by Sam Tschida
I nod with approval. I’d totally tell some lies while wearing a helmet for forty bucks. Too bad his project is over. That sock-drawer money is going to run out soon.
“Thanks for your help, Clarice,” he says to the girl, handing her forty bucks in cash.
“I bet you got some good data today,” she says. “I spent the whole time creating a fake online profile for Bumble. Like, for real. I’m going to use it.”
I chew on that for a minute. “I don’t know,” I say, “is lying online even lying?”
Max looks shocked at that suggestion. “Of course it is.”
“I don’t know, exaggeration on dating websites is pretty much expected.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “That’s actually a good point. Exaggeration to impress a potential mate might not be lying exactly, but…I need a break.” He loses steam mid-thought, probably because he just remembered that he’s giving up on science and leaving this all behind. “Wanna get some tacos? And maybe a beer?”
I’m human so tacos sound amazing. “As long as they have a vegetarian option,” I say. JP might be bachelor of the year, but so far Brenda is the real love of my life.
“Got it. How was your morning?” he asks. “Any news?”
“Tons. Have you ever heard of a dating site called GoldRush?”
“This morning you said it was a documentary about mining in Alaska.” He gives me a suspicious look as he picks up some stuff from his desk and ushers me out of the lab.
“Turns out I was wrong. This chick at the art museum mentioned something about it being a dating app.”
Max doesn’t slam the door to the lab on the way out but he lets it close loudly, which is pretty much slamming for him. When we get to the parking lot, he says, “Mia, you parked in a handicap spot. That could be like a $200 fine!”
“Oops, I didn’t notice.” Max doesn’t need to know that I’m discovering my true self by following all my impulses, which, on second thought, might not be the best idea. If I follow my impulses will I just find myself at the bottom of a Cheetos bag?
“Max, do you think we are basically just an amalgam of all of our bad habits?”
“Um…only if you don’t engage in any other behaviors or aspire to more.”
A guy behind the wheel of a Kia at the stoplight next to us is side-eyeing me. I’ve only been driving a Ferrari (at least that I can remember) for a couple of hours, but every dude who wants to speed down the Pacific Coast Highway has come out of the woodwork to rev his engine and challenge me to a race right through the middle of LA. I don’t have enough testosterone for that, so I let him burn rubber down Vermont alone.
“This car feels more like an asshole magnet than a chick magnet,” Max notes drily.
What does that say about JP? Does he spend all day zooming around in his penis-complex car while I: 1) wear a sundress and file my nails, 2) go to work at a fulfilling job, or 3) resent him because I’ve sacrificed my own hopes and dreams to ride his coattails?
I think I’m the girl behind door number one. That would be fine, as long as we’re racing to a getaway in Baja or something along those lines. I’d even take a nice lunch on a patio. I want to live #TheGoodLife, just like my boat says.
“So about GoldRush, I take it you haven’t used it?” I ask.
“I prefer to date my coworkers,” he says.
I laugh.
He directs me to a spot five or ten minutes away from his lab on Figueroa. USC goes from college campus to skid row in less time than it takes a girl to take a selfie and pick a filter. The taco truck is wedged between a gated parking lot (armed security and barbed wire fence—yikes!) and a strip mall with a bodega, a wig shop, and a place selling Mexican corn. Some of the wigs are cute and, come to think of it, would cover my staples.
“Here we are,” he says, pointing to a taco truck with a handwritten sign out front that reads L’EMPIRE TACOS.
I wrinkle my nose. “Are you sure they have a vegetarian option?” Now that I see this taco truck, two things are clear to me: 1) It’s in a slum, and 2) I doubt they have a vegetarian option. Going veg is a pretty bougie thing to do. Brenda knew it the minute she saw me: I come from a place where people worry about the welfare of chickens and wear glasses for style reasons.
