Find Me I'm Yours (18 page)

I Googled and found a lot on a Mark Kerry—a famous Australian Olympic medal–winning swimmer in the '70s and '80s. But there were only a few things about my Mark Kerry (could I even call him MY yet?!), including the gallery website that Coco had shown me. Nothing close to a home address. I remembered one thing from the first time I met him, and would use that in my increasing repertoire of lies. I called the Madelyn Evans Gallery.

“Yes, hello. I commissioned a piece from Mark Kerry, and I'm supposed to pick it up at his home in
Koreatown
. At 6:00 today. I lost the address and he's not answering his cell. Any chance I could get his address from you? I don't want to be late.”

Within a minute, they gave it to me. Poor Mark. If I were really a stalker, his gallery would be the one to blame when he had to get a restraining order.

Should I go over there? Would Coco actually be there? And so what if she was? They
were
friends. But why would she lie to Blake? Why would she lie to me? I had thought she and Mark were flirting at AKBAR after his show. Would she do that to Blake? Would she do that to ME? And I thought Mark genuinely liked me. What if all along I was being used? By Mark AND my BEST FRIEND??? My mind was spinning. I put on my helmet and got on my scooter. I revved the gas. The wheels spun in the gravel, almost as much as my mind. I tore out of the parking space and skidded fast to the left. The asphalt flew, and my scooter shot out from under me as I soared over it, my glasses leading the way off my face. I thudded to the ground, just missing the scooter, and then my glasses landed directly under the front wheel in an alarming SMASH.

I stayed still for a bit making sure nothing was broken, then slowly sat up to survey the damage. Two scraped hands and knees, a dented fender, and my glasses in pieces, which actually was the worst of it. FUCK. It was my only pair.

I was blinded and bloodied, and all I could think about was the possibility that my best friend was cheating on her husband with my possible new boyfriend who I just had amazing sex with all night.

I just sat there in a heap on the loose gravel, which, I swear, felt like puppet poop, and cried.

DAY 7—EVENING

I slowly rode to K-Town, careful to not add vehicular manslaughter to my list of woes. I got plenty of honks and countless bird-flipping fingers, but they were so blurry, I pretended people were just saying hello and I waved back to them. I had gone through all the broken lens pieces until I found one I could sort of see through and held it up to my left eye, steering and gassing with just one hand the whole way.

I turned onto Mark's street. My adrenaline was in overdrive, and my heart was beating so fast that it felt like I had downed a hundred Red Bulls. I don't know which scared me more—that I could run someone over or that what I prayed was not happening would be confirmed. I was just being paranoid, right?

Luckily addresses were painted on the curbs in large glow-in-the-dark numbers so they'd be easy to spot for emergency vehicles, which I had barely managed to avoid needing. I found Mark's house, pulled up, and parked. Now what? I couldn't very well ring the bell. But I also couldn't see a freaking thing since the house was set back from the street. Cracked and blurry, I could make out his living room window. It looked like candlelight was flickering through the panes.

I got off my scooter and dropped down to the lawn. I started crawling like a Navy SEAL (though I probably looked more like a circus seal). OW. MOTHERFUCKER! I had forgotten about my scraped hands and knees. So I proceeded gingerly. I slithered up the grass to the bushes under the window. I slowly raised my head up and peeked in. Nothing. Empty. Except the lit candles on a coffee table, which totally meant he was home (or trying to set his house on fire in an insurance fraud scheme). And weren't candles, especially for guys, all about ROMANCE? I started to hyperventilate. Calm down. Calm down. I took a deep breath and returned to my seal-like position, low on the ground. I wormed my way around to the side of the house, where there were two more windows. I carefully stood up and peeked in the first. I could see it was Mark's studio. Huge blowups of his photos hung between easels, canvases, and paints. Cool and impressive. And empty of people potentially doing things I really did not want to see.

I slid over to the next window with my back to the house like a madwoman about to jump off a tall building's ledge. I saw more candlelight flickering. I held my broken lens piece firmly up to my eye and peeked in.

OH. MY. GOD. NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY!!!!!!

My fears were completely founded. Mark and Coco were in bed, going at it. Less than twenty-four hours after Mark was doing the same with me!

I GASPED, probably too loud, and ran, tripping over a sprinkler. I picked myself up and hightailed it down the street and hid behind a neighbor's trash can. When I was sure Mark hadn't heard me and come outside to investigate, I collapsed to the curb.

Finding my roommate and ex together was one thing. And this new guy I just hooked up with, another. But my best friend lying to me and setting me up so she could keep her dirty little secret? What was I supposed to do with that?

DAY 8—MORNING

The next morning, I took the bus to work thanks to the $3.00 I borrowed—
and will return, that's how it's done, roomie
—from S.H.A.R.I.'s uh, thong drawer. During the hour ride, I fashioned a monocle from the broken piece of lens, a necklace chain, glue, and part of a pin I found at the bottom of a box of jewelry I brought with me from New York. I thought it was fitting that the pin featured Joan of Arc, who was known for her visions.

I rehearsed what I'd say to Coco so many times in my head, when I finally arrived at the office and saw she wasn't even there, it all left me, like an actor freezing on stage. I tried to busy myself with actual work, but the only thing I could do was wonder obsessively if Coco had come up with an even bigger lie for Blake (involving me) and slept over, spending the whole night with Mark or not. Finally, she strolled in twenty minutes late, and I actually got nauseous. She was all perky, and so foreign to me; it was like I had never met her before.

“Mornin', Mags!” She saw my scraped hands and knees. “What the hell happened to you?”

I didn't even know where to start. “I can't fucking believe you,” I began quietly.

“Why, because I'm late?”

“Oh, I guess Mark kept you up all night?”

