Page 15 of Love at First Sighting
1004 Hours:Checks in at restaurant in Beverly Hills for brunch.
1022 Hours:Also not at brunch.
1205 Hours:Subject arrives in Koreatown for 90-minute massage. Agent does not follow.
1459 Hours:Subject posts story in San Diego.
1501 Hours:After a sleep deprivation–induced yell, Special Agent gives up.
Somehow, this is going even worse than my first mission, and I didn’t think that was possible. I understand late-night stakeouts are part of the job, and at twenty-four, I can still stay up decently late without any repercussions, but there is something about driving in Los Angeles that sucks the life from you.
My head lolls onto the steering wheel, and looking at sunlight burns my eyes. Then I hit the horn and it not only alarms me but makes a small child crossing the street cry. My passenger seat is a sad wasteland of chip bags, protein shakes, energy drink cans, and a reusable PIS-branded drink tumbler.
I want to go home.
I want to take a shower.
I want to nap forever.
But El is still out there and I still don’t have answers. Shit, I don’t even have anything compelling to fake on my jobreport. I have to keep trying. I also fear sulking back into the office withnothingto show for myself. I’ll be the guy who couldn’t convince a nerdy podcast hostora hot girl to listen to him. I know it’s only been a day, but part of me hoped I’d nail this right away and Marcus would see I’m not useless.
There’s nothing new on El’s social media this afternoon, so the trail goes cold in sunny San Diego. There’s no way she’s there. There’s no way she’s been to any of these places. The more I think about it, the more I realize I should have figured it out sooner.
She’s not posting at optimal engagement hours. Typically, middle-of-the-night posts don’t get the same kind of response, especially on the West Coast. It’s unlike El, based on my research. The inconsistency must stick out to someone else. Surely someone in her influencer commune is seeing this and calling her bluff, too.
I slither out of the car, slip my sunglasses over my eyes to hide the bags beneath them, and stroll into That Grinds My Beans like it’s an oasis in the desert. I wait in line and order a cold brew with four shots of espresso, at which point the barista asks if I’m okay. I do not answer and silently wait for my coffee. I’m less okay after she charges me thirteen bucks for my drink. Death feels imminent in this overpriced coffee shop that’s playing soft lo-fi beats and advertising their new hemp milk lattes. I just want my horrible cold brew and to go home.
I finally receive my drink and turn around.
I think I’m hallucinating.
El is third in line, checking her phone, wearing a pair of distressed jeans and an old graphic T-shirt. Her lazy outfit looks like others’ Sunday best. I’ve spent my whole life in LAand I know the kind of people it attracts. I’ve known people like El, but they don’t have the same magnetic energy she does. There is something real beneath every fake thing she does. It slips through no matter how hard she tries.
I suddenly feel like an awkward teenager at prom, wanting to ask a beautiful girl to dance. Words dry up in my mouth and I know whatever comes out is going to be stupid.
I swallow my fear and step toward her, brainstorming the least horrible thing to say to her.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Oh fuck, it wasnotthat.
Her dreamy brown gaze snaps up to me. There’s a moment of confusion before annoyance sets in.
“Jesus, not you!”
The rest of the coffee shop looks at us like this is an exes-gone-wrong situation. Pretending is far easier than explaining what is actually happening between us.
Don’t worry, folks, I am just stalking her!
“I need to talk to you.”
El darts from the coffee shop. I sigh and follow close behind. She walks fast, and under normal circumstances, I would be able to catch her, but my movements are sluggish. I nearly trip on my own shoelace as I chase after her—discreetly, of course—and drops of cold brew slosh onto my hand.
“Leave me alone!” she shouts.
Fuck, this isnotgood. We catch looks from people we pass on the street, but this is LA and no one can be bothered to help if it holds them up on their way to yoga.
“El!” I say after her. “Please. I need five minutes to talk to you. Then I’m gone.”
