Page 7 of Love at First Sighting

Carter

They did not cover dumpster diving in Men in Black School.

They gave me weapons training (failed), a full crash course in close encounters and craft identification, and a list of laws we could bend but not break, but they did not prepare me at all to sift through tragically rotten bananas, discarded Chipotle burrito bowls, and an entire Ikea kitchen chair.

I am sure most of the other, more respected agents are simply lurking across the street from their subject’s house instead of this . I can’t imagine Marcus or Brad climbing into a dumpster.

I might not be the best agent in the office by their metrics, but dammit, I sure do try hard.

PIS Moderately Okay Employee of the Month: Special Agent Carter Brody, for valiantly leaping into a dumpster in the line of duty.

When El tossed my badge, I hoped it’d land right on top of all the muck and I could just pluck it out.

But because life is full of cosmic jokes, it slips through trash and sinks deeper.

I am, however, glad I wore sneakers. I discard my hat and jacket and roll up the sleeves of my button-down so I can hopefully get another day out of this suit.

I hop onto the side of the dumpster, balancing on one of the ladder rungs, and peer inside.

I know I have bigger concerns ahead of me than what I’m about to touch; El is already gone, and by the time I find my badge, there’s no way I’ll be able to catch her trail.

This is why the other agents don’t have faith in me. I’m not enough of a hard-ass and I like to believe people are honest and good, so when El promised she’d open up to me, I listened—you know, like an idiot. To be fair, I was completely charmed by everything about her.

Even with little makeup and a messy bun, she was the most gorgeous person I’d ever seen. I was quickly hypnotized by the freckles sprawled across her nose like constellations and the strong scent of crisp and clean cucumber—

And now I’m swooning in a dumpster.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone, but Jesus, I did not think I was that lovesick.

My love life might be a series of dates from whatever the dating app of the week is, but no one ever makes it past date three.

That’s the point at which I need to start being honest with people and tell them what I really do.

Saying “I work for the government” is weird and only works the first couple of times before people think I’m being too deceptive.

I’d rather be deceptive about my job than let them get far enough to realize I’m too broken to love. I doubt anyone would want to carry the baggage of a struggling orphan like me.

I touch a chilled noodle that triggers my gag reflex, but as I push the cup away, I find my badge. It glimmers under the harsh, buzzing overhead lights. At one point, I was so proud of it. I thought I’d paid my dues enough once I became a field agent, but that was just the start.

I thought if my dad could see how far I’d come, he’d be proud, too. But I’m not sure he would be.

What parent would be proud of their kid digging through trash, following some model around Los Angeles?

I wipe sticky residue off the tin badge, slip it back into my pocket, and reach for my hat.

It’s older than I am, and it’s frayed at the brim and along the inside, so I’m always stitching it up with black thread. I don’t love the hassle of wearing a hat, or the flat hair it inflicts, but this one is my dad’s. I’ll take anything I can to be close to him. I rest it back on my head.

Sure enough, by now, El is gone and it’s just me, the dumpster I’m now well acquainted with, and a weird rat that scurries by as I make my way back to the street.

I scour the street corners for El, but there’s nothing.

I know she drives a sleek electric car in an odd pinkish off-white, and I do have her plate numbers.

I don’t see anything or anyone that looks like her, so I find my own car.

Thanks to her new PIS file, I know she lives at a place called the Bird’s Nest with two other girls, deep in the Hollywood Hills.

I could follow her home or meet her there, but that’d be creepy.

While working for PIS is sort of a get-out-of-jail-free card, I still don’t want to be creepy .

I especially don’t want someone like El , who is so gorgeous and tenacious, to think I’m creepy.

I want to do a good job, but I don’t want to make it weird if I don’t have to.

Surely I can come up with something more creative than going to her house.

Marcus’s voice echoes in my head.

Instincts, kid. Use ’em.

So, I begin to scroll through social media.

I don’t personally have an online presence, but I have what the kids call a Finsta to track possible subjects.

