■ A selfie at the beach.
■ Me at some fancy party kissing an ice sculpture of Cupid.
Max gives the posts a once-over. “That coffee shop from your first post is just around the corner. I recognize the cups.”
“Further proof that I spend a lot of time here.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“Dunno. But I definitely need a car before I investigate further.”
“Do you have a car?”
I smile wickedly. “I bet JP does.”
He gives me a concerned look. “Serious concussion, amnesia, and no follow-up visits. I’m not sure if exploring LA in a Ferrari is the best idea. Reduced stress and extra sleep is literally the recommended treatment for you.”
With a shrug, I say, “What else am I gonna do? My life isn’t going to find me. And my doctor did say I need to get back into my normal routines. Can’t do that if I don’t know what my routines are.”
“Do you even remember how to get around?”
“No one knows how to get anywhere. Google is the only one who knows anything anymore. My brain is irrelevant.” It’s true. Everyone was worried about Big Brother, but when he actually showed up, we all signed on and admitted we couldn’t live without him. It was a full-on voluntary situation. Sorry, George Orwell! Also, why do I remember George Orwell but not my father?
“You do realize I’m a neuroscientist.”
“I know,” I say, nodding sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. At least you’re not selling DVDs.”
“True, that would be worse. Speaking of my job…”
“I can’t wait to find out where I work.” I hope it’s not a dumb job.
“Mia, has anyone called to look for you?”
“No, but I know I have a good job. I’m probably the boss, which is why my boss hasn’t called.” I gesture to my Prada gown. “And I drink fancy coffee.” Speaking of which, I hold up the post of the beautiful latte I drank last week. “Forget JP’s coffee. Let’s get a latte before you head to work.”
There isn’t much at JP’s for me to wear. Luckily my cocktail dress can go from day to night almost effortlessly, and it looks remarkably good considering I took an ambulance ride in it earlier this week. I throw on a jean jacket, which I think might even be mine. If I don’t say so myself, I look like an ’80s rock star and pretty much every other person wandering around Long Beach, except without a skateboard and a joint.
Based on the clothing selection, I definitely haven’t moved into JP’s yet. We are only toothbrush-level serious. How many clicks below marriage is that? Close enough to spend the cash I found in his sock drawer, that’s for sure. I stuff it in my clutch and head out the back door. Coffee’s on JP.
According to Max, who’s easily impressed by cars, apparently, JP’s Ferrari 550 Maranello is red. Actually, it’s Pirate red, the same as my lips. My rhinestone clutch in hand, I hit the unlock button on the key fob (thanks for keeping your keys on the key holder by the door, JP!). The car beeps a hello and I hop in the driver’s seat. “You coming, Max?” I say with a flirtatious smile.
Today, I will find my life.
* * *
At Cuppa Cuppa, a hipster coffee shop on the corner of Ocean and Linden, the woman behind the counter says, “Good morning!” like she knows me. “The usual?” she asks.
I say “Yes” like she asked me if I want a million dollars and puppy.13 I’m a regular! I could scream it from the rooftops.
All efficiency, she boots up the machine and starts frothing milk for my usual (!) drink. I’m definitely rich, BTW, because it’s an $8 maple latte. The maple syrup is probably sourced from Quebecois maple trees and smuggled across the border in a lumberjack’s ass. Actually, no. I’ll pay for standard transport. When the chaos of milk frothing is over, I move in closer and say to the barista, “So I know this might be strange, but I got in an accident a few days ago and lost my memory.”
She gasps and claps a hand to her mouth. “My God! I just saw you a few days ago and you were fine!”
Excitement bubbles up. “If you could tell me anything you know, I would appreciate it.” I look at the coffee. “Like, the only thing I know about myself is that I drink maple lattes.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t really know you. You come in all the time but you just sit and look at your phone. Sometimes you go outside to have a conversation. On your phone.” She thinks for a moment and says, “Every now and then you meet up with a friend.”
“Do you know any of them?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but this is the most we’ve ever talked except for that one time when you lost your phone and I helped you look for it.”
Hope blossoms in my chest at the speed of a flower opening in time lapse. Maybe she learned something about me.
“It was in the bathroom.”
The flower of hope dies an even faster time-lapse death.
Max cuts in. “Let’s just get some food. You’ll feel better. Blood sugar is directly correlated to optimism.”
I blurt out, “Oh fuck off, Max!” I wonder if he knows that’s me flirting.
He laughs. “Good one.” I’m filled with relief. I seem to have a personality.
A sign on the front counter advertises a protein bowl with quinoa and my heart sputters. “Could I have a protein bowl, please?”
“Of course. Would you like chicken on that?”
“Uhh…I’m vegetarian,” I say, in honor of Brenda.
Max gives me a funny look. So does the barista, but whatever.
“Just guessing,” I confess to Max, and he laughs.
“Why would you want to eliminate all the best foods in your do-over life?”
“People eat 27.43 chickens annually, which I’m pretty sure has far-reaching environmental consequences—maybe even incidental rainforest destruction, which JP and I are both taking a stand against.” Don’t ask me how I came up with that.
Instead of calling me out for my bullshit statistic, he says, “I feel like I might eat more chickens than that. Like, twice that many.”
“I choose to let them walk the earth freely.” I can feel my halo glowing. It’s the first truly positive decision I’ve made, at least since waking up. And talk about selfless.
At a table on the back patio, I take a bite of my quinoa. Fuck if Brenda wasn’t right. I love quinoa. It’s hearty and flavorful, and I feel saintly for eating it. “Let’s talk more about quinoa, shall we?”