Chapter 3
Three
Despite the early hour, not a hair on Samantha’s head was out of place. Rumor had it she had cut her curls short twenty years
ago after being mistaken for Oprah three times. She regularly wore two pairs of glasses—emerald or amethyst—which she alternated
depending on her mood. Right now, she had on the greens. A hard workday. My producer held two phones, one in each hand.
“Seriously?” I asked, indicating both devices.
“On hold with the network heads.” Samantha waved one of them.
I introduced myself to Dola and Al—makeup and hair, respectively—who converged on me with serums. The zesty pep of citrus
quickly filled the leather, limo-like interior. Pre-dawn New York was about as quiet as it got. It was too early for the bustle
of tourists and too late for barhoppers, and even the typical early-bird Monday workout fiends were seemingly missing. The
few people we passed had their heads tipped toward the sidewalks, scrolling their phones. We rode by an unhoused person clutching
a crisp piece of paper none of us in the car yet recognized—a telegram.
“We’ll spin you as a special correspondent,” Samantha said. “Which isn’t even a lie, since you already work for us. Besides,
you’re a somewhat known entity these days.”
I frowned. “What?”
“The wedding special was announced already, remember? Now, in the Per Diem metaverse, you’re a supporting character. You got me? Like an SNL writer who appears in a sketch once a season.” She straightened. “So? Is Wells your soulmate?”
I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from telling Samantha to bid adieu to my coveted EP credit. The network always
waited for raw footage to be in before cutting a full episode, so we were in a production holding pattern. I’d have to ground
that flight sooner than later, but I had time.
Instead, I squinted around Dola’s makeup brush. “You really think this is real?”
“Listen to me.” Samantha’s eyes bored into mine.
Even with the air-conditioning, sweat lined the armpit holes of my jumpsuit. “I wouldn’t dream of not listening to you.”
A passenger-less pedicab zoomed in front of us, and our driver stopped short. Samantha braced herself against the back of
the seat. “I’ve only ever had the United States military confirm something once in my life. This. And more striking, I have
never had a personal conference call with the president of the United States until three?thirteen this morning. I need you
to understand this, Olivia. This Soulmail thing is about as real as it gets.” She bent low over the phones.
“Can you shut your eyes?” Dola asked.
“No hot hair tools in the car,” Samantha said without looking up. “And hold the eye brushes for stops. Insurance liability,
much?”
I obeyed Dola’s request, my brain traitorously imprinting Cambrey Coyle’s text on the black of my closed lids. The makeup
artist used her fingers to sprawl something across the bridge of my brows.
I couldn’t blame myself for mistaking Wells’s care for Cambrey as a sign of him being a good human.
Her presence had seemed innocuous, one of those lingering relationships that were formed when a person you mutually love dies young.
Cambrey’s husband had been lucky enough to know her twin brother, Charley, before he died. How did I know? I was at their wedding.
I swallowed against a rising tide of sadness. On this surreal, ridiculous morning, I was losing what felt like everything.
Perspective, Olivia, my dad was always so fond of saying. Where you place your attention dictates your experience in the world. I forced my mind to pivot from Cambrey, from Wells, and into one of Dad’s examples: How oceans look like a wash of cobalt
with your feet in the sand, but like it contained every blue secret on earth if you were perched a few feet up on his fishing
boat. It was your perspective that changed your perception.
And right now, I was in the air-conditioned back seat of a car. That had been sent for me. Me, Olivia Jane Adler.
“Relax,” Dola said.
“The ability to relax has vacated my body,” I muttered.
“Well.” Dola swept sticks of contour beneath my cheekbones. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“Does aloe make your hair happy or sad?” Al asked. “Are you allergic to anything? You need some oil.”
“Uh. My shampoo and conditioner are from .”
“Really?” Al stilled for a moment. “Wow. You feel very mom and pop to me. I didn’t think you’d shop from the big guy.”
“She is very mom and pop.” Samantha, smug.
“Subscribe and save,” I said weakly. “The place where convenience and price merge is a weakness of mine.”
Al plucked at a lock of my waves. “Your phone’s lighting up.”
“Who is it?”
“Says ‘Natalie Kim.’ ”
We had approximately two more minutes until Rockefeller Plaza. I punched the answer button, and tinny music filled the car.
