Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  Max sips his horchata and I reach for it. Suddenly I feel parched.

  When JP says, “Who’s with you?” I realize that was stupid.

  I move the phone so that he can see Max. “Just the house sitter,” I say.

  He opens his eyes wider. “Really? Max?”

  Max nods.

  JP doesn’t miss a beat. Apparently he doesn’t consider someone who house-sits competition. “Why aren’t you in Sonoma?” he asks, as if it just occurred to him. “I thought you were scouting out a date for some client.”

  I shake my head. “A lot has happened…” I’m just about to explain everything to him when he says, “So sorry, sweetie, but can I call you back in a little bit? Jerome is buzzing me.” With an exasperated exhale, he says, “How many times do I have to take out these Sprüngli execs and tell them they’re pretty before they sign? They know they need Jacques-o-late.”

  Jerome, Sprüngli execs—JP sounds incredibly important. “Of course.” I can tell him I lost my memory later. “I have a few fires to put out with GoldRush, too,” I say.

  He laughs. “I bet you do.” In a softer voice he says, “I’m so glad you’re not mad, love.” Then he remembers Max is there. “Oh, and thanks for watching the house, Max. Hope it didn’t give you any trouble.” He blows me a kiss and then hangs up.

  A gorgeous billionaire just told me he loves me. Who am I even?

  Max and I sit in silence for a few seconds. It’s hard to fill the sacred space just vacated by JP, a god on Earth. What could anyone say that would do the moment justice? Instead I take a moment to meditate on his perfection, i.e., scroll through all of our couple’s shots on Instagram. We are beautiful and perfect. I’m not arm candy; I’m part of a power couple. I’m a legit businesswoman who is dating a legit businessman.

  Max sighs. “He seems…nice.”

  Talk about an understatement.

  “Except where’s his respect for Sprüngli? That’s like a three-hundred-year-old chocolate company. Jacques-o-late—who does he think he is?” He dips a chip in the salsa. It makes his eyes water and he takes his horchata back and chugs.

  “Hey!” I protest. “I stole that fair and square.”

  “Not all of us can be JP,” he says with a hint of bitterness.

  “Don’t be jealous of JP!”

  “I’m not jealous,” he says, too emphatically. “Anyway, I was thinking…JP signed up for your dating service…”

  “Looks like.”

  “And you set him up with yourself?” His voice is filled with subtext.

  I raise my shoulders in a you caught me gesture. “No one said I was stupid.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  He has a point, though. If any of the other women on the app realized I took JP for myself, they’d probably smack me upside the head and leave me for dead. I repeat this out loud to Max. It seems like as good a theory as any. I create my list of suspects:

  ■ Art museum president’s wife

  ■ Angry chick who wanted JP for herself

  ■ Disgruntled art collector whom I randomly fought for the last spicy tuna roll

  “You never know, but I’m guessing it’s not door number three,” he says.

  “You have a PhD so you’re probably right.”

  “That means it’s the president’s wife or an angry chick.”

  It strikes me that I have quite a bit to do between solving my attempted murder and running a hot business. Speaking of which, I don’t even know how to run a business. Have I been missing calls and emails? Do I have employees?

  “Max, do you think I have a secretary or something?”

  “I don’t know. You’d think they would have called you.”

  “Unless they were the one who conked me on the head. Or maybe they’re excited that I haven’t called them in to work? Maybe they’re hiding.” That seems like a natural thing to do. “I haven’t figured out who I am, and now I have to figure out a business and how to run it.”

  Max looks at me pensively. “Maybe you could get an intern.”

  I laugh. That seems absurd.

  I look up from under my lashes, helpless girl style. “After this afternoon you need a job,” I point out.

  He harrumphs, but I keep going. “And I just found out I have a multimillion-dollar dating empire.” #slightexaggeration. “What do you say, would you work for me for a little while until you find a new lab or until I get my feet under me?”

  Max starts laughing. Where the sun hits his face, his skin looks almost like copper and his eyes are bright and warm. He’s beautiful. I should be putting him on the app, not hiring him.

  “Umm, Mia, have you met me? I can do gene sequencing all day, but helping other people find love? You just witnessed the disaster of my latest relationship. I’m not the person you should turn to here. Not to mention I don’t care about dating in general.”

  At the lab he’d been all self-righteous, but for just a flash, I can tell that his supposed indifference is a defense mechanism. He might understand the nervous system, but he doesn’t understand women and he knows it. He just doesn’t want me to know it.

  “You don’t have to set anyone up. You could just help me figure out the business end of things. Plus, this might be a good learning opportunity. Maybe figure out what makes women tick…”

  “And what makes you think I don’t already know? I can basically get any woman I want.”

  “But can you keep them? What was your longest relationship?”

  His face falls. “I thought Fay was going to be ‘the one.’ We were together for a year before she dumped me.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Not really? I thought we were perfect. We were going to be a power couple of the academic world, maybe run a lab together and win a Nobel Prize.”

  “Maybe you got caught up in your fantasies more than in Fay herself?” I suggest.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. We want the same things. We’re both high achievers motivated by our search for the truth.”

