Chapter 2
Two
Something was wrong.
Something beyond the fact that my personal life was mid-implosion. It was the only plausible explanation for my phone to ring
in the middle of the night, especially on a Monday. My mouth went dry.
I made my way toward it, my mind pinwheeling. It could be Natalie, with champagne rolling through her veins in Palm Springs—she
was at one of the many Kim cousins’ bachelorette parties. Before four a.m. in New York meant it wasn’t even one there. The
alternative was my parents, who should very much not be calling now. I was halfway between drunk dial and a parent’s possible
stroke when I reached the phone and read my producer’s name.
Samantha Marquis had never called me before four in the morning in the history of my employment. As a reporter—in my case,
an ironic title for someone who writes the stories, not for someone who reports them—I wasn’t exactly priority one boarding
at Per Diem. I storyboard and storywrite, so I did my own makeup and wore my own clothes, unlike the on-air team. I wasn’t
even in charge of selecting breaking news, only in developing it as assigned. The only time my face had ever graced the screen
was after Wells’s proposal had gone somewhat viral, and I’d agreed to do a human-interest segment after someone actually famous
had canceled their appearance.
I was punctual. I produced quality work. I attended optional work events dressed in one of the black dresses I kept bagged and tagged in my closet.
But I could be the best writer on the planet, and Samantha would still not call me enough times straight in the middle of
the night to break the setting and make my phone sound.
I pressed the green answer button.
“Olivia?” My name was a bark in her mouth.
I raised my eyebrows. “Samantha?”
“Oh, thank god. I’ve been calling. You gotta get in here now. Can you believe what’s going on?”
“What’s going on,” I repeated. I glared at Wells, as if Samantha herself was a participant in the cataclysmic breakup taking
place on my beloved bed. I cleared my throat. “Can you be more specific, Sam?”
“I’m sending a car for you.”
“For me?”
Samantha exhaled. She had never had a cigarette in her life, but my producer had cultivated a raspy smoker’s voice. “As you
know, Phoebe and Josef are away.”
“Sure . . .” The first week of July was historically a low ratings week, so our lead anchors were away on their annual vacations.
Wells had the audacity to make a gesture in my direction, as if his expectant face deserved any information whatsoever. I
spun toward the wall to ask about the stand-ins instead. “What about Alma and Lu?”
A snort. “Food poisoning. Violent.”
“Both of them?”
“Don’t let me forget to never let my on-air fill-ins have an affair again, will you? That way I don’t lose my guest anchors to bad ceviche at the same time. Now put me on speaker and brush your teeth.”
The word affair knifed my sternum, a slice of pain so acute I clocked it as either a physical manifestation of anxiety or a heart attack.
“Why?” I asked, already walking back to the bathroom.
“Alma and Lu—the timing. I can’t believe it,” Samantha continued. “Remind me of this rule in the future. It’s like how British
royals in the succession line can’t travel on the same plane together. Now, I’m serious: Get moving. I don’t hear brushing.
Car’ll be outside in seconds with hair and makeup in it. Speaking of, what’s your hair like right now?”
The mint in my mouth was reassuring. Familiar. A blanket. Before I knew Wells cheated on me, I brushed my teeth. After, I
brushed my teeth. The world would keep going. I tried to soundlessly spit into the sink. “My hair?”
“Yes. Do you have it down and blown out? Tell me you’ve blown it out and you weren’t going to do that lazy topknot you always
do on Mondays.”
I screwed up my face, the bottoms of my feet sweating on the floor. I would’ve had it in a topknot, but last night, my scalp
was itchy from all the seawater over the weekend. While I’d showered, Wells had ordered us California rolls. I’d washed them
down with that fated tea, the newest Nick and Vanessa Lachey-hosted reality show on in the background. And then Wells pretended
my bare knees were California rolls and nibbled on them, which led to silly sex and then to bed, where I’d woken up with this
new reality. “It’s blown out,” I said slowly.
“Oh, damn. You were away.” Samantha paused. “Are you sunburned? NoSun is our new sponsor.”
“No? Samantha, what the hell is going on?”
“You’re going on air. Is that not clear? Are you dressed yet? The car is at your door, by the way.”
I froze. This was too much. And then I relaxed in place, suddenly confident, because I had to be dreaming. I glanced at the
foolish chandelier, thinking, Make something happen, Liv. If I’m asleep, make something ludicrous like a blue octopus appear. I blinked, waiting. The ceiling stayed stubbornly blank.
“Olivia,” Sam shouted. “Move it. Get downstairs.”
“Me? On air?” I pressed against my cheekbones, applying enough pressure to make tiny hot blooms appear. I was not dreaming.
I yanked my favorite power jumpsuit from the closet and stepped into it. When Samantha Marquis said jump, I’d not only already jumped, I’d landed, assessed my mistakes, and tried again. My throat tightened. “There has to be some
kind of mistake, Sam. I don’t want to go on air.”
“Do you have stage fright?”