“Nat?”
“Olivia, my love,” Natalie shouted. “Can you believe this?”
Warmth streaked my face. At that moment, I wanted absolutely, positively nothing more than to be on the couch at Natalie’s apartment, drinking pinot noir and watching something we’d seen a hundred times before like Forrest Gump or Bridesmaids, something we could watch but also laugh and/or cry through, depending on Natalie’s reactions to Wells’s middle-of-the-night
text. “I wish you were here,” I said, a rush of affection nearly overwhelming my sadness.
“What is it, babe?” Her voice was muffled. I imagined her cupping a hand around the phone.
I darted my eyes toward my producer. “Something happened with W—”
“I can’t hear you,” Natalie said. “This desert house party is outrageous. People are acting like we’re in Lisbon or something.”
Her tone was glassy. It was her champagne voice. “Did you read yours, Livi?”
“I—”
“People are starting to know,” Samantha said, urgency bleeding through the car. She craned her neck. “What is the goddamn
holdup?”
“I’m reading mine tomorrow. When my head is clear. I feel like my therapist would be proud of me.” Natalie’s therapist was
the wisest, sharpest woman I had never met. We held her advice like gospel. “This is gonna change the worl—”
The line cut. I stared at the screen. Fourteen messages from Wells, all of which I ignored. For the first time since I’d been
ripped from sleep, I tapped my email. Sure enough, there it was.
No Sender. Subject line: Your Soulmail is Attached.
It was a crossroads. A notch in time. A fragment in the dimension. Whatever name this Soulmail contained, once I opened it, there would be no forgetting the knowledge. If this was even real. It wasn’t possible, but Samantha made it seem otherwise.
What-ifs crowded my brain, volleying between known entities like Wells, the guy my friends called College Tom, who I’d dated
on and off through sophomore year at NYU, high school prom dates, or my childhood best friend, Caleb. Because he was part
of my personal fabric, Caleb popped up in my subconscious every week or so. I tried to never think about him, except for those
occasions once or twice a year when I unsuccessfully stalked him on social media.
Then there were unknown entities. This email could contain a stranger’s name.
And my parents. My stomach sank. I had to worry about my parents’ Soulmails, too, and their inverse paternal worrying about
mine, since they could no longer worry about my sister’s. I could barely remember Sabrina alive—I had only been six when she’d
died. Sabrina would never not be seventeen. Like many other subjects, my parents and I had never discussed her especially
gory death. That wasn’t my role. I was their protector, their entertainer, their pride, not the person who yanked their hanging
threads.
Now I stared at my No-Sender-Soulmail. I could sense it, that familiar urge to know, know, know. But one thing about knowing
is you can’t un-know.
If these were as real as everyone in this car seemed to believe, then this email would permanently change my worldview. And
what if I was unhappy with the information inside? What if it was Wells? I ran my tongue over my teeth, then turned my phone
over. The choice to know my supposed soulmate could be made later.
Samantha shook the phone in her right hand. “Goddamn it. I should check Reddit.”
As Dola pressed translucent powder beneath my eyes, something in my chest stirred. I zeroed in on it, trying to identify the feeling. Nerves or excitement, maybe. “Wait,” I said. “Has anyone in here read theirs yet?”
Al shook his head. Dola’s hands stilled on my face, then resumed.
“Good,” Samantha said. “I knew you were the right choice for this. Starting to talk like the storywriter you are. And, my
dear, my answer is a resounding hell no, but I’ll get to it. It’s buried in the four hundred plus new emails I’ve received since bedtime.” A click came from one
of the phones in her hand, and Samantha widened her eyes at the car. “Shut up,” she mouthed.
“Samantha, you’re on the line,” a hurried voice said.
“I’m here.” My producer straightened. The driver slowed the car.
“No chance our anchors can break this,” the voice on the line said. “Phoebe’s on some private charter off Hawaii. She’s trying
to get back, but it’ll take a bit. Her connection’s too unstable to go live. And Josef’s going straight to voicemail.”
“Like I said, he’s in Mallorca,” Samantha said.
“You have the gal ready?”
Her attention flickered my way. “Pulling up now.”
