The cabin is unlocked so I wander in. The fridge is stocked with cheese and olives and other things I like. I open the olives and eat four or five. The owner of this boat also has a jar of chocolates, another food group I enjoy. I open a bottle of expensive fizzy water and plate up some snacks, take them up on deck, and lie down in a deck chair. Luckily I found a hat in the cabin because the sun is strong, threatening to turn my skin into a raisin. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t want wrinkles. And water is the answer. No one can ever drink enough.
I want to share this moment with Max, in addition to everyone I don’t know. So after I post a picture of myself on Insta, I send the same photo to Max and write, I found my boat. I like it. Gonna take a nap on it now. Zzzzzzzzz you later.
The gentle rocking of the boat, the sunshine, the olives…Soon, I let myself drift to sleep aboard The Good Life. I can see why I wanted a boat, unless my parents gave it to me or I inherited it. As I’m dozing off, I make a mental note to walk over to the marina’s office later. Maybe they can help me find a key so I can steer this thing to Baja. Or they can give me the name of the captain I normally hire. I must have one.
What feels like a million years later, a male voice jars me out of my sleep. “Hello!” It’s not a friendly hello; it’s an “explain yourself” hello.
I open my eyes to find a middle-aged white guy dressed in an outfit that screams I own a boat.! It makes me want to run the other way, but I’m cornered. He’s standing aboard The Good Life, staring down at me.
I reach for my phone, ready to dial 911. Strange man, in my space. I’m not messing around.
“Do you know the Olsons?” he asks.
“Uhh…” I don’t know anyone, obviously, but I say, “Yes.” It seems easier than the truth.
He relaxes just a little.
“That’s good to hear. I’ve been trying to look out for them while they’re gone.”
“Their boat?”
“Yes, Dave and Mallory Olson from Arizona.”
“How long have the Olsons been gone?”
“Months,” he says.
I could be the new owner. This guy doesn’t know everything. Either that or the Olsons have a twentysomething daughter.
“Someone threw a party on deck last week.”
I glance at my Insta post. It’s from last Sunday. “Was the party on Sunday, the twelfth?”
He thinks for just a second and nods. “That sounds about right.”
“That must have been me,” I say. “You should have dropped by.”
He gives me a really? look. And I can see him trying to figure out if I’m so confident because I’m right or because I’m just that brazen. When it comes down to it, though, he’s probably collecting the hottest yacht club gossip. I bet he’s just pretending to be friends with the Olsons so that he can get all nosy with me. In fact, I’m sure that’s what’s going on. This man is so not friends with the Olsons.
“That was my boat-warming party,” I say, and who knows. It might have been. “You don’t happen to have the Olsons’ number, do you? I lost my phone and wasn’t able to upload my contacts.” The lie slips off my tongue before I can even think it through. It’s so easy.
The guy gives me the Olsons’ number and I shoo him along with a smile and a declaration that I need to continue my beauty sleep. He might contact the Olsons, but not before I do.
I immediately call and leave them a message. “It’s Mia. Please give me a call about The Good Life. I have a few questions.”
They’re probably not answering their phone because they’re in Switzerland and it’s midnight there. Everyone who’s anyone is in Switzerland this week.
I can see that the Nosy Neighbor is headed to the marina office. I don’t particularly want to answer questions I don’t know the answers to, and it’s not like I’m one hundred percent sure about my boat ownership. More like seventy-five percent sure I own a boat. So, it’s off to the next post. I say good-bye to my darling yacht and head down the pier back to the beach.
The next post is a picture of me kissing an ice sculpture Cupid at the art museum. It’s time-stamped at 11:11 on Tuesday night, which means that this was probably the last place I was before the hospital.
I send Max a text: Status report: I own a yacht and volunteer to feed the homeless. I hope you’re doing as well as me. Want to grab lunch?
If I had my memory and a life, I’d probably find it weird to text Max such frequent updates, but given the situation, the guy is basically my best friend.
14 Isn’t that cute! I, of course, respectfully disagree.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I think about changing my Insta bio to Texting and Driving a Ferrari because that’s what I’m doing. Well, not exactly texting—just checking notifications on my phone when I’m at a stoplight, so whatever, bitches. Stop hating. Everyone who’s anyone texts at stoplights. (Quote me on that.) Anyhoo, I’m on my way to the art museum where I almost died.
Back to my latest notification…
I click on it and a post from @Mia4Realz pops up. What the fuck? At first I think it’s a memory, one of those “one year ago today” reminders, but it’s not. (A memory would be nice, by the way, motherfuckers!)
But supposedly I posted this today.
I did not. This picture does not look familiar
As I look at the post, my heart speeds up and I get that weightless feeling when adrenaline starts to flood your body and your muscles are ready to run, leaving your brain behind, like in those Warner Bros. cartoons when Road Runner is about a mile ahead of himself. That’s me. Someone is messing with me.
Well, in reality, I’m still in the Ferrari. Someone lays on the horn behind me and I realize that I’m sitting through a green light. The horn guy passes me on the right. As he swerves around me he yells, “Get off your phone, bitch!”
I set the phone down and just focus on getting to the art museum. It’s two blocks ahead on the left. I’m so close, but I feel like someone is breathing down my neck rather than just messing with me online. A left-hand turn in busy traffic is almost more than I can handle.
When I finally pull into the art museum lot, I stare hard at the screen. I think I’ve been hacked. Whatever this is, I definitely didn’t put this up.
It’s a promo. There’s a picture of me with an I have a secret face and, might I add, perfectly blown-out hair. The caption reads, “ANNOUNCEMENT COMING SOON!”
It gives me chills. Is some creep messing with me? Maybe the person who conked me on the head is playing games on an epic scale. Maybe they want something. If so, I wish they’d just come out and say it. They probably don’t realize they’re messing with an amnesiac.