“Mia,” I say.
“He definitely didn’t mention you.”
My mind is blank. Like a genius, I let a “because” hang in the air while I run through a list of options in my mind:
■ He’s my husband and didn’t want to worry me with the responsibility of taking care of all the miniature succulents and throw pillows.
■ He expected me to be out of town, too. (Don’t ask me where. Obviously.)
■ I was the original house sitter and this guy is the last-minute replacement.
I freestyle an answer. “Um, I was supposed to be on vacation, too, but…I had to cancel because…” I turn around and lift my hair to show him the nasty gash, which the doctors stapled together. “I had an accident.” (I am Meryl Streep.)
Max’s eyes widen. “Whoa.”
“Tell me about it.” And that’s when I know I’m in. Max is a nice person; he won’t kick an injured woman out of JP’s house (which could still be my house but the odds aren’t looking good) and onto the street.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I say. “Whatever happened knocked the memory right out of me. I just got out of the hospital an hour ago.”
“And came straight here?” The confusion on his face is apparent. “Who drove you home from the hospital? And were they sure you lived here?” He looks around the room. “Where’d they go anyway? You have amnesia and they just dropped you off like it’s no big deal?”
I laugh in a way that could become bitter if things continue this way. “I Ubered over. The driver was super nice and helped me find my address.”
“Using what?” Max looks confounded.
I breeze past the question. I don’t want to get into my Instagram sleuthing just yet. “Speaking of which, I should give him a review. He went above and beyond.”
“Umm, five stars for sure. But…what…?”
“It’s totally okay.” I comfort him about the uncertainty of my situation. “I just need to…Trek myself.” I grin. “And my instincts say that I live here.” Really, this place fits. There’s a Degas on the wall and it doesn’t look like a poster from Target. This is the kind of place where a girl with a designer cape would live. I Trek myself so hard.
Max looks down at his shirt. “Uhh…I don’t think that’s what this shirt means. I’m not trying to get rid of you or anything.” He looks at me so sincerely I can’t not believe him. “But I’m still not sure this is your house.”
Okay. I trust him. I wish he’d quit with the details, though. I just need to lie down. But I can see he’s still chewing on the issue. “You have a key,” he says, “which implies that you’ve probably been here before, but that doesn’t mean you live here.”
“No, I’m sure it’s my house.” I can stretch a false sense of confidence pretty far.
“You could be the maid.” He points this out as if we’re in math class and everything is logical and makes sense.
“I arrived at the hospital wearing a crown.” I gesture to my cocktail dress. “And this. If anything, I have a maid.” Unless I’m J.Lo and this is a Maid in Manhattan situation, but I doubt he’s seen that.
“Just saying. I have a key and I definitely don’t live here…”
I collapse on one of the kitchen stools and rest my head in my hands. “Dude, JP is probably my husband.” (At least in this version of the story.) “Who knows, maybe this is my house and he’s my executive assistant.”
He laughs hard at that. “I’m looking forward to when you call JP and ask if he’s your secretary or your husband.”
Apparently JP comes off as a lot more important than me. Go figure. That’s when I notice the pile of mail sitting on the counter in front of me. I start brazenly flicking through, ignoring Max’s side-eye. All addressed to JP. Nothing has my name on it, unless you count the ones marked for the “current resident.”
Glancing back at the TV, Max says, “Well, whether you live here or not, you need somewhere to stay tonight. Want to watch Our Food System with me? Might as well settle in.” He points to a half-eaten take-out pizza. “Help yourself, if you’re hungry.”
“Maybe I’ll grab some chocolate.” There’s a bowl filled with Jacques-o-late bars on the counter. This chocolate is freaking everywhere these days. “Once you go Jacques-o-late, you never go back” is the company’s slogan. The ads all feature women biting chocolate bars with orgasmic looks on their faces. I think it’s…okay, as in I will eat all of it, even though it’s missing a little something. I can’t put my finger on it.
I should probably want to find out more about Max—I mean, what if he’s lying? What if he’s actually JP and he’s just messing with me? What if I’m JP and we’ve never met in person before so he doesn’t actually know what I look like? Can I trust him? What are my standards normally? “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
He yawns. “No one would say yes to that. Especially a serial killer.”
“Oh my God. You are a serial killer.”
He takes a while picking out the best slice of pizza, the same one I would have grabbed, with the ideal toppings-to-cheese ratio. “I’m black, Mia. Statistically, there’s zero chance of me being a serial killer. As long as you don’t call the cops and catch a stray bullet, you’re good.”
Too black and too cute to be a killer. And he shares pizza.
Before I move to the couch, I glance at the TV. The documentary playing in the background is about how humans are killing themselves with corn syrup and nitrates. At the moment, a slow death by trace amounts of anything seems to be the least of my concerns. “I’m tired. Can you point me to the master bedroom?” I say this as naturally and breezily as possible, hoping he won’t say hell no and make me sleep on the couch.
He hesitates a second, glances at my head wound, and says, “Sure. We’ll figure out what’s really going on in the morning.” He says this in a reassuring way, not a threatening way. Gotta love a sweet nerd.
While he carries a glass to the sink, I casually check out the bookshelves while munching on more Jacques-o-late. It’s all fancy leather volumes or first editions with a few photos artfully arranged across the ledges of the shelves. An attractive man with dark, side-parted hair and a Prince Charming jawline is in several, along with people who might be his family members. JP?
I’m not in any of them.
Max leads me down a hallway filled with original artwork, lit gallery style, to a master bedroom big enough for a California-king-size bed. I check out the crown molding and a slightly domed ceiling painted to look like a soothing sky. The bedding is cumulus-clouds-level fluffy and the whole room smells like lavender. Navy-blue walls and a few manly paintings (originals, of course) take the vibe from spa day to European. It could be a man’s or a woman’s room. Long Beach is nice enough, but this place looks like it should be in Laguna or Malibu or France, even.