  He needs my help as much as I need his. I say, “I’ll pay you, and it sounds like you could use a romance internship more than another class about brains.”

  He laughs as if it’s the funniest offer he’s ever received. “No way, but that’s sweet.”

  “I’m going to take that as a ‘no, but I’ll think about it.’ ”

  While I wait for Max to change his mind—he totally will—I look down at my phone and see another Instagram notification. Ugh. I’m no longer getting the little happy shot of endorphins you’re supposed to get from banners and red badges. Likes and comments last as long as the satisfaction I get from eating a Big Mac, after my insides are coated with french fry grease but before the regret sets in. (Mmm. I was definitely a meat eater at one point.)

  It’s a message from an official representative of Instagram:

  Dear @Mia4Realz, Instagram looked into your concern and has concluded that no hacking has occurred. The post which you referred to was prescheduled by you on May 31, two weeks ago. Please let us know if you have any other concerns. If you need help posting on Instagram, please visit the Instagram help center at help.instagram.com.

  This is so much worse than being hacked.

  “Max, Instagram got back to me. You know that ‘Announcement Coming Soon’ post? It was prescheduled.” I say it like I just lost my trial and have been convicted of something bad, like murder in the first degree or tax fraud.

  After thinking for a second, he says, “Do you have any more scheduled posts? Maybe the actual announcement is in there too.”

  That’s a great idea. My fingers know the way to the prescheduled posts, and I see one queued up to appear tomorrow at noon. Is this it?

  “Anything?” Max asks.

  It’s hard to describe out loud what it is. It’s like my pre-amnes
ia self is taunting my post-amnesia self. “It’s a photo of me in a hot-air balloon that’s about to take off.” I’m with the same girl from the yacht. Apparently she and I had a fun day yachting and ballooning in cute outfits. My heart-shaped glasses and crop top are the height of hipster fashion. It’s captioned: #GuessWhat? #GoldRushGirls.

  Max blinks a couple times as he processes the photo.

  “Don’t ask me.” I shrug. “Maybe I had too many hot-air-ballooning photos earlier and I was trying to spread them out?”

  Max draws his eyebrows together as if he’s deeply considering my hot-air balloon pic. “Do you think this is the actual announcement?”

  I halfheartedly use the last chip to scoop up what’s left of my taco. “I honestly have no idea, but there must be some reason why I scheduled this post.” Was it advertising for GoldRush? Maybe I have an event at a hot-air balloon place coming up? I could almost push myself into an ice sculpture for writing the vaguest hashtag ever. #GuessWhat? Was that my idea of an announcement?

  Maybe the girl with me is Crystal…Whoever she is, I didn’t tag her, but we look like best friends.

  “Max, I need help. I’m begging you.”

  He makes a funny groaning noise, like he’s physically dragging a three-hundred-pound yes from deep within his soul. But when he pulls it out, it’s perfect. “Yes, Mia. I’ll do it, but let’s work on the job title.”

  Hearing Max say yes is even better than finding out I own a company. I might actually be able to keep the business with his help. “Thank you, Max.”

  “You could call me a consultant.”

  “You’d rather be a consultant than an intern?”

  “An optimization consultant maybe.”

  “Your job will be the same no matter what I call it.”

  “Words matter, Mia.”

  “How about vice president then?”

  He nods as if that’s acceptable.

  “Vice president…of romance,” I add, just to see the look on his face. He’s so cute when he looks stern about dumb stuff.

  “Mia,” he admonishes me, his voice suddenly sounding like a sitcom dad’s. “Vice president period.”

  “Are you sure? You could be vice president of anything. You could be the vice president of sex, even. As long as it relates to romance.”

  Max ignores me and looks serious. “What about a contract that covers our mutual obligations?”24

  Mutual obligations. I know I’ve hired the right man.

  The internet tells us how to draft a contract. I think it’s a waste of time but if this is what makes him feel safe…

  The top Google result tells me to title my document. I type:

  GoldRush Employment Contract

  Next step: identify the parties. Luckily I found out my last name a few minutes ago so I can make this thing legal. I type: Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles…

  Next: explain the job to be performed. “Ummmm…” I read the words aloud as I type them. “Max will help Mia understand her company and how to run it. This might include matchmaking, dating, accounting—” I stop and look up. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

  Max looks like he’s rethinking his whole life, so I write:

  Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles to help with matchmaking and matchmaking support duties.

  Sounding very disgruntled, he says, “That makes it sound like I’ll be lighting candles and pouring wine.”

  “I’ll add that in,” I say, just to annoy him. “Let’s move on to length of contract.”

  “Dear God. I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to any length of time.”

  I make a I hate to break this to you face and say, “Maybe that was your problem with Fay.”

  “Oh my God. Just write a month. I’m sure it’ll take at least that long to straighten out anything at the lab.”

  “We’re almost done. Compensation…what do you need?”

  He thinks for a minute. “I could use two grand for rent. Now that Eric fired me, I’ve got nothing.”

