by Sam Tschida
“Mia, are you insane? You can’t go meet this guy. You don’t even know who he is.”
“I set the date before I lost my mind. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Looking unbelievably annoyed, he says, “He’s probably a creep. You can’t go alone.”
“Um, no offense, but I think it would be weird if you came along. I mean, I’m an adult and I know him. He might be my gay bestie or a client.”
“What about…JP?” Max asks, fumbling for any excuse.
“What about him? I still don’t know what I have with JP, but clearly my pre-amnesia self thought it was okay for me to meet Jules, even while dating JP. I have to trust her.”
Max looks huffy.
“I really don’t want to go with you. I don’t want to be weird and paternalistic, but you just woke up from a coma. If you insist on meeting a stranger who sent a photo of himself in his underwear, I’m going. I’m not going to be responsible for your death.” He shakes his head. “I won’t be able to live with the guilt when I see your murdered face on the news later.”
“Fine. As long as you promise not to get in a pissing match with this dude.” Just to push his buttons a little, I add, “No matter how jealous you get.”
He looks annoyed at the suggestion. “I’m not jealous. I’m just worried.”
“It’s okay if you’re jealous. I am sort of your girlfriend, or your boss, or both. However you want to play it.”
Max looks beyond exasperated and I decide maybe I should stop messing with him, even though it’s so much fun.
“What the hell is an Instagram model anyway?”
I can see from Max’s expression that he doesn’t get it and that the concept is making him mad. “Can anyone be an Instagram model? Like, all you have to do is take a picture and put it online, right?”
“Yes and no.” He’s obviously never thought about Instagram before.
“Could I be an Instagram model?” he asks.
I laugh. “You’re like someone’s grandpa.”
“I mean, who decides that he’s an underwear model? You can’t just say that you’re a genius or a model or a doctor. Someone else has to verify that. Like how a university can’t be a university without accreditation.”
I remember Brenda and Cindy talking when I first woke up. Maybe you’ll find out you’re a movie star or a rocket scientist. Nothing stopped them from dreaming big on my behalf. “When it comes down to it, all you have to do is tell the world who you are,” I say. “That’s why the internet is so powerful. Anyone can be anything.”
Max arches a brow. “That’s one way to look at it.” He pulls out his phone, opens an app, and starts rapidly typing. “Well, looks like he’s famous enough for a Wikipedia entry. Jules Spencer…born June 11, 1987…got his start like most Instagrammers by taking a lot of selfies…starts each day by posting a pic in his underwear…has 30 million followers waiting to see his daily selfie…used this platform to launch his own line, JulesBrand, a monthly subscription service for boxer briefs…starring in a remake of The Fast and the Furious…and his personal life is a long string of high-profile breakups.” He looks at me, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “There you have it.”
“They’re remaking The Fast and the Furious?” I ask, momentarily distracted. “I thought they were still putting out sequels?”
Max stares at me. “I bet you’re setting him up on a date.”
I flash a coy smile. “Or I’m going on a date with the next Paul Walker.” Suddenly I know inside that I’ve watched the whole Fast and Furious franchise with my brother or my dad. I don’t think I would watch them on my own but I’ve definitely seen them. It’s my third day as New Mia. When is someone besides a hot guy going to come looking for me? Where are my parents, and why don’t I have my mom’s number?
* * *
Laguna is everything. It’s beautiful, much like Long Beach, but without oil wells in the harbor or suspicious black puddles on the sand. The bus doesn’t run this far down the PCH so there aren’t too many tweakers and bums. It reeks of money, instead of weed and piss.
“I wonder why JP lives in Long Beach instead of here?” I say. Really, it would make more sense. This is where the money is.
Max, logical man that he is, says, “I’d rather live in Long Beach. There’s good food, a lot to do, and it’s more diverse, which makes it more interesting. Plus, Laguna is way the hell out.”
I buy a pair of sunglasses and flip-flops to go with my magical yellow dress. If there’s an event it isn’t meant for, I can’t imagine it. Max is wearing loafers that are undoubtedly filled with sand. Despite his brand-new job, which I think he should be thrilled about, his attitude is also still filled with sand. Max has been sandbagged by Jules.
Jules sends me a few Instagram messages with directions: Just look for the crew of photographers.
In my stars and stripes briefs.
Can’t miss me.
I respond with a Coming honey!!!
Max rolls his eyes. “Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
When I catch sight of Jules in his American flag underwear, a smile breaks out across my face. I try to smother it for Max’s benefit, but I can’t. This is too much fun. “Come on, Max. Have you ever been to a photo shoot?”
Hopefully Jules can drive me home and I can just send Max on his way. The sooner, the better.
“Jules!” I yell, waving like a woman stranded on a deserted island with Max, just about to be rescued by a crew of shirtless men.
“Mia! Baby!” he calls out, cool as fuck. He steps away from the crowd of people fussing over him and toward me. I would cue the entrance music but Jules already has live entertainment. A shirtless drummer playing bongos flips his dreads over his shoulders and leans into a syncopated beat as Jules walks toward me. His perfectly tanned skin is finely dusted with sand. When he wraps me in a hug, his sun-warmed skin against mine, I feel a little lightheaded. Proximity to beautiful, charismatic people has a narcotic effect on me, clearly.
