Max watches my reaction. “I missed this place so much,” I say with a wistful smile.
He laughs because, really, who wouldn’t?
After Max leaves, I search for any evidence of myself in the bedroom, some sign that I belong here, that it’s “our” room and not just JP’s. Condoms in the nightstand and a second toothbrush in the bathroom (mine?), a couple of T-shirts that look too small for a man, depending on how tight JP likes ’em—and that’s it. The nightstand on what is probably my side of the bed gives me hope. The US Weekly could definitely be mine and the book about a sexy vampire is a solid maybe, but who knows? I mean, doesn’t everyone love celebrities and vampires?
I’m just going to say I’m home, but am I?
5 Rush? Whatever happened to Tinder? Not that I need a date any way. Gonna start with food and shelter.
6 Am I rich or is this a Rent the Runway situation?
7 Which he hasn’t even had since 2003! (Ask me anything besides my name.)
CHAPTER
THREE
I wake up on Friday morning in the kind of bed that swallows a person whole, surrounded by luxurious layers of comforters and pillows. It’s the style of bed you normally only see on a showroom floor but never in real life since no one except for Real Housewives would ever buy all the stuff on the display model.8 Sun filters in through the windows, casting everything in picture-perfect light, and a soft breeze ruffles the gauzy curtains. It takes a minute for me to remember I’m not at a couples resort in Jamaica. Pink house, Ocean Boulevard, cute house sitter who is hopefully not a serial killer. And me, whoever I am.
I reach for my phone, which is sleeping peacefully on JP’s side of the bed, and give it a little tap good morning. It responds with nothing. No texts. No notifications. My phone, though useful, is not a generous lover. What I need is someone who knows me, my social security number, and where I keep all the cute shoes. My phone is one of those crushes that sucks up every ounce of energy and gives nothing back. Pretty sure I’ve had a couple of those. I can’t remember the names, but I can feel the scars.
Like with a bad crush, I can’t give up. I open up the texts app, knowing there’s nothing. Email, however, is a different story. When I see that I have three new emails, I sit up straight and grip the phone tighter. This is it, someone who knows me sent me a message.
But no, two of the emails are from organic tampon startups, both boxed delivery services that solve all the menses-related problems a modern woman could have. The remaining email is from Jacques-o-late. Once you go Jacques-o-late, you never go back, the subject line reads. Jacques-o-late, it seems, wants me to try their new flavor: white chocolate. Ha! The mofos at Jacques-o-late must think they’re pretty funny.
I delete all of the above in keeping with my practice. Inbox zero—my one accomplishment in life so far. It’s a little weird that I delete texts too, but I guess I must have just KonMari’d the shit out of my life. And really, does any of this electronic communication spark joy? No. The fact that I disposed of them points to the fact that I’m highly evolved and not beholden to my phone like the rest of the world.
Decluttering isn’t ideal in an amnesia situation, though. If I could go back in time and give myself a piece of advice before deleting all traces of my life, I’d whisper in my pre-amnesia ear, Hey girl, props on being efficient and all, but you’re gonna need those someday. See that email from those two chicks at MIT who know just what kind of wine you want—save that one…or, maybe, even one from a person you’ve met.
Instagram, though, I didn’t declutter that. Let’s see what kind of guy you are, JP…At least a few of the shots on my profile page are with JP, who I recognize from the photos on the bookshelf.
1. There’s a picture of JP alone and unbearably handsome in a tailored suit. It’s captioned: “And he has a French accent!”
2. There’s a selfie of us at a winery, grapevines in the background and wineglasses in our hands. The caption: “Me and boo.”
3. Finally, a picture of us in a group of hot young things dressed for the club. I’m wearing a statement dress with dramatic puffed sleeves that barely covers my ass. JP is giving me an appreciative look. No caption. His looks says it all. He wants me.
So…according to Insta: JP is my boo and he’s definitely into me, or at least my ass. Even with a head injury, I’m smart enough to know there’s a difference. This is all reassuring information and normal boyfriend stuff.
An incoming text pings and my heart leaps into my throat. My first text ever. The name pops up as Frenchie.
I miss you.
Can’t say I miss Frenchie so I respond with a
The three dots appear and reappear a few times, indicating that he is typing and erasing and can’t figure out what to say. Finally he writes, Is everything okay? U still mad?
Now I really want to know who this guy is and what should I be mad about. Attempted murder?
Sorry, but who is this? I lost my phone and all my contacts.
I’m sorry love! Relieved there’s a reason u haven’t called, tho.
Glad that solves his problem, but still…WHO is this?
Only the love of your life.
I’m thinking, Then where the hell are you?! but I write, And who might that be?, which I hope comes off as flirty.
Frenchie responds with a selfie, a mocking expression on his extremely handsome, made-to-play-a-doctor-on-television face. And my previous detective work pays off instantly. Frenchie is JP, not to mention—breaking news—“the love of my life!” Funny that I haven’t left any of my stuff at his house, but I’ll save that question for later.
Where are you? I ask.
Switzerland. U know that…r u ok?
Stupid me, just waking up. Feelin groggy. When r u coming back?
Sunday. I miss you.
Emotionless, I scroll back through our convo. JP misses me. Maybe he even loves me? At the very least, I belong to someone. I belong here in this beautiful bird’s nest of a bed—not in the lost and found at the local ER, getting shooed onto the street without so much as a follow-up visit. I’m young, gorgeous, and shacked up in the lap of luxury with a handsome rich dude. I need to keep it that way.
Except, who is he? What are we like together? Am I sweet (doesn’t seem likely, but maybe)? Will he like me now that I’m damaged? (Even one day into my new experience of the world and I’m wondering what a man will think of me.) I shove that thought into the closet where I presume the rest of my middle-school insecurities are trapped and put on my big-girl panties. (Lacy, low-rise hipsters, thank you pre-amnesia self.)
Before I get any deeper into this convo, I consult my assistant. “Siri, who is JP Howard?”