  I was expecting a smart-ass comeback, not a serious salary negotiation. “Make it four.” That’s probably pocket change for me. I show him the final version.

  GoldRush Employment Contract

  Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles to help with matchmaking and matchmaking support duties, including candle lighting and wine pouring. At the end of one month, Mia will pay Max $4,000 USD.

  Safe word: Jacques-o-late

  He says, “That is not my safe word.” Then he drops his head to his hands and starts shaking with laughter, the delirious kind that hits you when you’re at the end of your rope.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just negotiated an employment contract with a woman who learned her last name approximately five minutes ago. Are you even legally capable of signing anything?”

  “They let me out of the hospital. That means I’m ready for business, Max.” Then, more seriously, I say, “I have to be.”

  Max knows it, too. He sits up, throws back the rest of his horchata, and says, “Time for my employee orientation then.”

  “Me orient you?” I didn’t know I had a business when I woke up this morning.

  “Your phone,” he says. “Let’s check out GoldRush.”

  Max locates the app on my phone, which turns out to be an administrative version of the program with searchable profiles and access to accounting. After he changes my password, he downloads it onto his phone too. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Mia. You’re a high roller.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your GoldRush girls. You pay them five grand per date. I should have asked for more money. What kind of qualifications do these chicks have?”

  “I think I described them as sophisticated and elite,” I say, which is apparently an understatement.

  “They must be pretty fucking special.”

  “Not as special as you, Max.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  20 Am I?

  21 Pretty sure I prefer sedation.

  22 Don’t tell Max I said that.

  23 #ClarkKent.

  24 Please note that I did not make a joke about mutual orgasm. You’re welcome, Max.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Before we manage to leave L’Empire Tacos, Instagram hits me up again, baiting me with another notification. My insides clench. What else am I about to discover about myself?

  I see that I’ve been tagged in a post featuring a very, very, very attractive man in nothing but his underwear. His handle is @Jules_In_Briefs, which means he’s both clever and unbearably hot. From the look on his face, he knows it. He’s making bedroom eyes at the camera and doing something with his lips that makes me want more—pictures, that is.

  Even though I know he’s playing me, I let out an involuntary, girly sigh. When was the last time I had sex?

  Then I notice the thought bubble photoshopped into the image: my profile pic, the one with me in a milk bath with glitter on my face, is pasted into the bubble. He’s thinking of me!

  I go positively giddy at the sight. How could I not? I’m all smiley and flushed. Am I ovulating or is it just flattery? Possibly both.

  “What are you smiling about?” Max asks. He inches forward, eager to see what has tickled my feminine fancy.

  Of course I giggle and say, “Oh nothing.” Max doesn’t need to see this, but he sneaks a peek and his expression gets all confused and annoyed. “What the—?”

  I have to admit, I get it. We just got off the phone with a Swiss billionaire who is totally in love with me, and now @Jules_In_Briefs is thinking about me on Instagram in his underwear. It’s kind of a lot.

  Max makes a disgusted face and says, “How many boyfriends do you have?”

  “It looks like two more than you
have girlfriends. I wonder if he’s rich too?” I say, just for Max’s benefit.

  “He’s not even a person, Mia. He’s probably a bot. He’s going to DM you and ask for your banking information and the last four digits of your social security number any minute now.”

  A second later, I receive a DM from @Jules_In_Briefs. I squeal.

  Max glares at me. “What is it?”

  In a higher-pitched voice than normal, I announce, “Jules…he just texted me. Whoever he is, Max, he knows me. I need to know what he knows.”

  Max sits up straighter. “Don’t open it, Mia. This is serious. Whoever is talking to you is not that guy. It’s probably some zitty teenager in his mom’s garage trying to steal your money.”

  I smile at Max. There’s no way I’m not talking to @Jules_In_Briefs.

  “Whatever you do, don’t click on any links.”

  Not that it’s wrong to buy flattery from beautiful people/bots—we are in California—but I’m happy to find back-and-forth convos in the comment threads below my posts, implying that Jules and I have some sort of relationship. “I definitely know Jules. He’s commented on my posts like a hundred times.” I might be rounding up for Max’s benefit. He’s cute when he’s all flustered and paying attention to me.

  “Relationship with a bot,” Max counters.

  “You’re just jealous.”

  Max continues to glower.

  Another message pops up: Where you @ gurl?

  I respond: Taco truck, wru?

  Him: You forgot!

  Forgot what??!! Deleted all my texts by accident!

  He sends a screenshot of our earlier convo.

  He had written: June 16. Meet me at 3 at Laguna Beach. To which I had responded: Koo, cu then.

  I look up at Max. I’m supposed to be in Laguna Beach right now in a bikini. I’m missing a date with @Jules_In_Briefs. I don’t really know who he is, but I want to know more. I want to be there—RIGHT NOW!

  I quickly write: OMG!! Leaving now!

  He responds: On set, but we can still talk.

  I don’t know who Jules is to me, but I need to find out. “Max, I have to run to Laguna. I’m supposed to be with Jules right now.”