Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
We left Caleb at his parents’ house. When his mother opened the door to greet him, I shrank into the seat and hid my mouth
with my hand. Behind it, I stuck out my tongue, buoyed by the rush of something secret and childish.
Caleb and I might’ve seemed like an unlikely match, but two sad kids in close proximity never were. In high school, I was
on the newspaper staff, ran precisely one season of freshman track, and joined the dance club; he was the president of the
chess club and the debate club, and dabbled in the posh sports like tennis and cricket that you had to pay extra for.
He was drawn to my parents, especially my mom. I hated to admit it now, but as a kid—before I’d figured out that his home
was ice-cold—I was drawn to his parents’ way of life. They whisked Caleb off to visit fancy places, they never fought about
money (practically the only thing my parents ever truly argued about). The only significant length of time Caleb and I spent
far away from one another was the year his parents renovated their cottage into a larger estate. They’d moved back in after
three months, though, because Caleb couldn’t bear being away.
Caleb’s mom wasn’t horrid until we got a little older. When we were young, even after Sabrina died, she’d made us fun snacks,
baked croissants, let us run in the sprinkler. Now, I could see she had all these designs about appearances.
Wells made the outsider mistake of taking the main road through town, which at least meant we were treated to the views of my favorite places on earth, punctuated by Wells tapping the brakes every four seconds. Finally, we parked on the familiar crushed-shell driveway.
Natalie was the first one out. She stretched her leggy limbs on the burned-grass lawn like she’d been pretzeled into a box
for a year. Wells bounded from the driver’s seat to unload the luggage.
The engine ticked in cooldown. I propped the passenger door, reveling in the warm air brushing my skin. As I reapplied lip
SPF, I deselected airplane mode from my phone just before my weekend plan of stashing it for good. I wanted to go dark.
A deluge of notifications—more than my new standard—jammed my lock screen. I frowned. It seemed early for these since the
special didn’t air until later tonight. A blip of worry snaked in my core. I tapped one, navigating to the offending article.
Soulmail Sweetheart Spotted With New York Beau: Olivia Jane Adler and Wells Stratton, Together the Whole Time!
When the image loaded, I groaned. Someone had posted a plane picture of us on social media, and for whatever algorithm-godlike
reason, AP News had leapt on it. In the shot, Wells, his smile rakish and engaging, towers over me, his palm pressed against
my suitcase in the overhead compartment. He was the portrait of a rom-com lead in a competitive streaming service holiday
movie. His hair even had the right percentage of flop. My chin jutted toward him, what I’d thought was a dare instead giving
off the appearance that I was petulant, coy, besotted.
Outside, I shaded my eyes and showed the screen to Wells. “Have you seen this?”
He squinted. “A text from Marta Jenkins, PR?”
I swiped the notification and returned the image to him.
His blue eyes blinked intently. “No,” he said. He set the suitcase down, squeezed my shoulder. “But see how good we look together?”
Soulmails, I reminded myself. This man was my soulmate. Even if my body’s new normal seemed to be that it gravitated to my
past.
Despite the uneasy feeling that came with being breaking entertainment news, the second I keyed the code into the cottage
door, my knotted gut unwound. The wood-paneled walls were still painted a creamy white, the couches worn and welcoming. The
wooden barometer was on the shelf beside two golden cranes from the traveling antique store. Family lore was that I had picked
them out during an “adventure” with my aunt, when reality was she used to schlep me around because I’d always been stowed
with a relative during Sabrina’s episodes.
The shingled house was plopped right beside the beach parking lot, but even with all the windows shut—which they wouldn’t
be the rest of the time we were here, as far as I was concerned—the ocean sounded, interrupted only by seagull caws and the
rise and fall of voices walking from town to the beach. The hydrangea bushes that lined the front porch roasted in the sun,
blue and purple globes waving in the sea breeze beneath the wooden rocking chairs. Before long, August would come for them,
turning them crispy.
Out back, a charcoal grill was parked under a wooden overhang that housed my favorite outdoor shower on earth. It was better
than Wells’s parents’ fancy Hamptons one, the one that drained onto stone and had a showerhead that mimicked a silver tree
branch but had the equivalent water pressure of a leaky faucet.
Natalie squeezed my hand, a warm pulse. “Even if I’m third-wheeling right now, I love it as much as I always have,” she whispered.
“You aren’t,” I mouthed back.
“This is great. Why have we never stayed here? I want to go to the beach for a dip.” Wells clapped his hands together. “Where
should I change?”
