A young woman greets me with a smile. “Welcome to Café Azure. What can I get you?”

“Good morning,” I say and realize I’m mirroring her smile. “Not sure what’s good here. Someone recommended it. Do you still serve breakfast?”

“We sure do. How hungry are you?”

“Starving,” I say. “I only had plane food.”

“Say no more. Do you prefer eggs or oats and fruit?”

“They all sound good,” I say, my stomach now grumbling.

“Leave it to me then,” she says and walks back in.

Minutes later, she returns with a large glass of a red drink. “Compote de saison,” she says. “Cherry. It’s my favorite.”

A good drink, a spot in the sun, a flurry of people up and down the street. Each with their own story. Since I sat down, I’ve jotted down ideas for three stories already. And the ideas keep coming. I usually get one, not twenty of them. I’m so busy writing—almost like I’m in a frenzy—that I don’t even see her standing in front of me with a large platter.

“Breakfast is served,” she says, with the same warm smile.

Two eggs, baguette, butter, different kinds of cheese and hams and fresh fruit. Oh, my. And it’s all so delicious, I eat without stopping.

I don’t remember the last time I sat alone at a table without feeling uncomfortable. But here, it seems that nobody cares. There are plenty of singles and people look relaxed and not judgmental. It makes me feel better about my situation. I keep going back to it, even if I don’t want to. I take a big gulp of the compote and whisper, ‘Happy birthday, Maya’.

And I’m not alone, am I? I’m texting Max, and at the same time, he texts me.

Mine is: Thank you, you were right. This café is something else.

His: What do you think? Did you make a good choice?

Then we both send smiling emojis and I smile in real life too.

When you’re ready, your second stop awaits you, he texts.

Ready.

San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo Mission. It’s a fifteen-minute walk.

I’m putting my phone in my pocket when it rings and I’m so startled, I let out a shriek. Why is he calling? I’m not ready to hear his voice. What would I even say to him? My hands are clammy and I’m so nervous, I don’t even check to see if it’s him or not.

“Sorry I missed your call.”

I breathe, relieved when I hear Alisa’s voice.

“I was in an editorial meeting and then had to see a client. How’s Mr. Fancy Pants? Hope he’s kissing the ground you walk on for all you went through to surprise him,” she says.

“He’s kissing something alright, but it has nothing to do with me,” I say.

“W—what are you talking about? What’s going on?” she asks.

“He’s cheating on me. I’m still processing, to be honest. He’s here with someone else.”

“Oh my God! Did you catch him with another woman? Maya, I’m so sorry. I’ll kill him!”