“WHAT?!?!”

“I know you were with him,” I said, standing up from my chair. “How dare you drag me into this. I was starting to like him. I actually slept with him! I can't fucking believe you,” I repeated.

Coco moved in close and whispered, “I didn't think you would sleep with him. I kept trying to keep you away from him. I swear.”

“Except when it was convenient to use me as a cover with Blake. How could you cheat on your husband?!” I yelled.

“OK, shhh… everyone can hear you.”

“So? You don't want them to know you're a cheater and liar? And this whole time you've been so down on Jason for cheating on me. What a fucking hypocrite!”

“I can explain,” she said.

“You could have a million great excuses and nothing could explain this away.”

“Please just hear me out,” Coco begged.

“So you can lie to me again? How am I ever going to trust a word that comes out of your disgusting mouth?”

Just then, Malcolm came barreling in. “Whoa, ladies. This is a workplace, not a dive bar. Keep it down.”

“Sorry, Malcolm,” Coco said.

“I was actually coming in to offer you a location assignment, Maggie.”

“Yeah, whatever,” was all I could say. I just wanted my boss to leave.

“Honestly, your attitude lately has sucked,” Malcolm started in on me. “You're late coming in all the time, never meet deadlines, now you and Coco are fighting in front of everyone. It's not cool, Maggie.”

“Sorry….”

“If you really want to keep this job, I'll give you one chance to earn it. I'm sending you to the Florida Keys for four days to cover a shark cage wedding.”

“Wait, for real?” I asked.

“Yes, for real.”

“That's awesome!”

“Fine. You leave tomorrow.”

WHAT?! TOMORROW? For four days? That would mean throwing in the towel and giving up on the hunt. Now more than ever, I was not willing to do that. I'd prove to my naysaying, betraying EX–best friend that she was full of shit with her
Catfish
theories and that I didn't need anyone—especially her—except for my husband-to-be.

“Well, sir”—I have never in my life called anyone SIR—“um, actually this week is really not good for me.”

Malcolm just laughed.

“Any chance of me going the following week or any time after that?”

“You've got to be kidding me. I just said I'm giving you one chance to prove you want this job.”

I wasn't so sure I did anymore. Especially if it meant sitting right next to Coco, who I couldn't stand the sight of right now.

“Well, sorry, I appreciate it and all, but I've got a family thing going on. My brother was arrested. So I need to be around right now.”

No reason for him to know that my brother didn't even live in town.

“Fine,” he said. “Then Coco, you're going.”

“What?!” She gave me a dirty look, like I had it planned this way from the start.

“And Maggie,” he continued, “I get your choice loud and clear. It's probably best that you find another job. One you care more about, and one where you'll do work that's more than subpar. I've put up with your crap long enough.”

“Subpar? For real?! And MY crap?” I couldn't hold back. “You're the one who constantly makes smarmy remarks and tells stupid, sexist jokes all the time!”

“Fine. Then it looks like this is mutual,” Malcolm said, starting to go. He turned back only to say, “Clean up your workspace,” like he was Tim Gunn on fucking
Project Runway
!

“Fine,” I spouted back. “You make what could be a really fun job totally shitty, and you wouldn't recognize talent if it shit all over you.”

Apparently I wasn't done. “Oh, and Coco,” I added, as I started shoving things from my desk into my backpack, “all you do is shit on the ones you say you love. Well, you and Malcolm should get together because you're both… totally full of SHIT!”

Yeah, juvenile, I know, but sometimes just saying
shit
over and over makes you feel a little less, well… shitty.

And sometimes it doesn't.

DAY 8—LATE MORNING

What the fuck was I thinking? A person would most likely feel empowered by telling off their boss, but it was an impulsive reaction, and now I was the one paying the price for Coco's bad behavior.

As I walked from the bus stop to my apartment, I was feeling totally sorry for myself. Until I saw Ticky Minaj rummaging through a trash can, collecting two aluminum cans she would get maybe ten cents for. Of course I ran out of work without getting what would now be my final paycheck, so I didn't have one cent to give Ticky. I burst into tears. I felt so sad for her—not only because of her own circumstances, whatever led her there, but also because it was entirely possible that I could end up just like her one day. I smiled at Ticky, hoping that showing some kindness would at least be something for now.

I had to focus on someone other than me. I dialed Coop. He answered.

“Yo, Bro. Sorry I couldn't talk yesterday, I've had a lot going on.”

“Whatever.”

“I've been trying to sell my artwork to get money for you, but so far it's slow going.” I said this just as I passed one of my fliers on a lamppost on Sunset. At least it was still there—not covered or torn down. Well, maybe that would have been preferable. Then there'd be a good excuse for no one contacting me.

I continued. “But I had another idea of how you could get the five hundred bucks. Go to Grandma Dotty. She's basically responsible for getting you busted to begin with. Tell her you need the money for your defense fund. She'll go for that. Then use it now for Velocity, and at least it will buy time till you REALLY need it for your legal fees, and hopefully I can get it for you by then.”

“Thanks, but I'm cool now.”

“Oh, no…” A feeling of dread washed over me. “What have you done?”

“It's fine. Velocity decided she wants to keep the baby. She says her parents will help raise it. So I'm off the hook.”

“What?” I climbed the front stairs of my apartment building and fished out my keys from my backpack. “How can you say that? You're not off the hook, Cooper. Look at how fucked up you and I are because Dad wasn't around.”

“Oh, I thought we were fucked up because Mom WAS around.”

“Whatever. Just don't carry on a whole new generation of fucked up. You have to either be there for the kid or convince Velocity that you're both too young to be parents. Have you guys even discussed adoption?” I asked, not letting up. “There are tons of women who can't get pregnant who would do anything for a baby.”