Noelle August - Boomerang

“Galliano. Two L’s. One N.”

“You’re Italian?” All morning I’d been thinking she’s Greek or Brazilian.

“Half Italian, half Jewish,” she says. “Guilt is my Kryptonite.”

Her eyes are on the screen, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“Vance for me. Just how it sounds. Age?”

“Twenty-one,” she answers. “I’m an early bloomer.”

I get the feeling her sense of humor cannot be contained. That’s trouble. This would be much easier if she were more like Alison, who’d go on emotional benders for weeks for reasons I never understood. Mia can’t be this easygoing.

“Twenty-one for me, too.”

We keep going, plowing through some basics, and I learn she was born in Little Silver, New Jersey, and is an only child. Her favorite childhood book is The Phantom Tollbooth, and her favorite dessert is something called halvah.

I tell her that I was born in Colorado, actually in my parents’ bowling alley; that my favorite color might be brown—or maybe red or orange—but I’ll tragically never know since they tend to look the same, thanks to my mild color-blindness; and that my favorite foods are anything that’s not Chinese.

Then we get to the tougher questions.

“Duration and end of last relationship?” I ask.

“Ugh .” Mia grimaces and drives her fingers into her curly hair. “People actually have to answer this?”

“This service is for people on the rebound.”

“I suppose. But the question’s kind of a downer, right? Anyway, my last relationship lasted a year, and ended about a year ago. You?”

I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen. A year ago? No one else since then? I don’t know why, but that surprises me.

“Ethan?”

“What—oh. Two years for the duration, and it ended two months ago.”

“Wow. Two years?”

“Next question.”

“Touchy subject?”

I look up and see a teasing smile.

“You could say that.” For a while there, I’d thought this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder, but talking about Alison to a girl I slept-and-now-work-with is definitely leveling me up.

“Next . Question, ” I say. “Unless you want to watch me destroy an overpriced espresso machine.”

“Number of sexual partners?” she says.

“What the fuck?” My eyes drop to the screen. Sure enough, there’s the question.

“I believe the question pertains to how many. Not what.”

“Christ. They really want to get to know you, don’t they?” I roll my shoulders, feeling like I’m suddenly boiling. “Fine. Just don’t judge, okay? This is a sensitive subject for me. Eighty-three.”

Mia rolls her eyes. “In your dreams .”

“Actually, then that number would much higher. Infinity, probably. If you want a real number, though, it’s an even ten. And let me remind you that I was with one girl for two long-ass years, so you have to factor that into account.”

I’m kind of expecting her to comment on the ten, but Mia says, “Two long-ass years, huh? Sounds like a good time.”

“You have no idea.”

“Actually,” she says, “I think I do.”

I hear sadness in her voice, and I’m tempted to ask her about her ex, but avoiding baggage wins. “What about you? What’s your number?”

“Kyle makes four.”

That puts my brain into lockdown for a little while as I process. Four. Four guys who’ve been with her. Four guys I don’t know, but who I suddenly don’t like.

Then I replay what she said. “So, with me, that’s five, right?”

She gives me a keep your voice down glare and whispers, “ Four total , because we didn’t. ”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Oh, yes. We did. More than once, I’d say.”

She leans forward, steepling her fingers and giving me a scrutinizing look. “And you think that why?”

“Well, for starters, your thong was in my toaster oven.”

“Hey, it’s a great place to store them. I might start doing that all the time. It could be the next big thing. Think about it. Thong warming drawers.”

“Are we really talking about hot thongs right now?”

“Apparently. But a hot thong does not a sexual encounter make.”

“Fair enough, but we did wake up naked in my bed.”

“Still doesn’t mean anything.”

I put my hand to my chest. “That hurts. Okay, how about this: I’ve never been naked with a beautiful girl, in a bed, and not had it happen.”

Hold up. Did I just call her beautiful? Yeah, I did.

Once again, Mia doesn’t react. She’s either used to being called beautiful, could care less that I just called her beautiful, or is hiding that she likes that I called her beautiful.

I catch my train of thought and want to beat the shit out of myself.

The job, Vance. Focus.

“Let me think about this,” Mia says. She taps her fingers to her chin and narrows her eyes like she’s pondering the meaning of life. “So, you’ve been in bed with ten naked girls, and every single time, you’ve had sex with them?”

“That’s right. I have a perfect record.”

“And you’re counting me?”

I spread my hands. “You were naked in my bed.”

I remember the way she looked, all gorgeous curves, green eyes, and that wild curly hair. It’s a damn good thing this desk is providing some cover, because I’m pitching a tent under it right now. Nice fucking timing.

Mia smiles and gives a little shrug. “Then I guess your number’s only nine.” She taps a few keys on her keyboard, changing it in my profile. “Sorry to spoil your winning streak.”

But the sparkle in her eyes tells me she’s not sorry at all.

Mia

Q: Tell us about your family.

Immediately upon arriving at Casa Galliano that evening, I am shoved onto a stool under lights bright enough to produce an x-ray, at which point a giant wooden spoon coated in something green is thrust at my face.

“Joe, you’re in the middle of my shot,” my mom complains, popping out from behind her Linhof Technikardan to adjust the lens, glare at my father, and shoot me a volley of air kisses. Her bottle-red hair is threaded with silver, and she’s in grungy pink sweats and a black tank, so I know she’s on a creative bender.

“Pearl, ” dad replies, “you’re in the middle of my tasting.” He turns back to me and winks. “What d’ya think of the pesto, Mia Moré? Good? Bad? Too salty? Needs more basil?”

Resistance is most certainly futile, so I take the spoon and taste—“Needs some chili paste, Jo-Jo, a little spezia ”—then I wipe my mouth on my father’s apron, finger-comb my hair, and strike a pose for my mom, which she immortalizes with a couple of quick shots.

“What am I this time?”

“The face of unchecked capitalism,” she says. “I’m going to silkscreen you onto an eight-foot dollar bill. It’s for an installation at the New York Stock Exchange.”

It amazes me what they let my mother get away with, but when you’re as famous as she is, you get to call the shots. “Really?” I tease her. “That seems so tame for you.”

“Well . . .” She disappears behind the camera again, so I barely hear the rest, but I think I catch the word, “impaled.”

I’ve had worse.

Looking around at the array of equipment and the wall-wide bulletin board cluttered with images, I think about how sure my mother seems to be, how all of her projects—as bizarre and otherworldly as they can sometimes be—seem so absolutely and perfectly her .

“Hey, mom,” I say. “How did you . . .”