“You’re sure about her?”
I volleyed my eyes between my hair and makeup team. I bit back a snort. My team. Right. Al patted my shoulder.
“I told you,” Samantha said smoothly. “Gen Z face. Millennial brain. Polite enough for boomers and the middle of the country,
and edgy enough for the coasts. As a last resort, she’s not bad.”
An excellent thing to text Cambrey. Something like giddiness streamed through my veins, fighting for a spot beneath the inadequacy
stamping my nerve endings. You might be a tragic lover with great breasts, Cambrey Coyle, but I am not just a last resort. I am also, to quote, “not
bad.”
“You better be sure,” the voice warned. “Job’s on the line.”
Samantha ended the call, expressionless.
“Your job is on the line?” I said, horrified.
She waved her hand. “That’s a daily refrain. Have you seen our ratings? My job is usually on the line somewhere between five
and six every morning.” She frowned. “Why are you wearing pajamas?”
I glanced at my jumpsuit. The driver slowed and then stopped outside of Rockefeller Plaza. Here, at least, people were on
the sidewalks.
“Wait,” Dola said.
“We don’t have time to wait.” Samantha shifted toward the door.
“I didn’t answer your question before. I read mine,” Dola said.
Al poked her side. “Well?”
“I don’t know who it is,” she admitted. “Says ‘Trent Foster.’ His birthday is St. Patrick’s Day.”
Up front, the driver, who had been moving to get out of the door, halted. “Excuse me? Did I just hear you right? I’m Trent Foster. My birthday is St. Patrick’s Day. March 17.”
A shocked silence fell upon us, rolling into the car like steam in a sauna: barely there, then overwhelming. Something shifted
inside me. The doubt I was accustomed to carrying dissolved, at least partway, the slide of ice cubes in a warm drink.
“Well, damn,” Samantha said finally.
Outside, uniformed people approached the vehicle. A security guard unlatched the door, then ducked to give instructions to
his team. Nearly imperceptible dust motes swirled in the car.
“Have you opened yours?” I asked Trent Foster.
Trent of March 17 fame shook his head.
“Look at it! I mean, if you want to,” I added.
“I’ll record you?” I navigated to my social media and hit the plus button.
Some kind of base instinct in me wanted to capture this moment, and my phone storage had been embarrassingly low, so I’d hacked it by storing videos in my social media drafts until I decided whether to save or post them.
Trent popped the center console, retrieving his phone. Silence fell in the car as he tapped away. Dola blushed and clapped
a hand over her mouth, the picture of a bride-to-be. Al pressed his palms together.
The driver held up his phone. “Dola Musa? December 13, 1989?”
“That’s me,” Dola whispered in awe.
“You and Taylor Swift were born on the same day, and you never told me?” Al shouted.
The car door opened, heat blasting the interior. No one moved, except a halfhearted “go” gesture from Samantha. The scent
of New York summer filled the car, pretzels and garbage and concrete, all UV-baked and ready for the day that sprawled ahead.
“This is real?” I whispered. “Did we really just witness two strangers learn they’re soulmates?”
“Oh, my god,” Samantha said, pushing me out of the car. “See? See?”
My teeth went numb. I felt like I was in a tunnel, which I sort of was: One comprised of suits. Security ringed the entryway,
forming a barrier against people gathering outside the news building one by one, like little pieces of iron in a child’s magnet
toy. We rushed toward the entrance.
“MY SOULMATE IS THY LORD AND SAVIOR,” a woman screamed beside us.
I ducked my head and ran inside, following Samantha to the elevator bay, thinking, if I hadn’t woken up, if I hadn’t had the
tea, if I had remembered my melatonin, if my relationship hadn’t blown apart in that unbelievably coincidental period of time—would
I have silenced the call? Would I have risen to the peals of my alarm and checked my own phone first, the way I do every morning
at four? Would I have opened the email?
My phone. It was slick in my hand. I glanced at it, realized I was still recording. I pursed my lips, tucked my tongue into my lower cheek. My follower count was by no means exorbitant, but it had gone up enough after Wells’s viral box-top engagement video, so maybe it was worth posting.
Soulmail Live From New York, I captioned it. With a few taps of keys, I hit Post.