Did I? “No, but—”
She sighed. “You’re smart enough. And you have great posture.”
I swallowed. “That hardly qualifies me to go on air. I don’t— This isn’t—” I lapsed into silence, so I didn’t finish with
what I want.
“You have no designs on this being your job, so who cares? And most importantly, I trust you.”
“So?” The word was a squeak.
“So get your ass in gear.”
“Olivia?” Wells said from the bed.
“Mr. Stratton!” Samantha shouted. “Kick your lovely fiancée out already, will you? It’s been—damn it. Sixteen minutes already.
Oh, god, wait. Did you open yours yet, Olivia? Are you and Wells soulmates?”
“Samantha,” I said, warmth sprawling across my chest. “What’s going on?”
“You’re really telling me you don’t know?” Incredulity blistered from the line.
“Hold on one sec.” I took Sam off speaker.
“Olivia, wait,” Wells said. Again, the pleading.
I pushed my palm in his direction, gave him my best withering glance, and left the room.
By the door, I hesitated. “Tell me what’s going on,” I said into the phone, my eyes locked on one of my most prized possessions.
A framed cereal box top, hanging above the thrifted console table beside the doorway.
The last thing we both see before we leave, an omnipresent reminder of us.
Mere weeks into our relationship, Wells had torn the cardboard side from a box of Trader Joe’s Honey O’s cereal and left it
propped against my coffeemaker one morning. I keep trying to think of a word to describe how you make me feel, Wells had written to a six-year-younger me. I’ll let you know when I’m smart enough to explain what brings me to you.
For years, it became a running joke between us. I think I know the Honey O’s word, I’d say: joyful, rowdy, exhausted, and he’d purse his lips and answer something like: close, but not it.
And then last January, I’d come home from grocery shopping to find our apartment covered in a trail of torn Honey O’s box
tops. Each one had a word or phrase on it, like fulfilled and the way you cry at YouTube videos of dogs greeting soldiers. In our bedroom, Wells was down on one knee, holding my ring and a final scrap of Honey O’s box top that blared from its
frame in this very moment: YOU’RE MY HOME.
I’d loved that our story was made of cereal cardboard and a cheesy, zero-pomp proposal. It told me that he knew me. Loved
me. And I guess other people—or, in the very least, the algorithm, felt the same way. The snippets of video I’d posted with
the intention of sharing with friends went viral, funneling about ten thousand stray internet followers my way, leaving comments
like omg this is everything. why am I crying for strangers rn. you are so lucky. My ex-fiancé proposed in Paris and I’d take this any day.
My stomach sank. To make matters exponentially, infinitely worse, Per Diem was airing a one-hour special of our wedding as
a crossover with the network’s reality series From Yes to I Do. They’d filmed dress shopping in February, followed by our visit to Amica Georges florist. I was beyond thrilled when I was offered an executive producer credit on the episode, which would bolster my documentarian résumé big-time.
Pain lanced my side. Wells’s actions had taken a jackhammer to my stepping stone.
On the phone now, my boss inhaled. I couldn’t predict Samantha’s answer, but without waiting for it, I left behind my cheating
fiancé, my cereal box tops. With each quick step down my apartment’s long hallway, my awareness that something big was happening
multiplied. My lips went dry, my breath raking my throat, my stomach overboiling with anxiety. Words like apocalypse, aliens, new pandemic, terrorist attack suddenly took on new meaning. Fear elbowed into my gut. “Wait, am I safe?”
“Safe as we all are,” Samantha said. “Though this will be one of those where-were-you-when moments, it’s a different kind.”
“Is the president dead?” I whispered, exiting the apartment without shutting the door. Go ahead, robbers, take what I’ve got.
I hurried toward the fire exit stairway.
Samantha’s pause was weighted. “Eighteen minutes ago,” she began, “what appears to be every person on the planet received
an email. The people who have email, anyway. Everyone else got some kind of communication. We’ll get to it.”
I rounded a corner of the stairwell, panting. “And?”
“And that email contains the name and date of birth of your individual soulmate.”
I slowed for a fraction of a second. This was what pulled me into work? “Your soulmate,” I said, my tone flat.
“Correct.”
“Samantha. You’re being scammed. Soulmates aren’t real.”
“I know how it sounds. But it’s not a scam.”
Trapped heat billowed up the stairway. A fine layer of sweat broke over my forehead. “How d’you know?” I managed.
“We have confirmation from the United States military.”
This piqued something deep inside me, because that sounded official, and facts were facts. In the lobby, I nodded to our typically friendly doorman, but he didn’t look up from his phone.
Outside, a long black town car idled with the back passenger door ajar. Without breaking stride, I dove onto the rear bench
seat, banging my forever-injured knee on the doorjamb. Pain reverberated against the scar left behind by the surgery to fix
my severed ligaments, the result of my only time ever skiing.
“Good morning,” came the voice of a woman sitting across from me. Samantha herself. Next to her were two people I recognized
from the prep team: hair and makeup. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of our lives.”