Chapter 20
Twenty
In the Per Diem network lobby, I used my elbow to hit the elevator button. Holding a sweating iced tea away from the fabric
of one of Natalie’s silk dresses, I tried to fan my armpits. My leather-ish flats squeezed the arches of my feet, but were
kind to my knee. A trade.
Last night, my mind played a game of seesaw. Sunday scaries on steroids. I’d replayed my body’s reaction to Caleb’s finger
along my scar, trying to figure out if it meant anything beyond being attracted to an objectively handsome human. It wasn’t
like it was against the law for me to resurrect some kind of feeling for him. He was good vibes personified. I was single. So was he. I already knew his nooks and crannies. Our
history was complicated, but my brain equated him with safety.
I wouldn’t bring it up to him right away, but if this kept going, I’d have to. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it
was misunderstanding by way of miscommunication. The worst trope. I felt mildly victimized by it in real life as it was. If
Caleb and I had just overridden his mother’s meddling and found a way to meet up, then I wouldn’t have missed out on his friendship
for the last decade and a half.
Now, when the elevator door opened, I jolted. Inside, Phoebe leaned against the gilded wall, her eyes closed. Her pose mimicked
an iconic one of hers from the cover of Vogue roughly ten years ago, her crossed arms reportedly toned by Madonna’s former trainer.
I remembered reading the article, wondering how a person could muster so much enthusiasm for a diet of boiled chicken and celery.
Phoebe was part of the “self-care behind closed doors” guard, the ones who get their under-eye PRP injections in secret instead of live with reviews and recommendations on TikTok.
“Are you okay?” I ventured, stepping into the elevator.
She cracked open an eye. “Oh. Shit. Wrong button. Here to film your special?” Her voice was syrup-sweet on your and special. Phoebe pressed the top floor button with a click of her nail.
I lifted my chin. “I am.”
It went unsaid: before Soulmail, before me, this would have been her gig. Part of me was edged by a feeling that resembled
guilt. The court jester usurping the queen. Where I’d spent years bingeing documentaries, watching everything from National
Geographic to human interest profiles until four in the morning, Phoebe had built an entire career around becoming the person
she was today, a recognizable icon who draped her expertly-exercised body in curated European brands.
I hesitated. I hated thinking that I was part of another person’s misfortune. “Do you want to join me?” I asked suddenly.
“What? No.” Phoebe gave her head a startled shake, her hair swishing like it starred in a shampoo commercial. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why not?” I scratched the back of one calf with my foot.
Phoebe’s expression should’ve been trademarked. It was sculpted, beautiful, the perplexed one she wore when she wanted the
audience to know she simply can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Pretend you didn’t want this.”
I faced her head-on. “I’m not pretending.”
Phoebe returned a practiced laugh. “We share an agent, you know.”
“Okay. And?”
“And, you know how hard Chuck Wheeler is to get?”
I jammed the straw from my iced tea in my mouth. “Samantha gave me his name. I didn’t even have an agent until after Soulmail
started.”
A tiny slash by Phoebe’s mouth was the only indication of a frown. “Right. So what is it then?”
“What is what?”
“What is it that you do want?”
Not this. Tea sloshed in my stomach. This new life promised big money, which was a conduit to stability, but it was missing
something huge. I missed diving headlong into a subject, slicing un-key details, polishing the facts for people to learn.
The pilot light of curiosity flickered on inside me, and I thought, there you are. I wanted someone smarter than me to figure out how and why Soulmail was happening. I wanted to know who mine was, but only
if their name would give me a net positive outcome. I wanted to figure out if I was actually attracted to Caleb Mariner or
if nostalgia had me under its wing. I wanted someone else to figure out this whole wedding debacle, and I wanted kids, which
probably meant I should start researching freezing my eggs. But I said none of that to Phoebe. Instead, I said, “I want to
deliver correct information to the audience, because I think it’s dangerous when people just spout off whatever opinions they
can create.”
“Good god.” Phoebe’s cheeks flushed. “You are serious.” She leaned closer, peering at my face. “You’re telling the truth.”
I shrugged. “Yeah?”
“You do that in front of everyone, right? Real truth. Like online? Strangers?”
“Of course I do,” I said slowly.
“I get it now,” Phoebe said. Her eyes scanned me up and down like I had a QR code stamped head-to-toe. “I’ve decided I like
you.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks, I think?”
“Have you opened your Soulmail?” Phoebe asked. “I know you said you didn’t, but that article. . .”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet. Maybe never.”
“Really,” she said, looking somewhat surprised.
“You said yours is your son?” I asked, because the most personal thing on earth had become weather-and-sports small talk.
Phoebe and Josef had to work in their angles on Soulmail all the time, given how much it had woven into ordinary news.
