by Sam Tschida
I shut my eyes for a second. This is so intense. I try to remember all the feelings I’ve had over the last few days. I really connected with Max. A real connection. I connected with Crystal, especially after I repaired our relationship. That’s real. The yacht, the fake bios on GoldRush—everything I arrived to on Thursday felt hollow, like a chocolate Easter bunny. You bite into it and it’s just a waxy shell. That’s my relationship with JP, a waxy shell of Jacques-o-late, beautiful but empty.73
“Mia?”
I turn and see the person I’ve been waiting for.
Max steps out of the passenger side of a Kia. His T-shirt is aqua (a great color for him) and says THE SQUARE ROOT OF YOU IS ME. He looks as confused to see me with JP as I feel about his T-shirt. Is it supposed to be romantic? Is it a math joke? Does he it mean he loves me? “I’m sorry, Max. I really wanted to meet you for tacos.” I don’t say “alone” but I think it’s implied.
“Then what’s he doing here?”
I exhale. I didn’t invite him, I mouth. Then I say, a little too loudly, “JP wants to marry me and he thought he’d interrupt tacos.”
JP looks from me to Max. “I didn’t say that exactly.”
“Oh, I guess I misunderstood,” I say.
“I mean, I do want to marry you, but I would like to get you back to normal before we make plans.”
Wow. This nonoffer really seems to rely on me turning back into my former self.
Max walks over to us. “Well, I know we’ve only known each other for a few days, but I really want to sit down, have a burrito, and get to know you better.”
JP says, “This is interesting and all, but…I think it’s time to go.” He gestures to the crowd, which looks a little druggy at this hour. “I’m not sure if it’s safe here.”
I look down at the burrito. It takes up almost the whole plate. I can’t remember what’s in it—some kind of fatty pork with extra guac and beans and special sauce. “I only have one burrito.”
I look between them and I know what I have to do. JP might have been offered the role of The Bachelor, but he didn’t want it. I do, though. I am The Bachelorette.
“There are two of you, but I only have one burrito. I could buy another one, but I want to make my choice now. Even though both of you are super awesome and amazing in your own way, only one of you can have the burrito.”
Max squints at me, as if he’s trying to make sense of what I’m saying. He’s clearly never watched The Bachelor.
“JP, you are the most perfect man imaginable. You are beautiful and successful and nice, and you forgave me for so many bad things. For that, I am grateful. I’m grateful for everything you offered, but I don’t love you and I can’t be the woman you want anymore. It’s time to say good-bye.”
JP shakes his head. “Fine. I can’t believe what you just gave up, though.”
Me either.
I can tell JP is going to livestream his reaction, just like a rejected contestant on The Bachelorette. Crystal and I will watch it later with a cocktail.
I turn to Max. “Max, JP just offered me a cocktail and a ride in a Ferrari and probably a life as a lady billionaire, but I’m a woman of my word. At least, I am now. I invited you to tacos. I bought this burrito for you. I saved this seat for you. More than anything, I want you to give me another chance.”
He smiles big. “Thanks, Mia.”
I hand him the burrito. It’s on a Chinet plate and has no garnish. It’s better than any single, long-stemmed rose. “I know we’ve only known each other for a few days, but I don’t care. All I want to do is get to know you better.”
I still want to be a billionaire, obviously, but I’ll figure that out on my own. I already faked it all the way to the top once and I’m only…twenty-seven? I can’t remember. I’ll need to double-check. At any rate, I’m super young. It’s scientifically proven that thirty is the new eighteen. I’m barely old enough to vote.
“Did you already eat?” he asks.
“Yeah, I was starving. Do you need a fork?” I ask.
He nods. “Probably. And maybe you could get dessert or something?”
“Good idea.” I don’t want to just watch him eat like I have a fetish.
I look back at the Kia Max emerged from. I think I see Chan in the driver’s seat. “Is he okay? Does he want some food too?”
“Chan? He’s cool, he’s just messing around on his phone.”
“He’s driving us home, right?”
“He better.”
“We’re definitely getting Chan a burrito.” Then I remember how much it cost. “Or some chips at least.”
While we stand in line, Max turns to me. “I’m sorry about the other day, Mia. At the lab.”
My antenna goes up and I give him my best do go on expression. I can’t wait to hear more about me. I could talk about my feelings all day long. Instagram is probably just an overflow.
“You have the right to feel however you feel. I promise not to tell you otherwise, even if my lie detector says you’re wrong.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that. You might be right, though. We’ve only known each other since Thursday and it’s Tuesday now.” I shake my head.
“That’s less than a week,” he says.
“There are different kinds of love though. It’s like going to a waterslide park. Sometimes you take the steepest, fastest slide and part of it is a dark tunnel you can’t see out of. Just because it’s too fast doesn’t mean it’s not as real an experience as the slower, twisty-turny slide, or even the lazy river.” And that fast slide—whooeee—love is scary when you’re on that slide.
“Just so you know, I’m still climbing the stairs up to the slide.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m on the stairs and I’m going on the ride.” He’s so cute when he’s trying to explain himself.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I already went down the slide once. We can go a second time together, climb the stairs, and hold hands.”
Even though it wasn’t a hint, he takes my hand. “I’m sorry I called you a liar, too. That was pretty harsh.”
“But true.” I have no qualms about admitting that.
“But it wasn’t just you. I lied. We all lie. We decide who we are and act it out. In a world where we all get to be whatever we want, we have to fabricate an identity. When you don’t live up to it, you’re a liar, even if it’s not malicious.”
“I assume you’re talking about Fay and your neuroscience power couple thing.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I involved her in my lie. I was lying to myself there, and to Fay. She was right.”
“No big,” I say. “I’m the fakest person I know.”
