Hmm. I’m not sure I want JP and Max talking about me. If I don’t live here, Max doesn’t need to be the one who tells JP that I’ve moved in.
“Never mind. It’d probably be better if you stayed. I’m going to be busy the next few days.” And really, thatfeels a little safer. I already lost Brenda. I kind of want to keep Max.
“So what are you doing today?” he asks, glancing at my staples. “Do you have follow-up appointments or…” He trails off.
I shake my head no.
“Really? They just let you out?” He seems unable to wrap his mind around that. “But you don’t even know who you are.”
“As soon as I figure out my life, I’ll be fine.” I found the boyfriend and#homesweethome, but I have a lot left: my job, my friends, my family, and my own apartment. “I post a lot on Instagram. I’m pretty sure if I retrace my steps, I’ll figure out exactly who I am, or at least all of the major things.”
“What’s your Insta handle?” he asks. I tell him and a second later he says, “Gotcha.” He reads my bio aloud. “Mia4Realz. SoCal 4evah. GoldRush. What’s GoldRush?” he asks.
“It’s a documentary about gold miners in Alaska.” My Google search result featured pictures of bearded men in hard hats. I have no idea why this doc would be important to me. Maybe I’m involved in filmmaking? This is LA, after all.
While I wonder if other people understand my bio, my phone pings. I have an Instagram notification that@BlackEinstein314has just followed me. I smile at Max and follow him back with a “Let’s do this baby” nod. I don’t even know myself but I’m not sure if he can keep up with me, especially on Instagram.
His bio reads,Neuroscience postdoc, USC. The truth is out there.Which is like the most adorable thing ever.@BlackEinstein314, though? Leaves a question mark over his ego. It might be outsize.
I see a picture of him smiling in front of a fancy microscope and a few pictures of a pretty girl further back in his feed. The captions couldn’t be drier.Me and Fay at the 2019 Society for Neuroscience Conference in Chicago. Fay presenting her poster, “The Role of the Parietal Cortex in Deception.”12There are almost no selfies. Ninety percent of my posts are of me, mostly with other hot girls. I don’t know what that says about me.
I switch back to my profile. “Take a look at my last four posts. I’m trying to figure out what they mean.” They include:
¦A shot of a latte with a heart swirled in the foam on top. (Not very interesting, but it might be a spot where I hang regularly.)
¦A picture of me on a yacht, in a sailor hat and bikini. A gorgeous girl, also in sailor-wear, has her arm slung over my shoulder.
¦A selfie at the beach.
¦Me at some fancy party kissing an ice sculpture of Cupid.
Max gives the posts a once-over. “That coffee shop from your first post is just around the corner. I recognize the cups.”
“Further proof that I spend a lot of time here.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“Dunno. But I definitely need a car before I investigate further.”
“Do youhavea car?”
I smile wickedly. “I bet JP does.”
He gives me a concerned look. “Serious concussion, amnesia, and no follow-up visits. I’m not sure if exploring LA in a Ferrari is the best idea. Reduced stress and extra sleep is literally the recommended treatment for you.”
With a shrug, I say, “What else am I gonna do? My life isn’t going to find me. And my doctor did say I need to get back into my normal routines. Can’t do that if I don’t know what my routines are.”
“Do you even remember how to get around?”
“No one knows how to get anywhere. Google is the only one who knows anything anymore. My brain is irrelevant.” It’s true. Everyone was worried about Big Brother, but when he actually showed up, we all signed on and admitted we couldn’t live without him. It was a full-on voluntary situation. Sorry, George Orwell! Also, why do I remember George Orwell but not my father?
“You do realize I’m a neuroscientist.”
“I know,” I say, nodding sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. At least you’re not selling DVDs.”
“True, that would be worse. Speaking of my job…”
“I can’t wait to find out where I work.” I hope it’s not a dumb job.
