JP Howard. Short for Jacques-Pierre. (Ooh la la!). Date of birth is 1983, which makes him…(I open my calendar app)…2020–1983=37. A thirty-seven-year-old rich guy with a French name. So far, so good.
Better yet, there’s a Wikipedia entry about him.
I stop eating the chocolate bar that is, at this very moment, on the way to my mouth. Jacques-Pierre, my boyfriend, is the creator of Jacques-o-late. Once you go Jacques-o-late…runs through my mind.
This is better than waking up as Meghan Markle.
Jacques-o-late, according to its website, comes in five flavors: dark, light, medium, caramel, and white. They all have nuts. Size: king only.9
And he’s saving the rainforest, at least according to the website. Jacques-o-late only buys fair-trade Jacques-o-late beans from Honduras, Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, and Trinidad and Tobago. The company always pays three times the going market value, and twenty percent of profits go to buying back rainforest. A boxed inset on the website contains an interview with a dignified old man. The website calls him a Jacques-o-late farmer. In his words: “Jacques-o-late has saved my way of life.”
What’s more, JP was almost a capital-B Bachelor. According to the internet, JP is the one who got away from ABC executives, who desperately wanted him for The Bachelor. Since then, the show has tried to recruit him nearly every season and he’s said no.
Wide-eyed, I look up from my phone. The Bachelor chose me? I woke up to a fairy tale. Cindy is going to eat this up. I’m going to have to drop by the ICU and report that I’m practically married to an almost-Bachelor who makes Jacques-o-late. Maybe JP and I can throw a lavish party for the nurses when he returns.
I click on a link to a podcast called Dreamboats: A Podcast for Lovers of Sexy Yachts, Etc! The link is purple instead of red because I’ve clicked on it before. It looks like JP was a guest on an episode called “Yachtastic Men!” Not much subtext happening here. I hit play and after a little intro music and “brought to you by” statement, the host starts in.
“OMG people. I’m sitting here with someone I’ve always wanted to meet. I’m such a fan! JP, I’ve been following you forever, even before Jacques-o-late.”
“Why, thank you. It’s good to be here, Jessica.”
“So tell me about your boat…”
“Well, it’s a 60-foot—”
The hosts laughs and cuts him off. “Just kidding. I don’t really care about your boat.”
Sounding confused, JP says, “Isn’t this a show about boats?”
“Silly, that’s just a pretext. Tell me about you. Tell me about Jacques-o-late.” Just like everyone, she says Jacques-o-late like she is whispering it into her lover’s ear.
He sounds sincerely flattered, which is cute. He’s confident but not obnoxiously so.
“What do you want in a woman?” Jessica asks. “Just so we all know who to pretend to be.” Then she titters.
JP returns a polite laugh. “Well, then, don’t pretend. I want the same thing every guy wants. I want the girl next door, someone sweet who I can be myself around.”
“Hmmm.” The host sounds skeptical. “Now let’s discuss the elephant in the room and I’m not talking about your Jacques-o-late bar…”
“What’s that?”
“Your bank account, obviously. Forbes listed your net worth as $2.3 billion.”
“God, is that what I’m worth? I only have $60 in my wallet.”
“Come off it, JP. You are obviously not eating generic-brand mac ’n’ cheese.”
So far so good on JP. He’s rich, handsome, a chocolate lover, and he thinks he’s the love of my life. That’s not exactly the same as saying that he loves me, but close enough. I’m ready to respond.
I miss you too!
Don’t ask me why I don’t lead with the head injury. I guess I need more than a mansion from him. I want to know who I’m talking to before I confess my situation. He might be amazing, but he’s still a handsome rich guy, and I know what that means, even without a brain: he can get away with anything.
Phew. Thought you might still be mad.
Huh…back to red flag number one. Should I be?
Hopefully it was just a run-of-the-mill argument about how big our next yacht should be. I mean, what else could we have to worry about? There must be a thousand dollars’ worth of throw pillows in this room alone. I probably just toss them in the cart at the checkout like cash register mints at whatever luxury furniture store JP and I shop at.
No need to be mad, cherie. I’m going to make it up to you. Do you want to see a pic?
A dick pic? Is he that kind of guy?
Never mind. No pics. I’m making you wait.
Not that I mind a dick pic, but I’d prefer an actual present.
Let’s just say your present is almost as sparkly as your personality.
Dear lord, a sparkly personality?! Just send me the dick pic. I’ll take it over the lies. If only Brenda were here to walk me through this convo.
I text: Have you met me?
He responds with: You’ll love it. Although might not work with your hair.
I reach up and touch my hair. The undercut might be a little edgy for him, given that he looks like the crown prince of France. And let me tell you, it doesn’t do much to cover up the staples.
Thankfully he can’t talk long. He’s all: Gotta go. Ttyl.
I send him a quick xoxo, but I’m confused. I want to remember him, to feel my heart spark with feeling, but there’s nothing. Before I set down the phone, I glance at the Instagram picture of us at the winery. I don’t remember the day or why we were laughing in the picture. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter, though. JP is definitely the kind of guy I can fall in love with all over again. We can have one of those “We fell in love twice” stories. I have until Sunday to prepare.
In the living room, Max looks like he’s been up for at least five hours typing furiously at his laptop, even though it’s barely past eight and he’s wearing another T-shirt that I’m not sure I get. IT’S NOT YOUR LIMBIC SYSTEM, ITS MINE, it says.10 He’s cute in that slouchy grad student sort of way, which makes me think maybe he is one. On a scale of one to ten, I’d give him a, “If he delivered my pizza, I’d probably invite him in for a slice.” And by pizza, I mean pizza.
“Morning,” I say with a little pose, like I’m making my entrance onto the set of an old-fashioned sitcom, pausing just long enough before my next line so the audience can applaud.
Max doesn’t applaud, but he does look up from the computer. “Hey. You feeling better?”