The line outside of the dirty taco truck is a mile long, so we just sit in the Ferrari for a minute. Noticeably, we are the only Ferrari in the parking lot. That’s not to say that we’re the only fancy car—just the only fancy car that isn’t a drug-dealer-mobile. The smell of—goddammit—savory meats and spices is making my mouth water.
“Can’t you smell that?” Max huffs the air like it’s a can of paint.
“Yes, all those roasting vegetables smell so good,” I say even though the only vegetable I can smell is garlic and it’s probably in a pork marinade. Being a vegetarian is both the worst and only decision I’ve ever made. At least Brenda didn’t tell me I was a committed virgin or a Scientologist.
After putting on just the right pretaco playlist for this situation, he leans his seat back and puts on a pair of sunglasses. I commence Googling as we wait for the lunch rush to die down. If I had an argument about GoldRush right before I was nearly impaled on an ice sculpture, it must be important.
The internet informs me that GoldRush is a dating app for millionaires (at a minimum) to find “sophisticated and elite Californians interested in long-term, committed relationships.” Basically what Azalea told me.
With a laugh, I say, “No wonder you haven’t heard of GoldRush, Max. It’s an app for super rich dudes looking for arm candy.”
“Are there any super rich women looking for poor men?” he asks. “I’d sign up for that. I’m on the market and about to be poor.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say.
“That’s sexist. I mean, I could be arm candy.”
“You could definitely be arm candy,” I confirm. “Maybe you should file a complaint with the person in char—” My mouth drops.
“What is it?”
OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMGOM GOM OM OG OM GO GM MG OOOOO GOGOGOGO MOMOMOMO MGMGMGM
My overexcited neurotransmitters can’t complete the connection from thought to speech, which is fine. Finally I utter a single “OMG.”
“Is it your head? Are you having a stroke? Mia—are you okay?”
I gather my wits. “I’m fine. It’s just that…I’m the owner of GoldRush. At least according to the internet.” I point him to a very exciting article from the SoCal Lifestyle website listing me among the “Top Ten Entrepreneurs Under 30 in Long Beach.” It was published last week. I am the hot news in SoCal.
Mia Wallace,19 a Long Beach resident, started the GoldRush dating app because, she says, “California’s most important resource is its people, in particular, all of its hot women. Sadly, this resource is being wasted on losers who graduated from California public schools working at taco trucks and selling smack. I decided to step in and solve the problem. GoldRush matches California’s best and brightest women with the men they deserve: high-net-worth individuals from Switzerland and Japan—really, anywhere but Long Beach.” Ms. Wallace’s idea has taken hold. After two years in business, she is on the brink of brokering her first engagement at the whopping price tag of $250,000. She has set up countless dates for between $10,000 and $35,000. It’s good to be young, single, and female in Long Beach.
It’s official. I woke up to the best life ever. The Good Life—both the yacht and the life—is definitely mine, which reminds me. I need to access my bank accounts, for practical reasons, not to mention for good-news reasons. I can’t wait to see just how much I’m worth. As soon as we get back to JP’s I’ll do some accounting in front of Netflix with a glass of wine and some Jacques-o-late.
Max scans the article. “Whoa. Are you sure that’s JP’s house and not yours?”
I shrug. Damned if I know anything. It definitely sounds like I can afford my own mansion.
“Tacos are on me.” Actually, they’re on JP because I don’t have a wallet or ID or credit card. Obviously I have a ton of money, though.
I hope I remember how to be CEO of one the hottest businesses in Long Beach. I have so many questions. How many clients do I have and how much help do they need? Do I have an office? How do I run a business?!
“Do you have the clients take a test to match them up, or do you get in touch with the universe and light a candle?” Max asks.
“Damned if I know.” If I have matchmaking skills, it’s news to me.
“It’s extremely interesting how you only forgot facts about yourself. Why do you think that is?”
“You’re the expert. What do you think?”
“I have to say, the pattern of your memory loss indicates that it’s definitely psychological,” Max says.
