“What?” I’m genuinely shocked.
“No, the imaging says that you definitely do not love me.”
“This machine is bullshit then. You can’t tell me how I feel.”
Chan, who is totally not paying attention to the drama, wanders into the room and hands me a list. “Just read these lines,” he says to me. Looking toward Max, he says, “Watch the scanner while she reads. Fay programmed these statements to come up as automatically false.”
I stand and say, “Chan, you read them. I’m out of here.”
“No!” Chan looks pained when I suggest this, but I’m out. I put myself on the line and Max not only didn’t respond—he told me I was wrong. I still don’t think I’m intrinsically dramatic, but that has to be the worst “I love you” ever.
“Mia, wait,” Max says.
“It’s okay. I just need to be alone right now. I’ll text you later.”
In the parking lot, I sit behind the wheel of the Ferrari and say a silent prayer of thanks for the heavily tinted windows so I can have a good, private cry. I turn on the breakup music and sob.
I don’t know what I want—Max just proved it with science. Crystal texts aThanksto me, and I start crying even harder. I want to tell Max about it, but not after that fiasco in the lab. I could tell JP, but I don’t even know who he is. Why would I text somebody I just met with news about Crystal and Jules? It doesn’t feel right.
Of course, that’s my own damn fault. JP has been there for me the whole time. It’s not his fault that he was on vacation when I decided to have a head injury. I look at his last few texts—it’s nothing but messages that he misses me and wants me to come home.
The irony hits me. I’m avoiding him out of fear that he might want to declare his love for me. This entire emotional affair with Max is probably just a subconscious act of self-sabotage. I’m scared of letting someone love me and so I am avoiding it.
Time to stop being such a chicken shit, Mia.I text JP: On my way! Autocorrect provides the exclamation point. As I start the engine and drive to the only home I know, I try to match that enthusiasm, for the man who wants me and for the life that I actually have.
When I pull up to JP’s, I sit and listen to the Ferrari click for a good long while. It was a hot day. Hot car. The lights inside the pink house are on and JP is waiting inside for me. The life I had planned for myself is waiting inside for me. Throw pillows and vacations to Switzerland.
I could be Mrs. Howard. Mrs. Jacques-Pierre Howard, the queen of Jacques-o-late. I start laughing, the kind of hysterical laughter that’s basically crying.
I pick up my sparkly clutch and will myself all the way to the door. It’s still#homesweethome. Pink house with pink door and a flowerpot.52Such a beautiful facade.
Do I knock or just storm in and throw my stuff on the floor? This morning I would have thrown my purse on the couch, flopped over the edge and put my feet on the coffee table. But JP doesn’t seem like a feet on the coffee table, eating cereal in bed kind of guy.
Max ate cereal in bed with me.53My eyes start to water at the thought, which is dumb. Eating cereal in bed is gross, and we shouldn’t have done it either. Max and I are both gross. We are…perfect for each other. I decide to knock while openingthe door like a nurse entering a hospital room. I belong here, but I’m not in charge.
“Hi!” I call out.
There’s takeout on the kitchen island and I can hear the TV from the bedroom. I head there and see JP on top of the covers, half propped up against the headboard. At the sound of my footsteps, he blinks back to life. “Mia…”
I sit on the bed next to him. “Sorry to wake you up.”
He scoots over and puts his head in my lap, which might be normal for people who are dating, but for me it’s strange. We just met. If only I’d trusted him and told him about the memory loss.
“Rub my back, would you?”
His skin is hot to the touch from sleeping. His body is undeniably beautiful, muscles and smooth skin under my hands. He’s Jacques-o-late, though, not chocolate. Does that make him a substitute for the real thing, for Max? Is he seitan, the vegetarian wheat meat?54
“Mmm,” he says. “I tried waiting up, but jet lag. How was your work thing?”
I’m in an ad for The Good Life.
“I’m sorry I took forever. I had trouble getting one of my clients to her date.” I remember the flashback from earlier. “Do you still want me to give up my business?”
He sighs. “I want you to sell it and make lots of money, and then have some beautiful babies with me.” He looks atme suggestively. “Speaking of which…”
Is that what I want too? Was I going to dissolve GoldRush? Investing $100,000 in Jules wouldn’t make sense if that were true.
“Mmhmmm,” he whispers into my neck between kisses. He slides his hand up underneath my dress along my bare thigh. “I missed you.”
