the car.
June 17. The day after tomorrow. This will probably be the day when he will tell me who Max is. I should be jumping up and down, but I’m not.
“Why? Is it chaotic?”
“It’s not that. It’s just that Monday is the beginning of the book tour and—”
“I know. Two months, right?”
He nods.
“It must be exhausting to be on the road so long, but exciting too, right?” I say, trying to keep a positive attitude and not think about my feelings or internal turmoil. This is about him, not me.
“Yes. No. It’s exciting, for sure. And I get to meet my readers. But I just don’t want to leave right now.”
Only platitudes. That’s all my brain can produce now. Anything that doesn’t sound like ‘why’. I can’t ask why. I can’t go there. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to hear his answer. I might just be imagining it. It might all just be in my head. This undefined, unnamed, intangible thing between us. But if it’s not, I can’t ask ‘why’. Because there’s no turning back after I hear his answer.
I choose not to say anything. Like I didn’t even hear it.
He turns to me and looks into my eyes. “You’re not going to ask me why, are you?”
I try to hold his gaze, but I can’t. I look away when I say it. “No.”
He nods as we walk into the cottage, not saying another word until we’re inside and we both go to our bedrooms with frugal ‘good nights’.
I close the door behind me and let myself fall on the floor, head in my hands and try to breathe but I can’t.