I use a completely unsuspecting name like Mike Anderson (this month’s model) and keep tabs on people the Sector has flagged.

I follow a bunch of high-strangeness accounts to keep eyes on their UFO videos and some paranormal investigators.

One day I am going to ask the right question, have my eyes on the right person, and save the day.

Today, as I am sweaty and smell a little bit like rotten fruit, is not that day.

I need to wait for El to post something.

To kill time, I slide into the nearest coffee shop and take a seat near the back to plug in my phone and let it charge for a while.

The barista gasps and asks me if I’m on Angel City Noir —a new 1940s-period detective show that looks terrible but has a cult following and shoots in LA.

I let her down nicely, but she writes a heart on my cup anyway.

Finally a new story appears on El’s profile. Clad in yoga pants and a sports bra—which triggers feelings I should not have toward someone who made me climb into a dumpster—she poses in front of the locker room mirrors.

Another gym? She’d just—

Pilates First, Now Time for a Spin! her caption reads.

I know by the wooden lockers behind her this is no regular gym.

A girl like El wants the extra spark of luxury—the warm face towels in the locker rooms, fruit water in the lobby, a Peloton.

The question is, which luxury gym? I click the geotag and see she’s at a location in Hollywood.

El would have had time to drive over there, change for the gym, and find a bike by now.

For someone being followed, she’s making it incredibly easy to follow her.

Easy, however, is not how I’d describe the parking situation.

I circle the blocks of Hollywood in my shitty old car with little luck.

I park first in a loading zone, then realize it’s a loading zone, contemplate parking in front of a driveway with my hazards on, but opt against it.

I do not need to get towed today as well.

I wouldn’t be able to expense that .

It takes twenty-five minutes to find a parking spot several blocks away.

I’m wearing a full suit, and even without my jacket, I’m sweating my ass off.

As I wait in the lobby, I check social media again in hopes of a fun midworkout update from El—then I ask myself why I’m looking forward to seeing her.

And I am. Except there’s no story showing her lifting weights or showing off in Pilates class, just a picture of her at a juice bar on the other side of the city.

I question whether El was even at the gym in the first place.

I need to stop making the mistake of underestimating El. I should have known this was too easy.

Maybe El is good at being followed after all. And maybe she’s going to be a harder job than I bargained for.

2206 Hours: Subject posts photo at Tree of Life juice bar in Sawtelle, 9 miles from last sighting at gym.

2237 Hours: Subject is not at Tree of Life juice bar.

2246 Hours: Subject and Agent pull up to the same stoplight in Culver City. Agent snaps a few photos to help identify her car easier but loses her in the process.

2301 Hours: Subject checks in outside Chateau Marmont with posed photo at a valet stand. Wears different clothes from last encounter—now a black minidress and heels. Help me.

2321 Hours: Subject is not at Chateau Marmont. Current valet worker tells me the man pictured with subject was fired six months ago, so photo clearly not from tonight. Intoxicated woman asks Agent if he is a ghost haunting the hotel. He is not.

2342 Hours: Agent goes inside to have a drink and wait subject out. Subject posts new update in Anaheim, CA. 35 miles away. This is physically impossible and Agent will not be pursuing it. Agent orders another drink.

0032 Hours: Subject checks in at Bird’s Nest. Agent debates calling it a day and going to her house to wait her out, but Agent is not about to drink and drive and is not really convinced subject is at home.

0201 Hours: Subject posts story at 24-hour convenience store in Sherman Oaks. Instincts were correct. She is not at home.

0232 Hours: Agent now sober. Subject not at store. Agent purchases 3 energy drinks to expense later. (Note to use as example to teach Toby expenses.)

0312 Hours: Agent realizes he might have accidentally signed up for a gym membership he can’t afford.

0543 Hours : Agent accidentally falls asleep in car, is awoken by cops who ask if he is late for his call time on Angel City Noir. Do not ticket Agent when he says he is. No new updates on subject overnight.

0721 Hours: Subject is back at gym, this time in Santa Monica.

0839 Hours: No, she isn’t.

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.