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.