I text her instead.

Got something from the bookstore. Bad news. Delphy’s not here but his sister has a café in town. Fingers crossed. Call me. No, better text. Not sure who will be around.

I’m standing in the middle of the street, at the intersection of Seventh and Dolores. I’m right across from the coffee shop and my face drops. Café Azure. It’s Café Azure.

Max gave me two options and I chose the place owned by his friend’s sister. Really? What was the other one? His friend’s brother? Mother? I would hate to think he played me and got me here so they could all check me out and see if I was ‘worth it’. No, I can’t believe Max would do that. On the other hand, how would I know what Max would do?

The place was super nice, I remember that. The tables in front of Café Azure are all taken up, and there are a couple more now than I remember. I walk in, although I don’t have a clear plan just yet. She might not be here and even if she is and I find out who she is, how do I go from that to asking where I can find her brother? Inside, it’s even busier than last year; the line goes almost all the way to the door.

Behind the counter, I see a woman, who just like this place, is familiar. Is she the one who served me last year? Or maybe I met her somewhere in town. I was so focused on my adventure and my texting, that although I met many people, my brain put everything but Max into a big ‘Carmel’ bubble. Names, faces, places.

It’s almost ten minutes until I finally reach the front of the line.

“Hi,” I say, still studying her, unsure if my memory serves me right.

“Hello,” she says, looking at me with the same expression I probably have.

“I know you,” she says. “Wait, don’t tell me.” She squints.

I laugh. “I was here exactly a year ago. Maybe that’s why.”

She smiles. “The Parisian girl,” she says, an air of recognition on her face. “Yes. I didn’t know your name, but I called you the Parisian girl. You just had that air about you, sitting out there at that table,” she says and points to where I had my breakfast last year.

“Your memory is excellent.”

“You reminded me of myself when I lived in Paris.”

“You lived in Paris?” I ask with a mix of admiration and envy. “That must’ve been so wonderful. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“You should,” she says. “I was an exchange student there for a semester. It feels like a lifetime ago,” she says with a slight smile.

I doubt it could’ve been that long. She can’t be older than twenty-five, twenty-six maybe.

“Wish it was longer than just a few months,” she says, visibly nostalgic. “But look at me, talking and talking. What can I get for you today—” She pauses.