Max doesn’t applaud, but he does look up from the computer. “Hey. You feeling better?”
“A little.” I still feel like I had a major head injury two days ago, but how bad could it be? I woke up to a gorgeous home, a lifetime supply of Jacques-o-late, and a boyfriend with a net worth of $2.3 billion.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you officially in the light of day, Mia.” He holds out his hand and we shake like we’re meeting at a networking event instead of the home of a super rich dude who neither of us really knows.
“Is there any coffee?” The question rolls off my tongue before I can think twice about it. Some sub-basement level of my brain knows what I need.
“I just drank the last cup, but I can make more.” With that, he stands up and starts rummaging through the kitchen for coffee supplies. The smell of Italian espresso hits me hard when he opens a bag of beans with a swan on it. It hits me harder than texting with JP or opening the door to this house. I guess I know who I’ve had the longest relationship with, and I take plenty of cream and sugar with it.
Noticing my swoony expression, Max says, “He has bags of this stuff flown in from Italy. I’m pretty sure it’s the best coffee in the world. It must be, if JP buys it.”
I sit down in the space Max vacated, directly in front of his laptop. I see a Gchat window open and flashing, from someone named Fay, and catch a glimpse of her last message.Max, you’re a liar.
Whoa. That sounds intense on several levels.
When he catches me spying, he reaches over the counter and shuts the laptop.
“Your boss?” I ask.
“That’s what she likes to think,” he says, his voice ninety-nine percent sarcasm.
“Ahhh, girlfriend.” I don’t need my memory to understand that dynamic.
“Ex, but we still work together.”
“Yikes. What kind of job?” I give him a once-over and guess, “Tattoo parlor?”
He laughs. “Close. I’m a neuroscientist at USC.”
That explains the T-shirts, I guess. “What does that mean? What does a neuroscientist do?”
“Well, I study how structures in the brain affect cognition and behavior.”11
While talking to him, I google “annual salary neuroscientist” because it sounds like a fancy job, and I don’t get why he’s house-sitting. Google comes back with $82,240. “Sounds like a sweet gig. Shouldn’t you own this house?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a common misconception. I’m a postdoc, which means I’m still training, essentially. Eventually I’d like to run my own lab, but it takes years and a lot of publishing and funding to get to that level. Meanwhile, I still gotta make a buck. I don’t have to tell you what the cost of living is in LA.”
I can believe that one.
“My research is aimed at coming up with a better lie detection system,” he tells me, unprompted. I sit back and prepare for the elevator pitch that I see coming.
“Oooh…”
“Polygraph tests are shit. They just measure increased heart rate and respiration, but those are associated with anxiety, which can be caused by anything.”
“So how’s it going?”
“Fay and I are working on a mobile brain-imaging system that can be implemented in interrogation scenarios. Very specific structures in the brain light up when a subject is lying, so if you scanned a person’s brain, you’d get a much better picture of their truthfulness than with a polygraph.”
“So you’re really into The Truth.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
I shrug. “No clue what I’m into. Mainly Instagram, from the looks of it.”
That’s enough science for me. “So, Max,” I say. “Now that I’mhome…” I really lean into the word, owning it, “I don’t need a house sitter, you know.”
He nods, taking his early dismissal in stride. “I’d like to talk with JP before I take off. He was very specific about how things should be handled.”
