by Sam Tschida
I look around at the club. It is literally a billionaire’s forgotten pocket change. He was in Switzerland skiing while everyone here worked two jobs and couldn’t afford to pay for childcare or get their cavities filled.56
“Girl, you worked for that rock you’re about to get. Don’t let him get away with some chippy little thing.”
I feel lightheaded. Suddenly, I flash back to a conversation I had with Max.
“You have no capacity for making decisions, especially big decisions,” he’d said. “Whatever you do, take it easy. Don’t do anything you can’t undo.”
I recall being offended at that statement.
“People base their decisions off their lived experience, their memories. You don’t have any right now,” he had said.
“If you haven’t noticed, I remember a lot of things,” I had responded.
“That’s true. You remember everything about everyone else. For instance, if someone proposed to one of the Kardashians, you’d be the first person I’d ask. You probably are more aware of their lived experiences and patterns of decision-making than they are.”
Max really is smart.
“One of the most vital purposes of memory is to guide decision-making,” he’d said. “It’s like they say—learn from history, or it’ll repeat itself.”
What do I do?
JP picks this moment to text. I told him I’d be home in an hour, which was almost two hours ago. I have not been the best girlfriend to this man, in so many ways.
He texts: Alone again…WRU?
On my way!
* * *
JP’s been waiting at home for me for hours while I’ve been tooling around LA in his Ferrari, again. I’m being such a jerk, but I laugh at the absurdity of my housebound billionaire. If he wanted to, he could probably have the dealership drop off another Ferrari this morning, a newer model even. Still, I’m a jerk.
I’m sort of impressed with myself for sticking it to the man so hard. I mean, that was one hell of a raise: a $35,000 bonus for one date, plus a billionaire fiancé, and my own company. Props, old me!
But mostly I feel sick. Actually sick. My stomach is all acid and bile, and I’m sweating all over the Ferrari. My thighs are pretty much stuck to the seats. JP really is an innocent babe in the woods who I’ve tricked into marrying me, not that he’s proposed yet. I love the beautiful house and JP seems swell, but I’m not sure I can do it, not without remembering everything I lived through to make me this messed up and angry. And was JP really the one I was mad at? He’s the innocent one, too sweet for his own good. If there’s such a thing as an innocent billionaire…
He texts me: I brought you chocolates. There’s a special kind for drizzling…I know where I want to put it.
We need to talk.
Good, I want to talk too.
I wonder if he is 100 percent over the argument I remembered in my vision. Now that I know what I did, that is obviously what the argument was over. And all of his accusations were right. I was definitely messed up and I 100 percent used him. And going to Switzerland to sleep it off sounds pretty reasonable. Since arriving home, he hasn’t mentioned it once, as if he’s over it and nothing will change—drizzling chocolate and a surprise sparkly present waiting at home. My stomach tightens at the thought. I hope he waits a little while.
On my way into the house my phone rings. I recognize the number as the Long Beach PD. It’s probably Denise saying that she’s coming to arrest me. JP could make that go away, but I can too. I hit the ignore button.
I find JP sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen, a silk robe open over some pajama pants. “Morning, cherie,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. Where were you?”
I mumble something about Crystal. I don’t mention the police station or impending criminal charges.
JP looks like an ad for luxury living on Sunday mornings. Speaking of which, “You know that yacht, The Good Life? Do you know who it belongs to?”
“I was thinking of buying it,” he says. “You like it so much. All those pictures.” His expression is filled with meaning. “It could be an engage—”
“Do you want coffee?” I cut him off hard. I’m not ready. “We really need to talk. There are some things I haven’t told you.” So many things.
“More?” he jokes. “I had to go to Geneva to recover from your last reveal.”
“Yes,” I say. I assume he’s referring to the fight in the car on the way to the art museum. In my recovered memory he called me a criminal, I assume because I stole all of GoldRush’s taglines—as if the comically fancy stripper descriptions were unique. No one goes to GoldRush because it has a Russian ballerina. They go there for boobs and liquor. No one cares if the boobs belong to a ballerina.
When I don’t laugh at his joke, he turns serious. “You’ve been acting so strange since I got back. What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath and sit on the stool next to him. I pick up a fresh bagel from a basket and put it back down again. It’s time to pull on my big-girl panties. There’s no reason not to tell him anymore. “JP, I probably should have told you—”
“What?” He looks concerned.
I give him the unembellished story. All of it.
“Why…why didn’t you tell me?” He looks hurt and confused. “I thought we were together. Partners. I’m the person you should run to when things get bad.”
I look at my lap for a few seconds and shut my eyes. He’s right.
“I didn’t want to lose you.” I don’t tell him the second reason—that I didn’t trust him.
“As if I would leave you because you were injured!” He puts his hand over mine. “I would have flown back immediately.”
This is killing me. JP is saying everything right when all I want him to do is screw up and make it easy for me to storm off in a huff. “But what about GoldRush?”
