A bunch of other spicy nightlife types are sharing the table with me, the same table I shared with Max a few days ago. I stare at my phone and pretend they’re not there, but I’m obviously way too cute to ignore. (I put in some extra effort for this date.) A guy starts talking to me. “You waiting for someone, mamacita? How ’bout you come home with me.”
I respond, “Get out of my face, dirtbag” so fast, crowd management was obviously my first language. Two other guys get the same treatment. I ain’t no ho—that’s something I’ve firmly established over the last two days.
At nine-thirty I feel like an idiot. I’ve watched at least twenty people eat dinner and I can’t take it anymore. I’ve made a fool of myself. Max isn’t coming. Maybe he didn’t even check Instagram. Who knows. My whole future could have died with Max’s phone battery. Maybe he went to work and forgot his charger at home. My mind is trying to provide me with an explanation to save me from a total breakdown at the taco truck. Max would know about this because he studies brains. If he shows, I’ll ask him.
Also, I’m starving. I think. At this point, I can’t identify what’s the matter with me. Just so I don’t start crying from low blood sugar, I get in line. I thought Max was my real relationship, but maybe it was all in my head. When he said he didn’t want to be together, maybe he meant it. Crystal is right and I’m just cyberstalking him.
I can add cyberstalking to my list of things to atone for: check fraud, theft of intellectual property, charging rich guys thirty-five grand to date strippers (I’m still kind of proud of that, though), and parking in handicapped spaces (in a stolen car). Speaking of which, I should make sure I’m cool with the police. I’m pretty sure I am, but Denise was too busy arresting Kobra to peace out officially. Maybe I still need to get a piece of paper with a stamp on it.
Crystal is right. I probably shouldn’t have been in Max’s face online. I probably should have…I don’t know…joined the biology department and tried to get into one of his labs. No—that’s stalking, too. It’s like I only know how to stalk people. That’s how I landed JP, too. I’m a stalker.
“Hola, what would you like?” a voice interrupts my shame spiral. Thank God, but also ouch—I’m at the front of the line.
“Um, I’m sorry, I didn’t look at the menu yet.” I glance around. “Is it on that board?”
He points and says, “Side of the truck.” It’s a giant sign. There are a bunch of choices, but it’s all confusing because it’s half in Spanish.
“What do you recommend?”
“Depends on what you like.”
Someone behind me says, “Jesus.”
“I’ll take the tacos,” I say without even reading. There has to be an order of tacos. “Vegetarian ones.” #Brenda.
I also don’t know what sides or salsa I want. “Maybe I’ll order for the guy I’m meeting.” If he doesn’t show I’m going to have to carry a bunch of tacos home on the bus…but if he does show, I’ll have to wait in line for another half an hour. The guy behind me looks like he’s ready to pull a gun on me so I just say, “And I’ll take a burrito. Surprise me.”
Now I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of people, a couple of dogs, and two plates. No Max in sight.
“Excuse me, someone’s sitting here,” I say to a guy about to sit in front of Max’s plate.
He rolls his eyes and then saves about five inches on the end of the bench for Max.
“Are you gonna eat those?” another dude asks me. He can’t get over the fact that I’m sitting in front of two plates of uneaten food. Neither can I.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
He’s not coming and all I can think is What am I going to do with this burrito? It was ten bucks. I might have Kobra’s money but damn, $10 is a lot for a burrito.
It’s shapeless and huge. Nothing to do but Instagram it. I don’t even write a caption. The uneaten burrito speaks for itself.
Immediately, people start commenting with crying emojis. Crystal was right. These random people I don’t even know are the only ones responding to my posts. My online shit did nothing but drive Max away.
I take a sad bite of my taco and set it back down. I don’t think I can eat, but the taco is fucking amazing so I inhale it.
I refresh my Instagram just one more time. There are a ton of notifications, including one from @BlackEinstein314. My heart soars and my pulse races. It could be something bad, but I’m optimistic.
It’s not a comment. It’s a like. Instagram tells me that @BlackEinstein314 likes one of my posts.
Please let it be the picture of the two of us on the scenic overlook. Please.
It is! That’s as good a declaration as any that Max is into me and that he has forgiven me.
So where the hell is he?
As I’m looking at the screen, he comments. I don’t love you, too.
A smile breaks out on my face like the morning sun on a cold winter’s day. I’m bursting—he doesn’t love me. I’m pretty sure that means he loves me. Or maybe that he likes me. I don’t know, but it feels good.
“Mia.” I turn, half expecting Max, even though I know the voice belongs to someone else. I see JP, dressed casually, like he’s about ready to drive to a winery in Sonoma. “Mia,” he says again. “Thank God I found you.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“You told the whole world, right? Instagram.”
I don’t know what to say. Why exactly is he here? He proposed. I left the house. I invited another guy out for tacos on Instagram. To me, it seems like we’re done.
“I love you, Mia. I shouldn’t have proposed the other day. I didn’t realize how badly you were injured and how extensive your memory loss was. You aren’t acting like yourself.” He shakes his head as if confounded. “I saw your Instagram posts. Burning your clothes in a trash barrel and…taking the bus—I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I’m worried.”
That’s nice of him. “I’m fine, JP.”
“I’m not even mad that you invited the house sitter out to tacos. I want to take you to a doctor and get everything back to normal, back to the way it was. I see now that you’re just not yourself. That was a serious head injury.”
“Going back to normal is exactly what I don’t want. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t even like her.”
“I was only gone for five days, Mia. How could everything be that different?” He gestures to the crowd that doesn’t include Max. “The house sitter isn’t even here. You’re waiting for no one. Please come home with me.”