Find Me I'm Yours (8 page)

“So Coco told me about this dude and the hunt,” Blake said, as he sipped his beer.

“And… what do you think?” I asked.

“Sounds bogus to me. There's gotta be another reason someone would go to all that trouble. I definitely think it's nefarious.”

I wiped my hands on my skirt, then excused myself and went to the bathroom. Not only to look up NEFARIOUS…

…but I couldn't take another NAYSAYER. (BAM! Look that one up, dude!)

When I returned to our table, I changed the subject. OK, probs wasn't the best choice of topics, but it def put the spotlight elsewhere.

“I saw Jason last night.”

“No fucking way,” Coco spouted, almost doing a spit take with her Grape Crush soda.

“Cool,” Blake said. “How's he doing?”

“OK, I guess. I just saw him for like five minutes,” I said, shaving off half the amount of time I really spent with Jason.

“Are you kidding me? Why???????” Coco asked so emphatically, I'm sure there were at least seven question marks following.

“He kept begging me, and I just felt that if I'm really gonna find Mr. WTF, and be with him, I have to let go of Jason first.”

“Why don't you just cut him some slack?” Blake asked, popping sweet potato fries in his mouth one after the other, rapid-fire. He continued talking with his mouth full. “It's not like you were married or anything. You're both young, you're supposed to be fucking around. And he's apologized, right?”

“Oh yeah. That he's definitely done. You're not gonna believe this…”

I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, flipped it open, and showed Coco and Blake IFckedUp.com.

They both looked through it, clicking away.

“Wow. That's some hard-core apology,” Blake said.

“It's pretty fucking brill,” I said. “I still can't believe it. No one's ever done anything that amazing for me.”

“Wait, check out this post.” Coco couldn't help but be drawn in as she read.

“‘Dear 5C (now I know it's Lizzie), while I could blame it on the fire alarm—because who wasn't totally freaked out at 5:07 a.m.?—I have no excuse for not even grabbing a pillow or at least a (long) sock to throw over my junk. I just panicked, ran into the hallway, tripped over Mrs. Renfrew's Chihuahua, and then landed bottoms up on you. To your credit you looked away, even as certain parts of me accidentally got entangled in your bathrobe (you have to admit it has a lot of pockets for a robe). Anyways, I'm really sorry and would like make it up to you with dinner or at least a drink. I promise to cover up. Your neighbor, Luke.' That's crazy!!” Coco squealed.

Blake clicked around some more. “Mags, did you read the ABOUT section?”

“No, what's it say?”

He read aloud. “‘I started this site because, well, I fcked up. I didn't mean to cheat, I just got too drunk. When I woke up the next morning, I didn't even know where I was. Mags, I've apologized every way I know how that you'd give a shit about. None have worked. So how about this—IN PUBLIC. And I want you to see how many other people fck up all the time and are asking others to forgive them. You might just see that what I did wasn't so bad after all. I'm starting an apology revolution in your name, Mags. Beats the fck out of flowers. Jason.'”

“What?!?! He didn't even show me that!” I was blown away. “Acch… what do I do with that? How can I not forgive him now?”

Before Coco and Blake could reply, a really cute guy with angular features walked up to the long line of people waiting for tables at the host's podium.

Coco called out, “Mark!”

“Oh, hey Coco.”

“What are you doing so far from Koreatown?”

“I had a meeting at the gallery.”

“Oh, that's right,” Coco replied, wiping her mouth on her napkin. “Did Madelyn OK the lighting plan?”

“Yep, all good.”

“I want you to meet my friend Mags, and this is Blake.”

“Her husband,” Blake added as he extended his hand to shake Mark's.

“Nice to meet you guys. Well, the line's too long and I have to get back, so I'm outta here. Later.” Mark headed east on Sunset.

“So that's the guy you've been hanging out with,” Blake stated more than asked.

“Yeah. And I've been thinking about hooking Mags up with him.” She turned to me. “So, do you think he's cute?”

“Sure, whatevs.”

“Then you'll come with me to his show at the gallery on Monday night. No more Jason. And no more Mr. Could Possibly Be a Seventy-Five-Year-Old Granny.”

“Well, either I go to Jason right now and tell him I forgive him and take him back, or go to the Villa Seaside Apartments. Alone…” I looked at my phone “…at 10:00 at night. Don't worry, if I get killed at least I'll serve as a cautionary tale and hopefully save a life or two.”

“You're a piece of work,” Coco sniped. “Besides, you haven't even checked out the website yet. Sleuthy, NOT! Maybe the clues are there, not at the building, and you can stay alive for one more night.” She pushed my laptop back to me and pulled out her phone, holding it so she and Blake could look. We all went to:

www.VillaSeasideApartments.com

“OK, what do we know from this?” Coco asked. “Let's make a list.”

“I will,” I excitedly volunteered. I might have even raised my hand.

What We Know from the Site

By Mags, Coco, and Blake

1). It's an apartment, “Located on the famous Venice boardwalk, just blocks away from the Venice Canals, Santa Monica Pier, Third Street Promenade, and countless other shops and restaurants.”

2). It's brick and is four stories high. (Note to self: It actually sort of looks like my apartment! Weird. Maybe our buildings will fall in love?!)

3). It's pet friendly—could be important if the dog with the polka-dot tongue lives there.

4). They've got no vacancies.

5). They put Neighborhood “HANG OUT” as two words instead of hangout. Or is it two words? Will have to put that on another list—Things to Check to See if Spelled Properly. Coco and Blake want it on record that they don't feel this belongs on our list.