“No, Max. Someone shoved me into a frozen Cupid. Azalea said so.”
Max doesn’t even bother to ask follow-up questions. “Even if it was triggered by physical trauma, I think the symptoms you’re showing now are psychological.”
Damn. Do I look that nuts to everyone? “That’s basically what the doctor at the hospital said.”
“It just means that you’re dealing with some sort of trauma. It could be anything. All I can say is that it was too much for you to handle. Essentially, your brain used this as an excuse to shut down.”
Max’s talk of trauma and psychology is making me uncomfortable so I look at my phone without really looking at it. What could possibly be bad enough to force me into shutdown mode when my life is perfect in practically every way?
The answer is obvious: someone I care about shoved me into that ice sculpture.
18 No other cocktail dresses on premises. There’s one cape, but it has more of a D&D vibe. Wearer probably refers to it as a cloak.
19 My last name, finally!
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The question of murder will have to wait. I push that and visions of my bank account to the side because my real life is calling. JP is FaceTiming me. Max and I are still sitting near L’Empire Tacos on a block of cement next to a dirty parking lot and a wig store, but with tacos now (the line was heinous!). There’s a dumpster behind me and Max is with me so it looks like I’m on a date with a hot guy in a slum.20 Also, I haven’t checked my makeup in about five hours. I start to panic. I mean, it’s good news. My boyfriend is calling. He’s the only person who actually knows me from before my injury—except for that random guy on the beach who knows me from the soup kitchen.
My physical reality is messier than my online one. Currently it’s mostly about nervous sweating and mild hyperventilation. “I bet this is how people feel when they meet their future spouse the day before their arranged marriage.”
“You should want to talk to him because he’s your boyfriend,” Max says. “Plus, he knows some shit about your life. If nothing else, he’s a resource.”
“But it’s freaking me out.”
He thoughtfully digests that information for a minute. “Probably because he knows almost everything about you, I would assume, and you know nothing about him. And, sure, he’s your boyfriend, but who knows what kind of relationship you have?”
Max is right. JP and I could be fuck buddies or we could be in love for real. Maybe we haven’t gotten married because the commercial nature of weddings would cheapen what we have.
I rub the change in my pocket leftover from the sock-drawer money and send JP a text.
Call back in 10.
JP gives it a big white thumbs-up.
I can’t have salsa running down my chin when I talk to him. And I need to collect myself. After I finish this taco, I will show my face. And the taco is definitely worth finishing; it’s maybe even better than the quinoa. Without thinking, I set it on its wrapper and pull out my phone to take a picture. It’s muscle memory at this point.
Max grabs the phone. “You’re not allowed to post that. Consider this an intervention.”
“What? I’ve hardly even posted anything since I woke up.” There’s no point pretending to have an amazing time eating tacos when I’m actually panicking about JP. I want to, but I see Max’s point.
“Plus, should you be posting if you’ve been hacked?”
“I don’t know.” How can you care about something if you don’t understand the consequences? It’s basically the same as every other problem facing planet Earth. “The hacker will have to share the account with me for now,” I announce.
He looks at me like he can’t even with me if I don’t follow the rules. “Call JP back.”
“Just one more pic,” I tease. Before he can stop me, I snap a picture of him in front of the taco truck. He’s reaching for me and my phone. If he had to pick a photo for a dating profile, this would work. He looks like the kind of guy any girl would want to hang out with: unpretentious and cute. And he looks happy, like he’s enjoying being part of my crisis.
“Why are you putting off calling him?” he asks. “Just get it over with.”
He’s right. I am putting it off. I have dental-visit levels of anxiety over this FaceTime.21 JP is a major piece of my life, and I’m not sure if I should trust him or if he’ll know something is off with me. “Honestly, I’d like to just go on living in his house while he stays in Switzerland,” I say.
Max laughs. “Wouldn’t we all.”
“I’ll just give him one more Google before I call.”
