Chapter 13 #2
“As I was saying,” Chuck said, “she’s a pretty face, but not unapproachably so. Value-add is she communicates well enough to make sense for dum-dums.”
“Huge human-interest angle,” Samantha chimed in. “Her and her fiancé are locked for From Yes to I Do.”
I fiddled with my bracelet. Regular-season filming wasn’t set to resume until the fall, so the minimal workload had been easy
to mentally shelve. But my omission was starting to be flavored with a hefty side of guilt in my core, as if my gut had developed
its own hangnail.
That was my cue to check out. I quietly slid my phone in front of me while the team bantered on my office speakerphone.
Had a thought, Caleb had written.
What’s that?
I get to see you onscreen. it’s an unfair advantage for our reunion next week
well, you get the public version of me how can we even up?
thinking I’ll tell you three things about adult me
go for it
one. I’ve lived in the same place since I moved to NY
funny, I signed a letter of intent for a new lease today
two. The best bite of food I’ve ever had was a $2.25 taco from a food truck in the parking lot of a tire store in LA
and three?
three. I have a goal of seeing every ocean on earth, which was just made more difficult by the announcement of the Southern Ocean being the fifth ocean
I raised my eyebrows. The fifth ocean had been a story I’d worked on and forgotten. My focus flickered between the monitor
and my personal phone, thinking about what to reply.
“We’ll set you up with our top content producers,” my second agent was saying on the line.
“Content producers?” I echoed.
“Right, for social—”
“No,” I interrupted.
“You’re an influencer now,” Vaughn the manager said. “Be reasonable.”
“I’m not an influencer.” On the screen, I watched Irving and Micah hug. THEY’RE SOULMATES! read the closed caption.
“You are—”
“Not in the traditional sense.” I turned to Samantha. “Influencers build either loyal or hateful audiences to shill ideas
or products.” I shook my head. “I’m not trying to sell anything. I prefer being authentic.”
Heavy sighs all around.
I shifted, suddenly filled with the feeling I’d done something wrong. “I don’t care about my numbers. That’s not going to
change.” My phone brightened again. Not Caleb: Another social media notification slid onscreen. I normally ignored them, but
it started flashing with notifications and reposts.
“But your follower count indicates your popularity,” my new manager said.
“We’re starting to field brand opportunities,” someone on the line said.
“Mmm,” I murmured. “I probably don’t want to take any.”
“You’ll definitely have to consider . . .”
But I wasn’t paying attention to the line anymore, nor was I waiting for Caleb. I was tagged in a picture of a stranger’s
Soulmail. A now-regular image. Except this one featured Micah Kimiko’s name and birthday.
I signed an NDA but I don’t care. Sue the hell out of me, the person had written. This is too important of a time in history to lie. Micah Kimiko is my soulmate. We’ve known each other since elementary
school
I waved Samantha over, showed her my phone.
Her grin sprawled. Cheshire. “I’ll go make a call,” Samantha said.
A small dig jabbed into my stomach. It felt like something familiar. Guilt? Why would I feel guilty? I was tagged. They knew
who I was, and I had to assume they wanted me to boost it somehow.
But still. Even if it was the truth, it still felt icky to poke into the lives of other people. After all, if someone pried
into my life, I ran the risk of emotionally dissolving like the spider web filaments in the corners of my childhood bedroom.
Two weeks after the Soulmails dropped, I headed toward my reunion with Caleb. I’d typically allow myself extra time in case
I had to wiggle out my knee, but the joint was nearly painless for the first time in decades, possibly thanks to Dola’s supplement
suggestions or my newly purchased, surprisingly supportive platform wedges.
The night was warm but breezy, the city streets milling with people. The dirty sidewalks were about as clean as they ever
got, rinsed from an afternoon thunderstorm that left water spots and broke the humidity for the first time in days. Outdoor
diners perched happily below shady awnings.
My pace was marked by swiping sweat from my upper lip. We’d chosen a tiny brick-walled speakeasy ten blocks from the hotel. I’d gone there over the winter with Natalie, and we had both loved it, but now, every step I took increased my heartrate threefold.
“Excuse me!” a woman wearing a yellow fedora said. “Are you Olivia Adler?”
I pasted a smile on my face. “Guilty,” I said.
I’d acclimated to the hair-and-makeup routine, to brushing my teeth by the guest cove sconce light, to the brief-but-friendly
banter that introduced my new current events segment, cheekily named Du Jour. After every segment, Per Diem staff would put together a sixty-one- to sixty-four-second clip and upload it to scheduling
software for posting. It seemed easy, but after the first few days, I could see how influencers’ boundaries muddy quickly.
In real life, it’s not exactly common to stare someone in the face and tell them their teeth are too big for their mouth.
Or the parasocial flipside: I know we’d be besties if we met, more than one person wrote. Comment Mountain was both horrifying and flattering, the equivalent of being handed a gift while
someone else backhanded your cheek. And getting recognized was a whole other level of bizarre.