6). We don't know shit.

“Wait.” Blake perked up. “What stands out on the site? It's pretty cheesy, especially, like, the animated wagging dog…”

“Very Sandi Stern,” I added. “I'm sure she'd love to have that on DogParksLA!”

“But then there's this cool mention about beatniks. And did you notice Jack Kerouac is the only thing that's a different color in that part?”

“Wasn't he one of those writers in that movie with Harry Potter?” I asked.

Coco gave me an exasperated look. “What are you even talking about?”

“That beatnik movie. The guy who played Harry Potter was in it, only in this movie he was totally naked and waaaaay hairy. HAIRY Potter.”

Coco laughed, but Blake kept us on track. “So let's look up Jack Kerouac and see what we find.”

We set out on our own searches and spouted what we came across: “Wrote generation-defining novel
On the Road
,” “Pioneer of the beatniks…”

“OK, this is way cool.” Coco read: “‘Before writing
On the Road
, Kerouac cut sheets of paper into long strips, wide enough for a typewriter, and taped them together into a 120-foot long roll. This allowed him to type continuously without the interruption of reloading paper.'”

“Fuck, that's dedication,” Blake mumbled.

“Hold on!” I shouted excitedly. “We saw Jack Kerouac was in bold, but we didn't bother clicking on it. Try it!”

Coco and I did, and a quote popped up. I read aloud.

“Beautiful,” Coco said, clearly drawn in.

“Agree,” Blake added.

“See? What crazy murderer would quote Kerouac?” I asked.

“But what does it tell us?” Blake was thinking out loud. “What does it mean?”

“Uh, my future husband has the heart of a poet?” I answered. “I'll take that!”

“There's gotta be something more.” Coco was squinting. She squints when she is thinking hard, like it will help push the thought out of her brain like taking a satisfying dump.

“All right,” I muttered, getting back into a spy groove. “What's Jack Kerouac most famous for? Writing
On the Road
. Could that mean something?”

“That we're supposed to take a boozy road trip across the United States and Mexico to find this alleged guy that may not even exist?” Coco asked sarcastically.

Then something hit me. “Maybe we're trying to read too much into it. Maybe we need to just hit the road and go to Venice. Anyone coming with?” I asked as I closed my computer and put it into my backpack.

“Like I'm gonna let you go alone?” Coco put on her sweater and motioned to the waiter for the check.

“Like I'm gonna let you two go together?” Blake downed the rest of the sweet potato fries and guzzled his beer glass dry. “It all spells trouble.”

DAY 2—NIGHT

Since there was none of the daytime traffic of runners, skaters, cyclers, incense sellers, people as creepy statues springing to life for a quarter, hawkers, barkers, and glass eaters on the Venice boardwalk, it didn't take us long to find the Villa Seaside Apartments. We walked up to the front door.

“Mags, write these down,” Coco ordered, and I happily obeyed, typing each resident into my phone notes as she read them off the intercom system.

“M. Adler #307, L. Astin #202, J. Bellingham #108, S. Finch….”

Even though there were only four floors, the process could have taken hours if she were to read them all. “Allow me,” I said, gently moving her aside. I then took pictures of all that was on the intercom, and was done in seconds.

“Good thinking. Now just follow my lead.” Coco rang the manager's buzzer.

“Yeah?” A high-pitched, cartoon character–ish voice came through the intercom.

“Hi. Hope we didn't wake you. We're looking for a guy who lives here. He's got a brown dog with a spotted tongue.”

Catching on, I chimed in further. “My dog got into a scuffle with his at the dog park, and I'd like to give the owner some money to cover the vet bill.”

Coco shot me a look. I just shrugged. If cash didn't get the door open, nothing would.

“Be down in a minute.”

Shit. Now what? Give the only money I had left to the woman? OH, WAIT—
the MAN
, I saw as he opened the door. And a BURLY man whose cartoon voice so did not match his body in any way! Before we could say anything else, he handed us a MiniDV tape. “Way better story than the other girl who came by here earlier looking for him.”

WHAT?! “Uh, the other girl?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“Brunette. Tall drink of water. Looked like a Victoria's Secrets models.”

Did he just say Victoria's Secret
S
model
S
? What's that about? And great. Grand. Awesome. Someone else is on the hunt and is not only ahead of us, but looks like a freakin' lingerie model
S
! I'm screwed. I took the tape, and thanked the guy. But Coco couldn't leave it at that.

“Who gave you this? Does he live here? What's really going on?”

The guy just shrugged. “I have orders to give these out to anyone mentioning a dog. That's all I can say.” He closed the door with something less than a slam, but more than a “Later!”

“What's the point?” I asked, dejected, as we walked back to Coco's car.

“AGREE!” Coco replied. “And not because someone who might be more traditionally pretty than you is competition—you're way hotter in a way cooler way than any Victoria's Secret
S
model
S
!”

So happy Coco caught the man's all plurals and brought 'em back. It made me laugh, which I needed big-time at that point.

“Any guy will see you're adorable, smart, artful and HEART-full. I just think you should stop the hunt and focus on REAL people who won't kill you,” Coco said.

I was quiet on the whole ride home. Coco was right. And Blake was right, too. I had been too hard on Jason. That site was fckin' unbelievable. He obviously still loved me. And I still loved him. Did I keep saying no and pushing him away just out of fear I could get hurt again, when I was hurting even more not being with him?