A few seconds later, Siri answers in her comforting robotic tone: “I found this information about JP Howard.” Up pop all the Google results I looked through yesterday morning, but also a file. It’s an inactive GoldRush profile. “He was on GoldRush?” I say.
Max and I read it together. There’s a picture of JP smiling and looking off camera, a glass of wine in his hand.
The headline reads, I am looking for a woman who loves staying in just as much as she loves jet-setting, a woman to share the quiet moments as well as the triumphs of life, a woman who love Jacques-o-late.
Okay, I’m warming up to calling him…
There’s some old news (at this point) about his billions and the fact that he’s thirty-seven. Then, hobbies: Skiing and saving the rainforest—really. I’m sure I’ve personally saved an area the size of Delaware so far just by eating Jacques-o-late.
“I have a Jacques-o-late T-shirt somewhere,” says Max.
Of course he does.
“I want to hate him, but I don’t,” Max says.
“He seems so good.” I sit up and take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can be responsible for this,” I say gesturing to the profile. “He’s so, so…perfect.” Like a white dress that I want to buy but know I shouldn’t. I can’t be responsible for dry-clean-only Chantilly lace.
“That’s ridiculous. He’s a jet-setting billionaire and you just checked out of the hospital with a head injury and don’t know who you are. He’s the one who should be concerned about taking advantage of you.”
“But still. He’s so perfect. What if I wreck him?”
Max scoffs. “Who knows if he’s even being honest?”
This is coming from the man who only believes a person if they take a polygraph test, and not even a normal one. It has to be the one he invented. Funny that Fay called him a liar. Maybe truth is like memory—shifting depending on perspective, one thing to Fay and another to Max.22 One thing’s for sure—Max doesn’t believe he’s ever been on the wrong side of the truth.
“Call him,” he says.
I pull up the FaceTime app and call JP. My face pops up, which reminds me to wipe the smear of salsa off my nose and reapply my lipstick in a hurry. For good measure, I adjust the phone so that it gets me from a more flattering angle. No up-the-nose sh
ots for JP.
“Hello?” I hear his sleepy voice first and then I see his face, which has that vulnerable little-boy quality that I seem to recognize—and respond to—right away. (Even if I can’t recall any of my former partners or their wake-up faces.) His hair is messed up but that just adds to the attractiveness. Rumpled hair and a stubbled Prince Charming jawline. He brings to mind that guy who played Jon Snow, but with a French accent and hair just beginning to gray at the temples, which somehow makes him look more trustworthy. He’s a mature, French Jon Snow. Any girl in her right mind would want to wake up next to him.
But I can’t help thinking, however briefly, about the unfairness of his easy attractiveness. Why do men get to be boyishly cute in the morning while women have to look like sex kittens the minute they open their eyes? I guess that’s because girlishness is bound up with sexuality at a much younger age? (No wonder I run a dating empire.)
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What time is it in Switzerland?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m just glad to see your face, Mia.” He sits up and props himself up on one elbow. He’s shirtless. Dear God, my previous decisions all make perfect sense.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes and puts on a pair of tortoiseshell acetate glasses. Why do they make him look even hotter? Maybe because his vision isn’t 20/20, he’s flawed enough to be mine.23 Plus it makes him look smart, which is undeniably sexy. “I’m sorry about that fight,” he says. “It was stupid. I hated leaving like that.”
“It’s okay.” Whatever we fought about, it was probably my fault. JP is clearly the better human of the two of us, all of his goodness and inner beauty grown in a hydroponic, pest-free environment and nurtured by unconditional love and reasonable expectations. Just like all the best weed. (OMG—where did that come from? Am I a pothead?)
“It felt like you were still mad this morning,” he said.
“I just don’t like being bought off.”
With a laugh he says, “Could have fooled me.”
I smile. I guess I am into being placated with diamonds. I’ve spent less time with JP than with myself, but somehow he seems easier to understand.