He looks at me calmly. “Well, I was surprised when my lawyer suggested that I sign off on a lawsuit against my girlfriend for stealing intellectual property from a business I didn’t even know I owned.”
“I bet.”
He takes my hands and looks deep into my eyes in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I would feel better if I returned his feelings. “But I still want to marry you.”
JP is insane.
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“JP, that is so sweet, but I don’t even know you. And…look what I did to you.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t even know I owned GoldRush. I don’t care that you stole its stupid tagline and name. Have it. If that is the price of love, then so be it. You can have the entire strip club.”
“Ummm. Well…” I think this is the first time anyone has offered to give me a strip club. “Can I get that in writing?”
He blurts out a laugh. “Really?”
“Kind of?”
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” He looks like he’s finally starting to get it.
“Nope. I don’t remember anything.”
For the first time, he looks hurt. “You can definitely have the club. It’s an embarrassment. So low class. I don’t want anything to do with it. Come to think of it, I don’t want you to have it either. Why don’t you do something less…sleazy.”
Now I’m offended. “I worked in that strip club, JP. For years.” I’m just guessing at how long, but “for years” sounds good. “And my friends still work there.” At least until I can get them out.
“I know this, and I want to marry you anyway.”
“Know what?”
“That you come from a low place and have low friends.”
I bristle. “They’re low because they don’t have opportunities and your strip club exploits them and doesn’t pay fair wages. You didn’t give them paid time off or benefits—nothing.
How are they supposed to raise themselves up working at a place like that? You can pretend that you have nothing to do with what they’re going through, but you own the club. They work there. You are exploiting those women and paying them shit.”
He didn’t see that coming. I’m starting to feel the familiar burn of anger. I know I’ve felt this before. This is how I ended up here. Pure anger fueled me all the way from that strip club to this kitchen island.
“I can’t be responsible for how all of my investments conduct their affairs. I have too many to keep track of, and they’re run independently, with their own management teams.”
“Maybe you should keep track of them. At least be more careful about what you invest in. If you own a business, you should make sure the employees get paid. Not to mention, why do you own a strip club anyway? Buy a hospital. Invest in clean water. If you have a billion dollars, you should make the world a better place.”
“I am trying.” I can tell that his patience is wearing thin. “You know what I’m doing for the rainforest at Jacques-o-late.”
“That’s nice, but it feels like a marketing gimmick. It’s about image,” I spit out. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I can feel more anger rising up. This is about more than my experiences at GoldRush.
“This is not how I saw this marriage proposal going,” he says. “You wanted to get married so badly.”
“I had a major head injury, JP. I don’t even know if I’m that person anymore. I think I just need some space for a while. I need to figure out who I am—who I really am.” I stand and head for the door. It’s clearly time for me to go.
JP follows me to the door. “I understand. Sort of. I think it might be best if you just take a nap, though.”
I don’t think he realizes the extent of my existential crisis. Maybe he’s never had one.
When I walk out the door of the pink house on Ocean Boulevard, I can feel it—I’m shutting the door on the person I was before, the person I was for my entire life until last Tuesday. I don’t even know her completely yet, but I’m saying good-bye. The old Mia was going to get married and become Mrs. Jacques-Pierre Howard. She would have lived in that beautiful house with her fast car. JP was buying her The Good Life.57
That girl is not me. JP seems really nice, perfect even, but I need to be on my own for a minute. I don’t know if the head injury altered my brain, if the new perspective opened my eyes, or if I’ve just gone mad—but here I am.
A girl in a cocktail dress with no money.
I just turned down the life I always wanted.
I have a company that isn’t really mine because I stole it.
But my eyes are open. I know what I’m doing, which is better than when I restarted my life on Thursday, completely blind. This time, I know what I’m facing and what I walked away from. I walked away from an easy solution to all of my problems. JP could have solved everything for me with a few swipes of a credit card, but I don’t want that. This is my life and I’m going to do my best to make it right this time. I’ll probably fuck up because it’s me, but I’m going to try.
56 Not that I know for sure, but it looks like most of the money is going to hair and nails.
57 JP is going to have to revise his slogan. Once you go Jacques-o-late, sometimes you do go back.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
When I look in my clutch, I realize that I don’t even have enough money for bus fare. I walk to Cuppa Cuppa.
“Hi, Roberta,” I say. “Do you mind if I sit here for a minute?” I just need to collect my thoughts.
“Of course.”
“I’m out of money.”
“I’ll start you a tab.”
The gesture gives me heartburn. I’m already in a lot of debt. I want to say yes, but I’m also like, MIA, YOU IDIOT, HAVE YOU LEARNED ANYTHING?!
“That’d be awesome.” I really need a coffee. I’ll repay Roberta before the bank. I have to, or I won’t be able to get coffee.
She fires up the coffee grinder. While it works, which takes forever, she shouts, “I saw your guy this morning.”
“Max? He was here?”
“Yeah, the good one.”
I laugh. I wonder if she knows JP, too.
