He yawns. “No one would say yes to that. Especially a serial killer.”
“Oh my God. Youarea serial killer.”
He takes a while picking out the best slice of pizza, the same one I would have grabbed, with the ideal toppings-to-cheese ratio. “I’m black, Mia. Statistically, there’s zero chance of me being a serial killer. As long as you don’t call the cops and catch a stray bullet, you’re good.”
Too black and too cute to be a killer. And he shares pizza.
Before I move to the couch, I glance at the TV. The documentary playing in the background is about how humans are killing themselves with corn syrup and nitrates. At the moment, a slow death by trace amounts of anything seems to be the least of my concerns. “I’m tired. Can you point me to the master bedroom?” I say this as naturally and breezily as possible, hoping he won’t sayhell noand make me sleep on the couch.
He hesitates a second, glances at my head wound, and says, “Sure. We’ll figure out what’s really going on in the morning.” He says this in a reassuring way, not a threatening way. Gotta love a sweet nerd.
While he carries a glass to the sink, I casually check out the bookshelves while munching on more Jacques-o-late. It’s all fancy leather volumes or first editions with a few photos artfully arranged across the ledges of the shelves. An attractive man with dark, side-parted hair and a Prince Charming jawline is in several, along with people who might be his family members. JP?
I’m not in any of them.
Max leads me down a hallway filled with original artwork, lit gallery style, to a master bedroom big enough for a California-king-size bed. I check out the crown molding and a slightly domed ceiling painted to look like a soothing sky. The bedding is cumulus-clouds-level fluffy and the whole room smells like lavender. Navy-blue walls and a few manly paintings (originals, of course) take the vibe from spa day to European. It could be a man’s or a woman’s room. Long Beach is nice enough, but this place looks like it should be in Laguna or Malibu or France, even.
Max watches my reaction. “I missed this place so much,” I say with a wistful smile.
He laughs because, really, who wouldn’t?
After Max leaves, I search for any evidence of myself in the bedroom, some sign that I belong here, that it’s “our” room and not just JP’s. Condoms in the nightstand and a second toothbrush in the bathroom (mine?), a couple of T-shirts that look too small for a man, depending on how tight JP likes ’em—and that’s it. The nightstand on what is probably my side of the bed gives me hope. TheUS Weeklycould definitely be mine and the book about a sexy vampire is a solid maybe, but who knows? I mean, doesn’t everyone love celebrities and vampires?
I’m just going to say I’m home, but am I?
5Rush? Whatever happened to Tinder? Not that I need a date any way. Gonna start with food and shelter.
6Am I rich or is this a Rent the Runway situation?
7Which he hasn’t even had since 2003! (Ask me anything besides my name.)
CHAPTER
THREE
I wake up on Friday morning in the kind of bed that swallows a person whole, surrounded by luxurious layers of comforters and pillows. It’s the style of bed you normally only see on a showroom floor but never in real life since no one except for Real Housewives would ever buy all the stuff on the display model.8Sun filters in through the windows, casting everything in picture-perfect light, and a soft breeze ruffles the gauzy curtains. It takes a minute for me to remember I’m not at a couples resort in Jamaica. Pink house, Ocean Boulevard, cute house sitter who is hopefully not a serial killer. And me, whoever I am.
I reach for my phone, which is sleeping peacefully on JP’s side of the bed, and give it a little tap good morning. It responds with nothing. No texts. No notifications. My phone,though useful, is not a generous lover. What I need is someone who knows me, my social security number, and where I keep all the cute shoes. My phone is one of those crushes that sucks up every ounce of energy and gives nothing back. Pretty sure I’ve had a couple of those. I can’t remember the names, but I can feel the scars.
Like with a bad crush, I can’t give up. I open up the texts app, knowing there’s nothing. Email, however, is a different story. When I see that I have three new emails, I sit up straight and grip the phone tighter. This is it, someone who knows me sent me a message.
But no, two of the emails are from organic tampon startups, both boxed delivery services that solve all the menses-related problems a modern woman could have. The remaining email is from Jacques-o-late.Once you go Jacques-o-late, you never go back,the subject line reads. Jacques-o-late, it seems, wants me to try their new flavor: white chocolate. Ha! The mofos at Jacques-o-late must think they’re pretty funny.
I delete all of the above in keeping with my practice. Inbox zero—my one accomplishment in life so far. It’s a little weird that I delete texts too, but I guess I must have just KonMari’d the shit out of my life. And really, does any of this electronic communication spark joy? No. The fact that I disposed of them points to the fact that I’m highly evolved and not beholden to my phone like the rest of the world.
Decluttering isn’t ideal in an amnesia situation, though. If I could go back in time and give myself a piece of advice before deleting all traces of my life, I’d whisper in my pre-amnesiaear,Hey girl, props on being efficient and all, but you’re gonna need those someday. See that email from those two chicks at MIT who know just what kind of wine you want—save that one…or, maybe, even one from a person you’ve met.
Instagram, though, I didn’t declutter that. Let’s see what kind of guy you are, JP…At least a few of the shots on my profile page are with JP, who I recognize from the photos on the bookshelf.
1.There’s a picture of JP alone and unbearably handsome in a tailored suit. It’s captioned: “And he has a French accent!”
2.There’s a selfie of us at a winery, grapevines in the background and wineglasses in our hands. The caption: “Me and boo.”
3.Finally, a picture of us in a group of hot young things dressed for the club. I’m wearing a statement dress with dramatic puffed sleeves that barely covers my ass. JP is giving me an appreciative look. No caption. His looks says it all. He wants me.
So…according to Insta: JP is my boo and he’s definitely into me, or at least my ass. Even with a head injury, I’m smart enough to know there’s a difference. This is all reassuring information and normal boyfriend stuff.
An incoming text pings and my heart leaps into my throat.My first text ever.The name pops up as Frenchie.