“Oh.” My breath did a funny gallop against my rib cage. “I guess we can go in the main bedroom. It’s only a full bed.”
Wells nodded. “If you’re okay with it?”
“Of course,” I said, forcing sunshine into my tone. I made a mental note for a new to-do list. One that offered strategies
for forgiving a soulmate when he’d done something unforgivable. “It’s what makes sense.” I gestured toward Natalie. “The other
room has two twin beds . . .” I said, trailing off. My original plan had Natalie and me bunking in there, Caleb on his own.
Natalie flicked her hair over her shoulder and sank onto the couch. “I’m okay with sharing if he is. I’ll text him.” Her fingers
flew over her screen. She reclined and narrowed her eyes. “Should I chalk this up as a maid-of-honor duty?”
My palms broke out in sweat. I glared back at her. “New rule. Forget one day at a time. We’re one hour at a time here.” I
pretended to consider. “Maybe one minute? I have no idea what to think.”
Natalie mimed writing. “Dear Diary,” she began, and with a yell, I tackled her.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Wells said when he returned to us laughing over tangled limbs. His bathing suit was neon with
palm trees from that expensive French brand. “Forgot my loafers,” he grumbled, brushing a kiss on my forehead.
“Your sandals are in the shoe bag.” I pointed toward the door.
“A shoe bag. I adore you.” Natalie checked her phone. “Caleb says he doesn’t mind, and he can take the couch, too, if it’s
weird.”
Wells unzipped the bag. “I wish I remembered the loafers. The sand here is rougher than the Hamptons.”
Nat and I exchanged a glance. I widened my eyes at her, a warning.
“Is tonight the cookout at your parents’?” Natalie asked, baring her teeth in the semblance of a smile.
“Yup. Dinner out tomorrow, cookout tonight.”
Natalie stowed her phone. “ ’Kay. I’m going to go give my soulmate a call and walk up to town.”
“Give Helena my love.”
“Always do. Want me to pick up some snacks and stuff?”
“Perfect.”
A few minutes later, I was alone in the cottage. I unpacked, and then with the soundtrack of the vacation version of my mother
in my head, I scoured light switches, doorknobs, and faucets with Clorox wipes until I’d dusted off my internal permission
to relax. At last, I lathered myself in head-to-toe mineral sunscreen and changed into a black bikini, jean shorts, and a
straw sunhat. I emerged from the bedroom barefoot.
Caleb stood beside a bookshelf full of ocean-themed relics. His bathing suit was simple, black; his biceps rounded beneath
a faded black T-shirt. He raised his eyebrows and thumbed a Marshall speaker on. Music filled the room.
“You scared me,” I said, my hand to my neck. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry. Got my brownie points in. Immediate visit, and fast enough to be pleasant.” His smile flashed, then his eyes dropped
over my frame before snapping back to me.
A tiny thrill rumbled low in my belly, zipping through my hips and trailing up my throat. So, it was going to be like this.
“You’re a little too buff for a museum curator.”
“What, these?” He did a small snort. “The previous tenant of my office left behind an installed pull-up bar. When I’m working off-hours, the museum is . . . slow. As you might expect.”
“Huh.” I retrieved a spare beach tote from where my aunt Josie always stashed them: a narrow hall closet I used to hide in.
I checked to make sure Josie hadn’t painted over the secret height tick marks hidden on the side wall, something that hurt
equally for its charm and the little heart next to the last mark with my sister’s name. I closed the closet and shook out
the tote. “I wish my job was slow sometimes. Even before all this, news is just fast.”
“Well.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s the opposite of my job. Yours is constant because things are always happening. Mine is deliberate
because we choose to ruminate on the things that already happened.” His voice dropped. “Remember? History.”
“I like that,” I said slowly. “Mine’s the present. Yours is the past, used to inform the future. You’re responsible for making
sure it’s not forgotten. And in many ways, you have the power to choose what stays.”
“I wish I had that power.” His face, his eyes, direct on mine.
“Caleb.” A warning. A chastisement.
“No, you’re right.”
“We both are.” I stashed bottles of water in the bag. “Though I was definitely more comfortable in my old role.” Not my old
life, but I didn’t say that.
“You always have to be . . . on,” he said. I could tell he chose his words carefully. “Now that Soulmail’s running the world.”
“It’s definitely running mine.” Wells’s face flitted through my mind.
He stepped away from the speaker. “Do you want to talk about it?”