Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage,” Natalie hissed from behind me in the Friday morning security line. “New rule.”
I crushed two Altoids with my molars. “No Stockholm syndrome yet.”
“Then what gives with this Hail Mary relationship move?”
I frowned at the back of Wells’s head. He stood next in line for the TSA stand. The past week I’d gleefully envisioned as
getting ready for the trip had blown way off course into an emotional shipwreck. I’d postponed my meeting with Yvonne after
Wells had dropped the Soulmail bombshell in my lap. And then after work that day, Wells and I’d met to talk about what all
this might mean, but we wound up arguing about Cambrey until it was so late that Dola had hidden a special tape in my hair
the next morning to lift my eye bags. Tuesday, I’d accidentally ignored texts from both Natalie and Caleb because Wells and
I had argued via text from post-work through midnight about what to do about our goddamn wedding.
On Wednesday morning, my new doorman, Hank, handed me an all-too-familiar Honey O’s box top. I’M SORRY. YOU’RE RIGHT, it read.
And then last night, we agreed to meet to discuss what might change now that we were soulmated. I’d privately resolved to
take the weekend to think about things, but as we split a cast-iron pan of mussels in a lobster broth and a warm baguette,
I’d mentioned the trip.
Wells’s eyes had flickered. “I’d love to come,” he said. “No pressure.”
I’d hesitated. Natalie would be furious, and Caleb . . . every time I thought of him, I was full of longing. Confusion. And
something else, too, something I didn’t want to admit.
Desire.
“Look,” Wells said. “Wherever we go from here—we have this evidence of something valuable between us. If the weekend is too
much, just say the word. I’ll stay out of your way.” He passed me the bread. “But I’d love to see your parents.”
I’d rested my chin on top of my fist. “I’m not so sure that feeling is mutual,” I said. “They’re pretty mad at you. And so
am I.”
But as slick mussel shells clattered onto our porcelain plates, he’d made me laugh twice. Beneath my simmering anger my body
remembered his. Physical attraction had never been our weakness. My life was in the kind of disarray that was uncontrollable,
and if Wells was my confirmed soulmate, I’d have to consider what that meant for my future. So I’d thought, why not?
Now I grimaced as Wells fist-bumped the TSA agent. He’d missed his precheck renewal because I was in charge of our travel,
a piece of information that had, prior to now, been exhilarating.
Caleb stepped ahead. He wore a thin T-shirt and nondescript jeans, his dark hair rumpled and his shadow at least at six o’clock.
I couldn’t figure out why his last visit had rattled me so much. Why this childhood friend touching my scar had knocked some
other feelings loose. I tore my focus from him, which probably ranked on the top-ten list of the most difficult things I’ve
ever had to do in my life. “A strange turn of events.”
“The tension between you and Caleb is exquisite.” Natalie frowned.
“There’s nothing between us,” I murmured. “Except history.” I sighed. “My fate’s been decided for me, along with the rest of the world.”
We paused, studying Caleb and Wells as they trekked toward the airport bins. A backpack was slung over Caleb’s shoulders,
and he kept capping and uncapping an AirPods case. A few feet behind him, Wells was clean-shaven and dressed in a “summer
light” sweater for travel, like his father always wore.
When I’d texted Caleb last night—hey, long story, but Wells is coming too—he’d taken forever to respond. Finally, he wrote: I’m a museum curator. Have I mentioned I’m only employed because of long stories?
Natalie cleared her throat. “My mother is losing her shit via text.”
“I’m losing mine via reality,” I said, passing my license to the TSA agent.
He flipped between the ID and my face. “Hey!” he said, his volume suddenly booming. “You’re the Soulmail star! My wife and
I love you.” He scanned my barcode. “My wife is my Soulmail-mate,” he added.
“Oh,” I said, flushing. “That’s great. Thanks for watching.”
“We both think you should have your own show. I’d ask you for a picture, but my boss would fire me.” He tipped his head toward
a uniformed agent behind him.
Wells circled our way, draping his arm around my shoulders. Caleb trailed behind him. Wells knew of Caleb as a kid I’d lost
touch with; Caleb knew Wells as The Guy Who’d Cheated On His Old Best Friend. I was looking forward to this weekend the way
children anticipate a flu shot. “She’d be great on her own show, wouldn’t she?” Wells said.
“What would your boss say if I asked you for a picture?” Before the agent could react, I slipped from beneath Wells’s arm. I handed my phone to Caleb. As I smiled
at the lens, I tried to send him ESP. This isn’t what I thought. It isn’t what I want.
But when he handed it back, he didn’t answer: I know. He didn’t say anything at all.
The TSA agent beamed. “The wife’s gonna love this one. Safe travels, Miss Adler and friends.”
Despite the journey through security, we were early to the gate. Wells adjusted his silver and gold watch. “Wanna hit up the
Amex lounge?”
“Oh, goodie, you pay to have a platinum credit card, too,” Natalie said. “Come on. The airline lounge has better snacks.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Caleb said, fishing his AirPods case from the pocket of his jeans. “I forgot my charger.”
“I need more Altoids,” I blurted.
“I can get them!” Wells moved to lunge toward a kiosk, passing a banner that read HAVEN’T MET YOUR SOULMATE YET? ENTER TO
WIN A FREE FLIGHT TO MAKE YOUR DREAM COME TRUE TODAY!
