Chapter 11
Eleven
Soulmail chatter was everywhere. The hotel lobby that morning, the walk to work, the security guards in the office lobby.
People were excited, unsettled, waiting for whatever would come next.
Later that morning, I sat at my desk in the Per Diem staff writing department. I felt at home for the first time since Soulmails
came out, even though the bags under my eyes carried an oversized load. Phoebe and Josef had flown in by way of Maui and Mallorca,
and the miffed and chagrined Alma and Lu were relegated back to their early-morning weekend slots.
My phone dinged. Natalie, sharing a link to a TikTok where her cousin Aili fumed over not receiving a Soulmail on her first
day of adulthood. Her video was gaining tons of traction.
Speaking of traction: Between the viral post, my flubbed appearance on Per Diem, and the article in People, I’d amassed something I thought I’d never see. Three hundred thousand followers. A mix of unease and something else—excitement?—swirled
in my gut.
I snapped a blurry selfie, then uploaded it to my stories. BACK TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING FOR ME, AND UNCONFIRMED INTEL: NO NEW
SOULMAILS TODAY, I captioned it. I ghost-tagged Cousin Aili in the post. My mentions immediately exploded. Newfound relevance
was incredibly strange.
I opened the DM with Caleb, warmth and espresso now sliding together in my veins.
Here I am in New York City, where apparently you are too, he had finally messaged.
I typed. Deleted. What are the odds, I wrote finally.
To my surprise, he answered right away. That two kids from the Cape wound up in Manhattan? Probably easily calculable. Much greater than the odds I’d get a phone call from my mother screaming that you were on tv,
but here we are
I wouldn’t have banked on those before yesterday, either, I answered.
Fair . . . Were you happy with your Soulmail?
Didn’t open. You?
Of course I didn’t. You know me better than that, he wrote.
I arched a brow. Do I? Now that would be breaking news
You used to, anyway.
THAT I can agree with
Ha, he typed. It’s been forever. I’d love to see you. Want to meet up? Get coffee or a drink
Depends
On what?
While I mentally drafted my answer, I clicked a new browser tab, typed in soulmail, then returned to Caleb. My Trendscroller plug-in charted all the hottest keywords in the country—a useful tool for developing
content for a news media conglomerate. When this one loaded, I opened my mouth in shock. Soulmail was the only keyword chartable, with numbers two through ten flatlining.
And a link to my viral social media post was right there on page one. My name, inextricably linked to Soulmail.
My pulse picked up speed. I turned back to my messages. Might as well be honest.
On whether you’re willing to admit you brutally ditched me after high school
Now THAT is something we need to address. Either way, would love to see you
Before I could parse out why we needed to address him ditching me, Samantha sailed into the newsroom, a spray of flowers propped on her hip. Emerald glasses again: all business. She marched
straight for my desk, blocking my view of the live monitor, where Phoebe and Josef dissected Soulmail updates.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said.
“I didn’t.” Samantha plopped them on the desk. “They’re from—”
But I already knew. A tiny golden label—Amica Georges—dangled from a sparkling thread wrapped around the lip of the vase. “Wells,” I muttered. Amica Georges was Wells’s mother’s
favorite florist. My spine went heavy in my chair.
“Your fiancé,” Samantha confirmed. The word bobbed in my stomach like a fishing lure. “The network has a locked-up guest policy
for the next few days, given yesterday’s publicity. I’m sorry we couldn’t let him in.”
I slid the vase toward my boss. “You take them.”
Samantha squinted at me. “Come again?”
“I’m allergic.” To my ex-fiancé, I didn’t say, because she didn’t know he was my ex-fiancé. Semantics.
Samantha eyed me with suspicion, then shook her head. “Regardless, I’m here as more than just a flower delivery person. You
need an agent.”
I rocked in my work chair. “Me? But I haven’t written a book.” Doing so would be smart for my documentary goals, but I hadn’t
gotten there yet. I’d pinned the name of the top agency for debut documentarians at the top of my Notes app, which only served
to mock me as I had no reel to send her.
“Not a lit agent, doll.” Samantha thwacked a card on my desk. “A talent one.”
