“A little.” I still feel like I had a major head injury two days ago, but how bad could it be? I woke up to a gorgeous home, a lifetime supply of Jacques-o-late, and a boyfriend with a net worth of $2.3 billion.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you officially in the light of day, Mia.” He holds out his hand and we shake like we’re meeting at a networking event instead of the home of a super rich dude who neither of us really knows.
“Is there any coffee?” The question rolls off my tongue before I can think twice about it. Some sub-basement level of my brain knows what I need.
“I just drank the last cup, but I can make more.” With that, he stands up and starts rummaging through the kitchen for coffee supplies. The smell of Italian espresso hits me hard when he opens a bag of beans with a swan on it. It hits me harder than texting with JP or opening the door to this house. I guess I know who I’ve had the longest relationship with, and I take plenty of cream and sugar with it.
Noticing my swoony expression, Max says, “He has bags of this stuff flown in from Italy. I’m pretty sure it’s the best coffee in the world. It must be, if JP buys it.”
I sit down in the space Max vacated, directly in front of his laptop. I see a Gchat window open and flashing, from someone named Fay, and catch a glimpse of her last message. Max, you’re a liar.
Whoa. That sounds intense on several levels.
When he catches me spying, he reaches over the counter and shuts the laptop.
“Your boss?” I ask.
“That’s what she likes to think,” he says, his voice ninety-nine percent sarcasm.
“Ahhh, girlfriend.” I don’t need my memory to understand that dynamic.
“Ex, but we still work together.”
“Yikes. What kind of job?” I give him a once-over and guess, “Tattoo parlor?”
He laughs. “Close. I’m a neuroscientist at USC.”
That explains the T-shirts, I guess. “What does that mean? What does a neuroscientist do?”
“Well, I study how structures in the brain affect cognition and behavior.”11
While talking to him, I google “annual salary neuroscientist” because it sounds like a fancy job, and I don’t get why he’s house-sitting. Google comes back with $82,240. “Sounds like a sweet gig. Shouldn’t you own this house?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a common misconception. I’m a postdoc, which means I’m still training, essentially. Eventually I’d like to run my own lab, but it takes years and a lot of publishing and funding to get to that level. Meanwhile, I still gotta make a buck. I don’t have to tell you what the cost of living is in LA.”
I can believe that one.
“My research is aimed at coming up with a better lie detection system,” he tells me, unprompted. I sit back and prepare for the elevator pitch that I see coming.
“Oooh…”
“Polygraph tests are shit. They just measure increased heart rate and respiration, but those are associated with anxiety, which can be caused by anything.”
“So how’s it going?”
“Fay and I are working on a mobile brain-imaging system that can be implemented in interrogation scenarios. Very specific structures in the brain light up when a subject is lying, so if you scanned a person’s brain, you’d get a much better picture of their truthfulness than with a polygraph.”
“So you’re really into The Truth.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
I shrug. “No clue what I’m into. Mainly Instagram, from the looks of it.”
That’s enough science for me. “So, Max,” I say. “Now that I’m home…” I really lean into the word, owning it, “I don’t need a house sitter, you know.”
He nods, taking his early dismissal in stride. “I’d like to talk with JP before I take off. He was very specific about how things should be handled.”
Hmm. I’m not sure I want JP and Max talking about me. If I don’t live here, Max doesn’t need to be the one who tells JP that I’ve moved in.
“Never mind. It’d probably be better if you stayed. I’m going to be busy the next few days.” And really, that feels a little safer. I already lost Brenda. I kind of want to keep Max.
“So what are you doing today?” he asks, glancing at my staples. “Do you have follow-up appointments or…” He trails off.
I shake my head no.
“Really? They just let you out?” He seems unable to wrap his mind around that. “But you don’t even know who you are.”
“As soon as I figure out my life, I’ll be fine.” I found the boyfriend and #homesweethome, but I have a lot left: my job, my friends, my family, and my own apartment. “I post a lot on Instagram. I’m pretty sure if I retrace my steps, I’ll figure out exactly who I am, or at least all of the major things.”
“What’s your Insta handle?” he asks. I tell him and a second later he says, “Gotcha.” He reads my bio aloud. “Mia4Realz. SoCal 4evah. GoldRush. What’s GoldRush?” he asks.
“It’s a documentary about gold miners in Alaska.” My Google search result featured pictures of bearded men in hard hats. I have no idea why this doc would be important to me. Maybe I’m involved in filmmaking? This is LA, after all.
While I wonder if other people understand my bio, my phone pings. I have an Instagram notification that @BlackEinstein314 has just followed me. I smile at Max and follow him back with a “Let’s do this baby” nod. I don’t even know myself but I’m not sure if he can keep up with me, especially on Instagram.
His bio reads, Neuroscience postdoc, USC. The truth is out there. Which is like the most adorable thing ever. @BlackEinstein314, though? Leaves a question mark over his ego. It might be outsize.
I see a picture of him smiling in front of a fancy microscope and a few pictures of a pretty girl further back in his feed. The captions couldn’t be drier. Me and Fay at the 2019 Society for Neuroscience Conference in Chicago. Fay presenting her poster, “The Role of the Parietal Cortex in Deception.”12 There are almost no selfies. Ninety percent of my posts are of me, mostly with other hot girls. I don’t know what that says about me.
I switch back to my profile. “Take a look at my last four posts. I’m trying to figure out what they mean.” They include:
■ A shot of a latte with a heart swirled in the foam on top. (Not very interesting, but it might be a spot where I hang regularly.)
■ A picture of me on a yacht, in a sailor hat and bikini. A gorgeous girl, also in sailor-wear, has her arm slung over my shoulder.