I put my hand on his forearm. “No, thanks. I’ll look for a book, too.”
Wells twisted his mouth. “Oh. Right. I set my audio-Cliff to thirty-eight-point-five minutes,” he said. “Exactly half of the
full flight time. It’s The Outermost House by Henry Beston. I’ll go snag us seats in the lounge.”
Caleb and I were left on our own and my insides relaxed, the wheeze-out of an accordion. I wanted so badly to explain myself,
but there was nothing I could say that would change my reality. I imagined reaching out, touching his arm or his hand. My
fingers twitched.
We both hefted a breath. We both smiled.
“What’s an audio-Cliff?” Caleb asked, steering us into a Hudson News. “And that Beston title—isn’t that the plotless book
about living on the Cape? Written, like, a century ago?”
I sighed. “It’s an app that delivers the CliffsNotes of a book.
With quotes and analyses and stuff. You set how long you want to spend on it, and it basically feeds you the info you need to sound like you’ve read it.
It ranks the pertinent stuff to give you first, then whittles down from there.
Wells likes it because the trade is surface-level info about more things. ”
Caleb poked a hanging neck pillow. “A CliffsNotes of a CliffsNotes,” he said. “The amount of effort it takes to get to that
level is almost admirable.”
I twirled my carry-on. In college, I’d studied one of many Pablo Neruda sonnets that had boundless translations, depending
on both who was translating it and what language it was in. I’d recounted the project for Wells early in our relationship,
detailing how fascinating it was for people to unearth various meanings, like Neruda’s original words were made of clay instead
of concrete. “Sounds like way too much work to read one poem,” he’d said then, an early pang of disappointment.
“Uh-huh,” I said. We lingered in front of a display of overpriced and underperforming tech gadgets. “Excited to go home?”
I ventured.
Caleb’s laugh was wry. “Sure,” he said, leaning back ever so slightly.
“You’re lying.” I halted my suitcase spinning.
“Fair enough.” He flipped through the off-brand chargers. “History will reveal the truth to a person, huh?”
“It will,” I answered, my throat dry. “History is very useful that way.”
“Tell me, professor, how else is it useful?”
“When one person learns another’s traits over an extended period of time, she may learn he has the tendency to pitch his body
weight away when he’s not telling the truth.” I crossed my arms. “This is an observation made from when you said the period
blood on my white jeans at our middle school dance was ‘not that obvious.’ Historically speaking. Of course.”
“Okay. One point, Adler. I’m dreading seeing my mother.” His face pinked up. “Speaking of history. Do you know one of the runways here is a backup space shuttle landing spot?”
I tilted my head. “Nope.”
“Another trade secret: there’s a hidden softball field here. Only employees know where it is.”
“I appreciate the distraction,” I said, following him to the cashier.
He plucked a red-rimmed tin of Altoids from the stand and ran his card through the machine. “I’m full of useless information.”
“Wait. You don’t have to buy those.”
“Olivia,” he said. “I don’t have access to an airport lounge, but I can offer you these mints.”
“Okay. Thanks.” When our fingertips connected, I waited for the zing. But when it came, it just felt sad. Futile.
He scuffed his foot on the floor. “I’m glad I DM’d you,” he said finally.
“Me, too.”
“Life is—” He bit his lip. “Well. I guess I’ll just say it’s more comfortable with you back in it.” He lifted his gaze back
to me. “I hope you’ll stay in it, even with things picking back up for you and . . .” He made a gesture in the direction of
the airport lounges. “Your history.”
“It’s Soulmail,” I said dully.
“Oh.” He kept his face still. “Well, then.”
“But they don’t mean . . . everything,” I said, struggling to find the words. “Like Natalie and her mom being destined, or
whatever. It doesn’t make you and me less important.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He squinted, the fringe of his lashes brushing together over the flush of his scruffy cheeks. “I
thought you weren’t looking at yours? Actually, no. I’m not going to pry into this at an airport convenience store.”
My nose filled with an embarrassing amount of fluid. “God, Caleb,” I said, sniffing. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
“Hey,” he said softly. He lifted his arm, hesitated, then dropped it. “You okay?”
My smile fooled neither of us. Instead, I cracked open the mints and offered him two, since that’s what we’d both always had.
Our flight was delayed only twenty minutes, but I still felt crabby by the time we boarded. When we got on the plane, my carry-on
handle jammed. I shoved my addiction-Soulmail-documentary research notebook into my armpit and slammed the handle repeatedly,
working up a sweat. All I could hear were the people behind me, sighing and shifting weight as I plugged the narrow aisle.
Finally, the handle slipped back into its socket.
As I squatted to hike the suitcase into the overhead compartment, Wells rose. “You should ask me,” he said, loud enough for
Natalie to roll her eyes. “No need to bother your knee.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. I clenched my quadriceps and flexed my foot, trying to shake it out surreptitiously.
He grinned down at me, and something in my chest squeezed. I wasn’t sure what it was. A mathematician could make equal cases
for past affection, current resentment, jaded hope for the future.
I clutched my notebook and lifted my chin to meet his gaze square on, thinking, I dare you to hurt me again. His blink was an answer, long and slow.
Which was, of course, the shockingly clear picture that was posted online and picked up by AP News before we even landed in
Hyannis.