“Look at you!” he says. “That yellow dress. Mmm. You look yummy.”
While I wag my tail like an overexcited cocker spaniel, Max steps between us. “Hi, I’m Max.”
“Oh.” Jules looks between us. He gives me a little you go girl nod of approval and says, “Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Jules. Want a beer or a water or something? I’ve got a cooler on the set.”
Max reaches for a beer on a nearby craft services table and grabs me a water. “You want one too?” he asks Jules.
“No. I don’t drink.” He gestures to his face. “Gotta stay hydrated for this glow.”
“Yo, Jules,” the photographer calls. “How about a shot of you with a surfboard?”
Jules nods. Then he drops to the ground, does a bunch of push-ups, and flips over for some sit-ups. “Gotta pump ’em up before the shot,” he explains.
He trots off and strikes a pose next to the surfboard, dragging his waistband lower and staring off at the beach like the waves are calling him. I stare harder. Max just looks annoyed.
After half an hour of watching Jules flex and pose, I’m so relaxed. Does it even matter that I don’t know who I am? Parents, job, friends, GoldRush…who freaking cares! One of the crew members brings over a beach chair and an umbrella. Jules tells someone else to make sure I have a refreshment, and I’m sipping San Pellegrino limonata through a straw. Max declines the chair and paces, looking tense. “What a waste of time,” he mumbles. At this point in the day, his T-shirt slogan (“It’s not your limbic system, it’s mine”) is probably right. I still don’t know what the limbic system is, but it’s definitely his because mine is perfect.
“I don’t think Jules is going to kill me,” I announce. “If you want to go home…”
“We still don’t know why you’re here. I’m staying.”
When Jules is done being spritzed
and pampered and has done all the required flexing, he drops into the empty chair next to me. “Let’s get down to business. This date with Crystal…”
Ahhh. He’s not my gay bestie. He’s not my second boyfriend. He’s one of my clients (yay me!) and he wants a date with Crystal, the woman who…hung up on me and is supposed to be dating Kobra? I decide to be vague. “Tell me what you’re thinking…”
“I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds”—he kisses his fingers and flares them out like a TV chef—“perfect.”
For the second time that day, I wonder: does every man on the planet have a thing for Crystal? First Kobra, now Jules. This woman must be a porn star you can bring home to meet the family. “She is definitely perfect,” I respond blandly. Must be.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a good relationship.”
“Tell me what you need from me,” I say, all professional, almost like someone who knows where she lives, or her middle name.
He sits back. From the look on his face, he’s getting into the spirit. “It needs to be splashy, something really impressive. A five-star restaurant, skydiving maybe. Have Crystal wear something fab, something that will work in the fanciest restaurant but is easily convertible to a walk on the beach.” He looks at me like I know what I’m doing.
I open my Notes app and start tapping away like a professional.
“Oh, and let her know that we’ll be doing a lot of Instagramming. I’ll probably go live on the date at some point. She might want to stay away from bold patterns. Solids usually look best.”
Only half joking, I say, “Are you going to wear clothes?” Does he ever wear clothes?
“Yes. Actually, I’ll probably wear a blue suit. Crystal should wear something that complements nicely.”
After I write down everything that Jules wants, none of which I have any clue how to provide, I say, “I can’t wait to make this happen!”
“Sunday at 8. It’s gonna be good.”
I freeze. Did he just say Sunday? As in two days from now? There is literally no fucking way I can make that happen. “This is so exciting!” I say. “I better get going so I can finish some last-minute details.” I look over my shoulder at Max, who has wandered back toward the craft services table and just popped open another beer. “Hey Max, are you ready to go?”
He stares at the freshly opened beer, takes a long glug, and chucks the half-full bottle into a trash can several feet away, a long arc of beer flying out and splashing a model nearby. He turns back to me. “Yup.”
On the way back to the car, I start complaining. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to give that man what he wants but I’m assuming he paid the going rate for this match.”
“What’s the rate again?”
“Thirty-five grand.”
Max whistles. “Can you reschedule the date?”
“It has to be on Sunday because of his schedule. Something about flying to Fiji for another shoot.”
“Do you know who Crystal is?”
I nod. “Kind of. She won’t talk to me. Something happened before my accident.”
“Hmm.”
I remember my text convo with Kobra the other day. She might talk to him. The dude had a boat ride to Catalina planned for her. She must like him better than me, even with all of his biblical tattoos. He looks like the devil but he’s probably just a typical macho asshole who talks shit and plays Xbox all day. He definitely doesn’t look like one of my millionaire clients, although he could be some fucked-up trust-funder, the broadest catchall category of rich guy. I send out a Hail Mary text:
Did you ever get ahold of Crystal?
A few seconds later, he writes: No. Bitch playing hard to get. Thinks she cute.
Then:
Nvmd. She IS cute. Like Halle Berry wit bigger tits. What’s her address? I wanna surprise her.
Gross! Kobra is starting to sound like a total creep. I don’t know Crystal but I cringe on her behalf. Fuck Kobra.
