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.