Part 1: Café Tropical
Charlotte's POV — 9:28 AM
Charlotte stood outside Café Tropical, checking the address on her phone for the third time. This was definitely the place—a small corner café with mismatched furniture visible through the windows and a hand-painted sign that had seen better days.
Not the kind of place she used to frequent. But then again, she wasn't that person anymore.
Through the window, she spotted Mateo at a corner table, nervously checking his phone. He looked up, saw her, and his face broke into a smile that made her heart do something complicated.
She pushed open the door.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." He stood up, awkward for a moment about whether to hug her or kiss her or just stand there. They ended up doing an uncomfortable half-hug that made them both laugh.
"Sorry, I—"
"No, I—"
They spoke at the same time, laughed again.
"Okay," Charlotte said, sliding into the booth across from him. "We need to stop being this nervous around each other."
"Agreed. But how?"
"I have no idea."
A woman in her sixties appeared with a coffee pot and menus. "First time here?"
"For me, yes," Charlotte said.
"You're in for a treat. I'm Rosa. Been running this place for thirty years." She filled Charlotte's cup. "What can I get you?"
Charlotte glanced at the menu. "What's good?"
Rosa looked at Mateo. "She's asking you, not me."
"The chilaquiles," Mateo said. "Green sauce."
"I've never had chilaquiles."
Rosa's eyebrows went up. "Honey, where have you been eating?"
"Places with single figs on white plates," Mateo said.
Charlotte kicked him under the table, but she was smiling. "I'll try the chilaquiles. Do you have oat milk?"
"For the coffee? Sure thing."
After Rosa left, they sat in silence for a moment.
"So," Mateo said.
"So."
"This is weird, right?"
Charlotte laughed with relief. "So weird. I changed my outfit four times this morning."
"I got here at 8:45."
"It's 9:30."
"I know."
They looked at each other and the tension broke. This was okay. They could do this.
Part 2: Getting to Know You
"Okay," Charlotte said, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug. "New strategy. We just ask each other things. Real things."
"Like what?"
"Like... what time do you normally wake up?"
"Six AM. Sometimes earlier. The light's best in the morning."
Charlotte made a face. "That sounds like torture."
"You're not a morning person?"
"I'm a 'maybe conscious by 10 AM' person. All those charity breakfasts at 7 AM? I'd set three alarms and drink espresso in the car."
Mateo laughed. "So that perfect, put-together Charlotte at dawn was—"
"A carefully maintained illusion. Like everything else."
Their food arrived. Charlotte looked at her plate uncertainly—eggs, tortillas, green sauce, cream drizzled over everything.
"How do I...?"
"Just dive in."
She took a bite. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God."
"Good?"
"Why did no one tell me about this?"
"You were too busy at places where they explain the provenance of each microgreen."
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Charlotte asked, "What does a normal day look like for you now?"
Mateo thought about it. "Wake up at six. Make terrible coffee because I still don't understand French presses. Paint until eleven. Then I usually realize I'm starving and eat whatever's in the fridge."
"Which is?"
"Yesterday it was peanut butter on a spoon."
Charlotte set down her fork. "That's not lunch."
"It is when you forget to grocery shop."
"Mateo."
"What?"
"You need actual meals."
"I know, I know. What about you? What's a Charlotte day look like now?"
She considered this. "Honestly? I'm still figuring it out. I wake up around nine, usually in a panic because I'm dreaming I'm late for some event. Then I remember I don't have events anymore."
"What do you do instead?"
"Job hunt, mostly. Send resumes. Follow up. I had an interview last week at a gallery in West LA."
"How'd it go?"
"They offered me the job."
"Charlotte! That's amazing!"
"It's entry-level. Gallery assistant. I'd be answering phones, managing schedules."
"But it's the art world."
"Yeah. It is." She smiled. "I start Monday."
Mateo reached across the table, stopped just short of touching her hand. "Can I?"
Charlotte extended her hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm and rough with paint and calluses.
"We're both figuring it out," he said. "That's okay."