The card’s corners were sharp enough to cut dreams. A three-letter agency most of the team belonged to, its recognizable brand
colors, the embossed letters CHUCK WHEELER glinting in the overheard light. I had never considered the concept of attaining
an agent, nor would I have any idea where to start. I wrinkled my nose. “Dream on.”
“Wake up, Olivia. Most people would bust through walls to have Chuck’s info.” Samantha paused, the gleam of assessment in
her eyes. “Look. The network head’s coming in here in the next five minutes to beg you back on the air this afternoon.”
My insides lurched. “What?”
“Walk with me.”
I rose, following Samantha to the glass panel that overlooked the studio below, where Phoebe and Josef were live. A lick of
watered-down curiosity filled my chest.
“Consider this a heads-up. Our ratings plummeted faster than the stock market during a war event and the heads are not pleased. They expected a rebound with those two.” She gave me a look, widened her eyes. “The Habbit and de la Garza duo are
supposed to be our trusted faces. Yada yada nope. Per Diem has been flailing, and yesterday’s numbers were like a drug to
the network heads. Our audience wants you.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Me?”
“I know. I’m nearly as surprised as you. No offense.”
She really didn’t mean offense, no matter how rude the words were. Samantha was a fellow fact connoisseur. “But I’m not a
news anchor. I have no training, other than that fever dream that other people refer to as ‘yesterday.’ ”
“The world’s in an upheaval. You royally put your foot in it live.” Samantha’s mouth quirked. “And you apologized, shrugged
off the embarrassment, and moved on. Plus, your human-interest angle landed well.” Her face softened. Her story was my human-interest
angle. “The ratings for From Yes to I Do bumped up last night, and you aren’t even on it yet.”
The mention of the wedding show made my insides squirm. I’d sort of figured canceling my wedding special wouldn’t be that
huge of a deal to a network that already operated on a net loss, but now the room was starting to feel hotter. “Whoa. I was
just trying to rescue the situation after I messed up. I didn’t plan it.”
“Well, you’re far from rehearsed.” Samantha waved off my frown. “It’s a compliment. You’re just a person presenting facts,
and people like that relatability.”
I paused at a person presenting facts. My proverbial port in a storm. “But I like my job,” I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.
Samantha straightened. “Okay. Then turn down the offer.”
“What is this offer, exactly?”
“A role they’re calling the Current Events Reporter.” She leaned closer. “If you want it, then counter that you want to be
the Current Events Correspondent. Same job, but the title carries more weight with audiences. Brief daily screen time segment on Per Diem, where at least
for now, you’ll probably focus on Soulmail until the next cataclysmic event happens.”
A notification flashed on my screen. I flipped over my phone. “And if I don’t like it?”
Samantha’s look could wither giants. She stretched, then moved to leave. “Then you’re on to whatever comes next,” she said over her shoulder.
Those words in that order hit me with a thump on my shoulders. My father’s fishing partner, Petey, carried those idioms like
a life vest: One foot forward. Whatever comes next. Sunup to sundown and back again. “We’re always on to whatever comes next,” I called to her retreating back.
I’d hated the experience of filming the segments for From Yes to I Do. My body had been so sweaty while trying on wedding dresses, like wrenching on a wet one-piece bathing suit in a beach bathroom,
multiplied by thousands of dollars and raised by yards of tulle.
But in the face of my evaporating executive producer experience, would a correspondent spot do anything for me? I thought
of the hours of work and research I’d poured into my project on addiction, time equity that had gone completely unrecognized.
Correspondent work could help me leverage my own aspirations, my own goals.
I stood alone, watching Phoebe and Josef work the news desk below. They were amiable; they were beautiful. They were slightly
stuffy and a little boring. Two days ago, I would’ve been internally screaming with the excitement of telling Wells that I
was going to be offered a huge promotion, maybe some autonomy in the track of my career. On top of the relief that came with
financial security, maybe this could lead to me being able to write and produce documentaries the way I’d always wanted.
But now, I was lonely in a room full of dozens of coworkers. I grabbed my phone. Let’s do it, I sent to Caleb. Dinner next week?