I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.
Not. I dramatically shove my phone in my purse as if that will get Kobra out of my life.
“Max, for your first task as my employee, see if I have any profiles for guys named Kobra in my GoldRush app, will you? It’s Kobra with a K, FYI.”
“One sec…Kobra, Kobra, Kobra. Okay, found him. He’s in international trade.” He looks up from his phone. “Like what does that even mean? Does he work for the UN, or is he some shady importer-exporter who sends things back and forth to China?”
The thought of Kobra at the UN makes me laugh. I describe his full-body python tat.
“What else is there?”
“He’s originally from Florida. For some reason he looks familiar…I think I know him from somewhere.”
“Maybe you went to school together or something?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Whoever he is, I would think Crystal would be excited about my matchmaking prowess. It seems like I’m giving her a shot with two millionaires. Even if Kobra is a tool, he’s a rich tool. Plus, she has a five-thousand-dollar payday for the date with Kobra and is set for another paycheck for Sunday with Jules. That’s ten grand for two nights! A Kardashian might even show up for that, which makes Crystal…I don’t know, an heiress?
Max looks up from his phone. “What do you think? Will Kobra help us find Crystal?”
I shake my head. “I’m done with Kobra. I have a feeling something’s off with that dude. I just wanted to figure out if he was a legitimate client or just stalking her. We can find Crystal without his help.”
Max says, “You know, I’m starting to think Crystal might know a few things about you.”
I laugh, but not in a good way. If Crystal is the only one who truly knows me, then that’s not saying much. “Crystal hates my guts.”
We’re scrambling up a sand hill to get to the car, and Max holds out a hand to help me up. “I know you, Mia. I don’t know how anyone could ever hate you.”
I revise my earlier opinion. Max wasn’t motivated to create a lie detector because he has a higher standard for the truth than others. Without the lie detector he doesn’t have a clue. He can’t see truth if it slaps him in the face. I could practically kiss him.
Before we leave Laguna, I want to make one more stop. I don’t want to explain why, but I take a deep breath and spit it out. “Max, when I was at the art museum, a guy told me that I fought with some chick at an opening because I was sleeping with her husband. It’s probably not true, but I thought it might be worth checking out.”
Max looks at me carefully. “Okay…”
“He lives in Laguna. We can just swing by real quick and, I don’t know—”
“See if anyone at his house wants to kill you?”
“Exactly. It’ll just be a quick stop to rule it out.” I hope.
CHAPTER
NINE
Frederick Montcalm’s house teeters on the tippy top of a mountain overlooking the PCH, a glass shoebox propped up on chopsticks. I can see it for three turns of the road before we arrive.
Max whistles. “Damn, Mia. This one is richer than the last.”
“What can I say? I might be a slut.” I’m making boyfriend jokes too easily at this point, but the potential affair with Frederick Montcalm disturbs me.
Max waves a hand dismissively. “You probably set this guy up with his wife. You’re successful. People are going to talk about you.”
I think he’s trying to say “haters gonna hate.”25
A beat later, I say, “I hope you’re right. I’ll be disappointed if I find out I’m a giant slut.”
At the front gate, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and hit the button on the intercom box. “Is Frederick home? It’s Mia.” I could introduce Max, but I want to see if whoever answers says, “Mia, you bitch!” or “Come on in, swee
tie.”
Someone buzzes the gate open without commentary and I pull the Ferrari up to the turnaround. The housekeeper (of course there’s a housekeeper) ushers us into the house and leads me to Frederick, who has a blanket covering his lap, a half-finished crossword puzzle clutched in his hand, and no hair. It’s not male-pattern baldness, it’s just that all of his systems have started failing due to age, including his hair. He’s probably ninety.
There’s no way I was having an affair with this man. Then I look around and realize maybe I was having an affair with his house. Did I pay for this view with an occasional blow job? I hug my chest as if to protect myself from the old pervert or maybe to restrain the demon inside me who would blow an old guy for a beautiful view. I look at Max with the fear of God in me and silently mouth, Am I Anna Nicole?
He gives me a genuine smile. No.
I certainly hope not. “Mr. Montcalm,” I say. He’s dozing and my voice brings him to.
He takes a minute to look around. “Hi, dear. You’re home early.”
Fuck. He recognizes me.
Max extends his hand. “Hi, sir, I’m Max Charles. Nice to meet you.
“Are you an artist too?”
Frederick thinks I’m an artist. Snapchat hearts practically spring from my brain spontaneously and encircle my head like a fairy princess wreath. This is my favorite misconception since waking up.
The room instills a zenlike calm in me, even considering the fact that I’m possibly meeting my ninety-year-old lover.
I exhale and decide to go for one hundred percent honesty. How else am I going to get to the bottom of everything? “I’m so sorry, Frederick. Do you know me? I’m having trouble remembering things.”
He laughs. “You’re so funny, sweetheart.”
Fuck. I am having an affair with this geezer. I flash a panicked look at Max.
Frederick sets down his crossword puzzle. “What do you think of that latest painting from Jeric? I think it might be too obvious. I hate obvious themes.”