Her smile was genuine. “Yes. It works for me. Not so sure for him.” He used to appear on Per Diem for holidays and kid-related
segments long ago, when he had glasses and a lisp. Then in his teenage years, his social media accounts were discovered by
TMZ—which probably wouldn’t have been a big deal if Phoebe hadn’t just done a segment with a child psychologist, where she
claimed she’d forbidden her son from having social media, and he was happy about it. “But poor Josef,” she added.
I blinked. “I thought he hadn’t?”
Phoebe’s eyes darted for the security cameras. “He didn’t at first. But his is his best friend, and his husband is upset about
it. Marco hasn’t opened his, but Josef is nervous.”
“I wish mine was my best friend,” I said. When the elevator door opened, Phoebe moved to exit, then pressed her arm against
the side to keep it open. “Were you serious about joining you for the special later?”
“Yeah.”
Phoebe gave a nod, then headed down the hall. “Protect yourself, kid,” she called.
The interview went better than I’d thought it would, since I was speeding through my upcoming trip details in my head while trying to make sure I didn’t open my mouth too wide because I had a poppy seed trapped in my back molars.
What the guests hawked—preached—would, in the very least, make good TV.
Afterward, I shook hands with Ethan, the spiritual regressionist, and his coworker (disciple?) Jada. “You’re both naturals,”
I told them.
Ethan beamed. “Thank you. Loads of our work is on camera now, as opposed to the old days, when we’d gather in mini groups
to talk about soul clusters and soulmates.”
I pictured them pre-Soulmail, gathered in a folding-chair circle in the basement of some church. “So this isn’t that new for
you, then. These are experiences you’ve really had?”
Ethan nodded. “Oh, yes. Over and over again. We review our lives and return to our soul group to evaluate our soul’s growth
on its journey.”
I nodded. It was the kind of thing you wanted to be true. I could see how people clung to their ideas, swerving like tall
tulips toward the ground. It was hard to stay upright when this sort of hopeful faith was dangled in your face. Ethan and
Jada’s concept of the afterlife was almost comforting.
“I hope what we’ve said influenced you,” Ethan said, giving me something like a bow.
“I think viewers will like it,” I said. “I don’t normally watch myself on camera. A hang-up of mine, I guess. But I’m tuning
in with my family this weekend.”
“We’re huge fans of your work.” Jada’s voice was breathy. “This is such an honor.”
I accepted the compliment, but my shoulders pinched with tension. I stepped off to the side for a powder and lip retouch,
a spritz of hairspray. Then I snapped a photo of my wide grin, posting it with the caption: don’t miss this weekend’s special, starring me and my poppy seed.
The cameraman put down a half-eaten apple. “Cue-in the tag. On in three,” he said.
On my X spot in front of the backdrop, I waited for his silent raised index finger, then I spread my chest wide, smiling at the camera.
“Everyone, I hope you have a great weekend. When we come back on Monday, I’ll interview Soulmail vow renewalists Johnna and Marcy, social media’s newest sensation.
Until then, I’m Olivia Jane Adler, and this is your daily Du Jour. ”
“Nailed it,” the cameraman said, retrieving his apple. “One take. Make it easier next time, will you?”
My face flushed with pleasure. I laughed and thanked him, then checked my phone. The photo I’d cross-posted less than three
minutes ago was skyrocketing. I mentally reminded myself not to feed my ego with social-media-derived dopamine, especially
with the hip-check of reality that my meeting with Yvonne was in two hours.
“That,” Samantha said, emerging from the wings, “was absolutely prime. Prime television.” She linked arms with me. “I can’t believe I didn’t put you on air ages ago.”
“You barely knew who I was ages ago,” I reminded her.
“My, how the mighty have risen,” Samantha said, winking.
My spirits high, I walked back to my new office, my mind overflowing with post-interview energy. Ethan and Jada had had that
thing—that invisible connection that I was beginning to see more and more while researching these stories.
Maybe the release of Soulmail would eventually be deemed a good thing. It was impossible not to argue its downsides, the way
it had the ability to rip apart lives, but maybe on a metaphorical, Libra-shaped scale, it would soar upward. That mystical
sense of unity that some of the soulmated couples had—romantic, platonic, familial, or strange—it was striking. World peace
was a taller order than an email could deliver, but perhaps if Soulmail was here to stay, maybe it would help the world find
some measure of accord.
I rounded the second-to-last corner before my office.
Fatigue edged into my comedown. As exciting as the last month-plus had been, I could see how this job could burn someone out.
The competition was fierce, the eye of the audience glaring and picky.
Even so, filling in at Per Diem during this crisis was maybe more rewarding than I’d hoped.
I shook off the energy, determined to enjoy myself for the upcoming weekend home. Hugging Mom: high on the list. Checking
on Dad: maybe even higher. Laughing with Natalie and Caleb? The corners of my mouth involuntarily deepened. Yes. Do the things that make your eyes light up, Mom always said when I was a teenager.
I nudged open the door to my office and promptly dropped my phone on the floor at the sight of an incredibly familiar face.
“Wells?”