“Can we have a selfie?” Yellow Fedora asked me now.
“Sure,” I said. I leaned toward her, waiting.
“You’re such a breath of fresh air,” she told me. She checked the picture. “Oh, you have a makeup line on your cheek.”
“Typical,” I said, rubbing at it.
She lifted the brim of her hat. “Want me to edit it out before I post?”
I shrugged. “It’s yours now,” I said, giving her a wave. If the worst thing that could happen to me was people commenting
on inexpertly applied contour, then they could have it.
At the next crosswalk, I waited for the walk light to whistle its birdsong, the orange hand to brighten into the figure of a human.
Beside me, a sidewalk lemonade stand worker blended freshly minced lemons with sugar and water.
The sharp citric bite curled into my nose, bringing me back and back and back to the annual neighborhood lemonade stand that benefited the food pantry, to tiny Caleb with his freckles and glasses and space between his two front teeth, so much smaller than me.
Our birthdays were just one day apart—November 30 and December 1—which meant in our town in 1990s Massachusetts we could be born within thirteen hours of one another and yet be in separate grades.
My December birthday made me the oldest kid from kindergarten on, except for the kids who repeated grades; Caleb’s last-day-of-November gave him the youngest-student status in first grade above me.
Maybe that was our undoing. If he hadn’t been one grade older, leaving for college the year before me: Would we have agreed
to fall into bed together on his last night home? Both of us inexperienced in every way possible, both of us consenting before
we were even taught we should. His basement, two in the morning. A silly handshake—Promise it won’t be awkward after, right? Could things with us ever be?—the overwhelming feeling of warmth and safety and that sensation of home that was tough to replicate. We fumbled with the
parts we’d always kept hidden, honest with what felt good, right, incredible.
Retrospect was an egotist.
By the time I reached the speakeasy, sweat drenched my lower back. Ducking under an awning, I checked my phone to see how
early I was. Five minutes. An email notification hovered over the time.
Subject: From Yes to I Do Production Schedule
Olivia,
Long time no chat. Given the level of exposure of your new role (congrats!), production slotted your episode as our season
premiere. We think we’ll do one more add-on filming for your special, plus one-on-ones with you and Wells sometime in Oct/Nov.
You haven’t done a cake tasting yet, have you?
Cheers,
Yvonne
I slumped against the wall. I was smart enough to understand that avoiding telling the network about my canceled wedding was
classic borrowed time, yet foolish enough to keep my mouth shut anyway. And now that my options were dramatically limited
to fessing up or running away forever, my back sweat could fill the Mariana Trench. I smoothed the skirt of my light green
line-patterned sundress, mentally shoved a fresh wave of Wells-flavored loathing aside, and entered the speakeasy.
The bar was small and modern, cool and quiet against the bustle outside. The air had a surprisingly fresh feel to it for a
substreet space. I wrinkled my nose at the chalkboard placard by the door, advertising HAPPY HOUR FOR PROVEN SOULMATES.
I picked my way down the narrow steps. Even though I had to squint in the darkness, I clocked Caleb immediately by something
I hadn’t thought about in forever. His hat. I swallowed, nearly dizzy with relief. Almost everyone I knew had a Polo pony
hat in high school. He’d gotten mad when I had joked it was the default setting for a Cape Cod boy: the white hat with the
navy insignia. If he turned his head, I’d see its leather strap. You used to be able to recognize those boys’ lives by the
stains on their hats, the athletes sporting yellowed sweat and grass stains, the moviegoers and gamers with oily snack fingerprints
on the sides, the anxious ones with hat brims like duck bills.
I lifted my chin and approached his table. He glanced at me, put down his phone. “Olivia Adler,” he whispered, his eyes widening beneath his thick-framed glasses.
I couldn’t help it. I blushed. “How long has it been?” I moved to hug him.
He froze.
“I think you’re looking for me, Adler,” said a voice behind me.
It was my turn to freeze, but only for a fraction of a second. I darted my glance to the side, trying to pinpoint what was
unmistakably Caleb’s voice. My recoil knocked the sunglasses I’d propped atop my head to the floor.
“I’m a huge fan,” not-Caleb said. He leaned over, scrambling to pick up my Ray-Bans. “You’re the one who told me about Soulmail,
actually.”
“My mistake,” I said weakly.
He raised a hand in farewell.
I inhaled, trying to steel myself, when my eyes finally landed on what could not possibly be Caleb, but somehow was.
Lean. Even from a seated position, I could tell he was taller than me. His hair was dark and slightly curled, beard just barely
shadowing his cheeks, his lips parted in a surprisingly familiar crooked smile.
Gone was the gapped tooth. I kind of missed it.
“Caleb Mariner,” I said.
A grin lit across his face. “In the flesh.”