Max takes a sip of his coffee and gets a little foam on his nose. “I feel like you’re only doing this because there are more answers about quinoa than about your identity. But if you want to.”
Without a second thought, I lean over the table and wipe the foam off his face. I lick it off my fingers while Max watches, his eyes lingering on my mouth. Does he think…? I dismiss the thought and announce, “I was right. Totally not a germophobe.”
“I wonder if you’re normally this scattered. Did the doctor say anything about the recovery process?”
“Not really,” I lie.
Expect to be confused and easily exhausted. Avoid any stress. Get plenty of rest and stick to a routine. Dr. Patel didn’t mention that I would be energetic and highly curious about the food system…
“So, quinoa…” I scan my memory. “Obviously it’s the most nutritious food on earth, and soon to be the most nutritious food in the galaxy. NASA is starting a quinoa farm in outer space. Have you heard?”
Max looks at me suspiciously. “Where exactly?”
“Like I remember. On a space station, maybe. Or Mars.”
“I guess they had to think of something to do when Congress cut the space program,” he says drily.
“The United Nations also said it might save Earth.”
“I could talk about quinoa all day,” he says flatly. “Buuuuut…I feel like you should go back to JP’s and rest. A nap might even increase your chances of recovering your memory. How can you expect your brain to recall anything if you’re stressing it out with all kinds of new information?”
Like facts about quinoa? I wonder if anyone has been derailed by quinoa before. As soon as I ask the question, I realize the answer is yes. Obviously. “You’re right, Max. Enough about quinoa. It’s so 2013 anyway. I need to focus on me. But first I have a question for you.”
He waits attentively. For just a second I wonder what Max is avoiding in his own life. There must be something else he’s supposed to be doing right now, but here he is, patiently listening to me prattle on about quinoa.
“Do you know anything about JP?” I flip back to an Insta post of us. My hair is styled. It’s a cute selfie featuring my hair when it looked good, chic blond waves with an undercut. Hipster from one side, Grace Kelly from the other. JP stands next to the Grace Kelly side of my head, and I wonder if he avoids my bald side all the time. He seems more like a Grace Kelly kind of guy.
“Not much. I met him through one of the people in my lab. She was supposed to house-sit for him last time but had to cancel at the last minute. She didn’t want to let JP down because she sits for him all the time and needs the money. I filled in because—”
“I get it.” Max is a super good guy and stepped in to help some chick in his lab. He might be the nicest person I’ve ever met, besides Brenda.
“Plus he pays well and his coffee is definitely better than mine.”
“Yeah, sweet side hustle. Have you ever met him?”
“We crossed paths once. He showed off his Scotch collection. After he found out I’m a neuroscientist, he told me everything he knows about the brain.” Looking amused, Max says, “I can’t say much, except that he’s loaded and he doesn’t know as much about cognition as he thinks he does.”
I move the food in my bowl around. The avocado is already turning brown. “My quinoa bowl is missing something.”
“Chicken,” he says. After a dramatic pause, he adds, “Maybe you should focus on saving yourself instead of chickens, Mia.”
I look up from the browning avocado and into his eyes. Does he genuinely think I’m in danger? And why? Because I lost my entire life? Because an unknown person conked me on the head? Or because I’m not following proper head injury aftercare? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I can’t take care of myself if I don’t even know who I am or what there is to be scared of.
8 Am I a Real Housewife?
9 Is JP compensating for something with his chocolate bars?
10 Do I need a PhD to understand your T-shirts, Max?!
11 All that and he still doesn’t understand why his ex is mad at him.
12 Note to self: google parietal cortex.
13 Am I a dog person?
CHAPTER
FOUR
I think I’m the kind of person who always offers to give a friend a ride, so I tell Max I’ll drop him off at his lab. I want to stay on brand. Plus, driving around the city will probably help me remember things. On Google Maps, Max’s office, the Hedco Neuroscience Building, is practically next door.
“You have to take the 110. Are you sure?” Max says.
“Yep.” I’m just that cool.
In the car, I learn that:
A) Max has always wanted to be a neuroscientist (which makes me think his mother planted the idea because no little boy would come up with that on his own, meaning that he must have very caring and invested, though slightly overbearing, parents, which in turn makes me wonder WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY PARENTS?), but on to the next point…
B) he believes that everything makes sense and can be logically explained,14 and
C) his favorite movie is The Matrix. Don’t get me wrong, I like Keanu Reeves, but I preferred him in Bill & Ted. In fact, I kind of feel like I’ve time-traveled to 2020, except without Ted. Or Bill. I can’t remember which one Keanu played. Not that it matters. They should remake the movie with me and Keanu.
As I park in front of Hedco—did they misspell head?—I ask, “What kind of mad scientist, hypnotized monkey experience do you have going on in there?” The building is made of nice-looking red brick with art deco features and looks nothing like how I’d imagine a brain research center. In general, it looks like all of the other buildings on campus, but this one is full of attractive scientists arguing about transgenic mice and dating around. Someone should get a camera in there and start recording.
“No monkeys, just data,” he says. “But it’s some good, juicy data.”
Juicy data? Max is living a lie, but I’m not going to be the one to break it to him. “Have fun doing math with your vindictive ex,” I say.
“I always do,” he replies in a see you later, honey tone.
“I’m off to find my mind. It looks like I might have left it at the beach.” That’s where all my Insta posts are taken, at least.
With a worried look on his face, he says, “Call me if you need help. Anything.”
I smile and nod at his needless concern. He should be more worried about himself and his own drama den. I’ve got my life handled.