“He wasn’t in the shop. I saw his video on Twitter, and OMG, he had me dyyyying!”
Twitter video? I take the coffee with mucho gratitude and sit down with my phone. I tap into the Twitter app and see that it’s actually a Moment. I tap into the original tweet, posted by a handle I don’t recognize, but I recognize the profile pic—it’s that bro I met outside the lab.
Talk about another flashback. Max is sitting in front of the screens in the lie detector room and Chan is wearing the scanner. They’re wearing the same outfits from yesterday so the video must have been recorded right after I left.
Max runs through a few questions to make sure the scanner is working, including Chan’s name and birthday.
“It’s working great.” Max looks up at Chan. “Do you have the list of phrases that Fay programmed in?”
Whoever is recording—probably the bro—is trying to stifle laughter. They obviously know what’s coming. They’re setting Max up.
Chan groans. “Dude, this is awkward.”
“Just read them. I have to know what she did so I can fix the program.”
Chan looks like he’d rather cut off a finger. “Here goes. They’re pretty personal. Brace yourself.” He takes a breath and says, “Here’s the first one: Next Generation is better than Voyager.”
Max looks at the scanner. “Do you believe that?”
“Of course, Max. I’m not an idiot. Next Gen all the way.”
“It’s coming up as false.” With a really confused look he says, “She bugged the software with lies about Star Trek? Any bug would mess with the software, but…”
The way Chan says, “It gets worse,” I believe him.
“Fay think she’s funny,” Max says.
Fay is funny, I silently correct. This is the most ridiculous breakup stunt I’ve ever seen.
Chan reads the next one. “Fay likes Star Trek.”
When Max looks at the screen he says, “But she does like Star Trek.” Max looks indignant. “We watched it all the time.”
Ouch—I’m guessing Fay watched Max watching Star Trek all the time.
Calmly, Chan says, “I think she’s telling you that she doesn’t like Star Trek and you never really knew her.”
“Of course I knew her.”58
Uh oh…
“It gets worse,” Chan announces. “The next statement is: I like Fay for more than her Nobel Prize potential.”
Max shakes his head and shrugs it off. “Whatever.”
Chan takes a deep breath and I can feel something big coming. In a robotic voice, Chan reads, “The sex is great.” He looks up at Max for a reaction.
Max’s jaw drops. “What the fuck? She came every—” Max looks up and realizes he’s arguing with Chan about his sex life with Fay.
Chan holds up his hands defensively. “Dude, I’m sure she came. Girls never fake, right?”
I snicker. She totally didn’t come. It’s obvious. She probably should have mentioned that earlier, like during sex, rather than wrecking his PhD project a year later.
Roberta calls out over the grinder, “You just get to the sex comment?”
I nod and pause the video. “You might have to train Max up if Fay is right,” she hollers.
I laugh. “I’m willing to put in some work. I think Fay had communication issues. I don’t think she’s empowered enough to be in control of her own orgasm yet. Maybe after this stunt, though.”
“I’d make her a free coffee if I wasn’t already on Max’s side.”
“She is clever.” One half of the would-be power couple of the neuroscience communit
y.
I hit play on the video. Chan says, “One more, dude. Hold tight.” Chan looks directly at Max, like he’s about to say something important. And he does. “I love you.”
Max looks mad at this point. “I did love Fay. How dare she say I didn’t?”
Chan just sits there. “I don’t know man. I’m not her.”
It’s so obvious that Max should have been having this argument with Fay, probably when they were still together.
“Seriously, what is this? Why did she do this?”
I know why—Fay is a jerk, but she’s also a genius. Max would never believe the lies in his own relationship without scientific proof. I guess this isn’t exactly scientific proof. She just used science to make fun of him. But wait. Fay plugged “I love you” in as an automatic false statement. That means when I told Max I loved him, I wasn’t necessarily lying!
Talk about an ex-girlfriend getting in the way. Fay takes the cake.
This isn’t to say that I love him. Now that I think about it, the idea seems crazy, but…feelings are crazy. I completely grant that I love him at least partially because of my recent brain injury and consequent dependency issues, but…I wasn’t necessarily lying. What is love anyway? Max is the only person I’ve been honest with, the only person I’ve been vulnerable with. I trust him.
After lying to JP, I think that’s a precondition to love. You can’t love someone if you don’t trust them enough to show them your true self.59 That’s Love 101. Certainly someone has won the Nobel Prize in Romance for that, and I learned it from Lizzo. I’m not sure if you have to love yourself to love someone else, though.60 Let’s get real. That’s way too high a bar. Just show them your unfiltered self and don’t tell them you’re a millionaire when you actually are in debt to a hot-air balloon company.
I text Max: I saw the vid.
It’s not that bad.
He responds: It is.
I don’t understand what happened.
I can feel the confusion coming through the text. Max has no clue what happened to him. I can totally see it from my vantage point, but he’s too close. That Y chromosome doesn’t help either.