“No, you’re the realest,” he says. “Maybe losing your memory broke you loose from the Matrix so you can see everything. At any rate, I don’t know who you were before, but you are sincerely trying to do your best and you have a beautiful soul. You only lied to me because you were embarrassed. I’ve done much worse without even being aware of it.”
He squeezes my hand again.
The guy at the food truck window practically groans when he sees me. “You again.”
I smile. “I’m back. Could I get a quesadilla, some chips, and two horchatas?”
Max and I toast with our horchatas and take a selfie. I don’t use a filter so we look pretty realistic. Granted, we’re both fairly good looking, but I look tired and my eye makeup is raccooning. He’s making a weird face, like I caught him mid-sentence, but it’s perfect. Neither of us knows exactly what’s going to happen. We don’t know how long we’ll stay together or what we’re doing. He has some cool research ideas. I have some cool business ideas. We might screw up. We might go bankrupt. I hope we don’t break up at the end of the night, but I’m jumping into the deep end of reality.
Even without remembering most of my life, I know that I’m living up to my name for the first time ever. I am finally @Mia4Realz.
72 Next purchase: a car.
73 Side note: JP should make Jacques-o-late bachelors! I would so buy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jhanteigh Kupihea, thank you for your insightful edits, the awesome title, and every great joke you added to the manuscript, not to mention all the bad ones you deleted. Somehow, with your edits, Max seems a little like my brother, at least according to my daughter, which is slightly disturbing but cool. Everyone loves him. While I’m on the topic, I should thank my brother for brainstorming with me from his fancy engineering job more than his boss probably knows. But back to Jhanteigh—thank you for trusting me to write this book and not hating me after you read it. And thanks to everyone else at Quirk, too—Brett Cohen, Jane Morley, Andie Reid, Nicole De Jackmo, Jen Murphy, and probably a bunch of people I’ve never emailed or twittered with. I’m so grateful for all of the support and the great work you all do!
And Barbara Poelle, thanks for signing me and repping this book even though you weren’t there at conception. You rock my world.
Also, thank you to Blair Thornburgh, who encouraged me to write this proposal in the first place, and who worked with me on the books that didn’t take before this one. I still love Fantastic News.
Terrell, for taking me to Compton and Long Beach on the first weekend away I’ve had in forever. A beach vacation without any trips to the courthouse would have been nice, but I wouldn’t have written this book without that craziness. And thanks for listening to me talk about my plot pretty much every day for the last year and offering so many good suggestions, not to mention opening up my eyes to more of the world. I couldn’t have written this book without you.
Cristina Pippa, thanks so much for making me work on the SIRI proposal, for reading umpteen versions of it, for honest feedback, and for being available 24/7 for random questions. Also, thank you for telling me not to change Max to a herpetologist two weeks before the book was due. That was a close one.
Monica, thanks for watching my kids and being way more fun than me. (Kids, you got the dedication and Monica so you’re out of luck here, but I love you.)
Carly Bloom, thanks for proofreading my acknowledgments and reminding me of all your contributions that I forgot, including: brainstorming, coming up with that alien spaceship angle I didn’t use (thank God!), and reading the initial proposal. Mostly, thank you for not quitting writing and going full dance mom. And Roselle Lim, thank you for reading my proposal, brainstorming, and being available via text for writer therapy 24/7.
As always, I need to thank my dad, who provides medical advice for all of my characters. Thank you for stepping out on actual head-injury patients to answer questions about Mia’s head injury while I was on deadline. And to my mom for buying me that super cute red dress that I’m going to wear to some sort of book event, and texting about fake people whenever I need her to.
Cuppa Cuppa, if this book makes it big and everyone starts asking for a maple latte that you don’t serve—sorry. I guess she could have ordered off the menu.
Ingrid, thanks for dressing me up in some cute clothes and taking my author photo, and for moving back to Minnesota and buying a hot tub. Actually, I’m on the fence about the hot tub.
Now for the section about Max. I’ve never whined so much about a guy to so many of my girlfriends. Thank you to all the women who provided a shoulder to cry on when he was giving me trouble. First of all, thanks to Max’s team of neuroscience advisers, in particular Dr. Emily Rosario and Dr. Katie Tschida. An actual neuroscientist would be lucky to have you two! And did you know that you both play French horn? Katie, if I’d given him one of your project suggestions, he would have been respectable. And Emily, thanks so much for taking a break from serious research to answer absurd questions about a scientist with girlfriend drama and for telling me what USC looks like.
Esther and Jeannine. You two helped me save Max that morning at Kopplin’s just before I crossed the event horizon of despair at never being able to tie up all those loose ends. There were so many! Also, thanks to Esther’s cousin, the snake charmer who made me think of Kobra.
And Liz, the funnest neighbor ever! Thanks for getting me a little drunk and talking through the last chapter with me the day before the book was due. It’s so much better because of you. Also, thanks for the cardboard cut-out of Johnny Depp.
These seem long, so it doesn’t seem like I could have forgotten anyone and it would be surprising if I thanked your perfect sister instead of you by accident after you read my whole book to offer a teen perspective (shout out Camille!), but it’s so easy to do that. So I apologize if I thanked your sister instead of you or if I just completely blew you off. So this paragraph is for the forgotten ones.
And last but not least, thank you to anyone who read this book! And if you’re still reading, I love you even more. Let’s do this, readers. All the way to the bitter end!
SAM TSCHIDA (pronounced “cheetah”) is from the wilds of Minnesota, where she lives with a motley crew of kids, dogs, and one handsome man. She is the cofounder of ManuFixed, an editorial consulting company and writing workshop that services the Twin Cities. In her spare time she runs, exercises, and watches Netflix.
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