Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Wells was right. The fan made a clicking noise. After everything, I had forgotten to nab a spare from my parents’ house. I
sank into bed, trying to quell my lower lip’s trembling.
Wells sat on the foot of the bed. The weight of his body tipped the mattress ever so slightly. I shut my eyes.
“I’m such a jerk.” His voice sounded strange. He’d always had something of an aristocratic tone, measured, purchased, educated.
Right now, it rang with uncertainty in a way I’d never heard.
I opened my eyes.
“I can’t believe I did that to you.” His foot tapped the wide plank boards of the cottage bedroom floor. “I know you can’t
trust me right now. I hope that’s temporary, and that we can figure things out, and maybe even proceed with our original New
Year’s plans.”
My stomach lurched. From Yes to I Do to YOUR SOULMAIL IS ATTACHED to . . . actual “I do”? I scratched the base of my bare ring finger.
He knuckled his hands together. “I just want you to know that I can’t imagine how painful tonight was for you. Your sister . . .
I hope you realize how much your mom loves you.”
“I know,” I said.
He tried to clear the hoarseness from his voice. “You amaze me every day, Olivia Adler, and I hope you know that I’ll do anything
I can to earn you back for real.”
Click click click, went the fan.
I thought of Whole Foods flower bouquets, of heart-shaped bacon above my pancakes, of the poster board and sticky notes I’d
bought to do our wedding seating charts. Of the dim belief I’d had in our future. We could’ve been talking about what our
kids might be like someday, but instead came the derailment of my life.
The kids part stung. They were shadows inhabiting my future, those phantom children, but they were so real. My belief in them
was one of the most genuine parts about me. It was physical, weighted; I imagined it would show on an EKG of my chest, an
MRI of my brain.
The truth was I wanted to manifest a do-over. I wanted to be a parent who protected her children, because I had been a child
who couldn’t protect my parents. I wanted to make macaroni and cheese from scratch yet openly prefer the boxed kind, wake
up at five in the morning to sign them up for summer camps with manufactured nature themes, memorize their skin so intimately
I could track each new freckle. I was all in. And this man was supposed to be the one who pushed them on swing sets in our
imaginary city-suburban playground, walked them to school, gamely learned how to fasten ponytails and trim sandwiches with
cookie cutters. I’d pictured him beside me. And now the universe did, too.
“Let me take care of you,” Wells whispered, his throat working. He hovered a hand between us, a question.
Emotion welled, pooled, ran over. My hips ached with something. I was raw, a slip of lava inside a volcano, and the only thing
that could cool me was comfort. I wanted to scream, to cry again, but I was also very, very tired, and it would be so easy
to believe him here in this cottage bedroom.
I sat up. “Come here,” I whispered.
My knees fell apart. One drifted toward the ocean. I tried not to focus on the fact that my other one splayed in the same direction where Caleb was on the couch, sleeping. Due north.
Wells’s first motion was slow, but before I could reconsider, he’d covered my body with his. His eyes went heavy lidded, then
hazy. It was warm, and like home, and without my permission, it seemed like all my synapses rotated toward him. The sensation
was unlike any other I’d had in . . . ever. Fury and desire met headlong in my body, and there was nothing I could do but
ride with it.
I buried my mouth against his rosy shoulder, the one with the constellation of freckles. He smelled like the cologne he wore,
salty and smoky. I bared my teeth, scraping them against his skin.
“Olivia,” he said under his breath. I answered his shock with another nip.
In this strange new world, there was nothing that moored me. No one. So many choices had been made for me, the largest one
of all balancing on forearms braced on either side of my head, moving in all the ways I loved. So why wouldn’t I choose to
enjoy it? Why shouldn’t I? It’s okay to have sex with your soulmate, even if your soulmate has betrayed you in the past. I
corrected myself. Especially if they have. You can make your own choices.
Before long, I bucked. I held my breath while waves of pleasure crashed over me, over me, over, red light darting against
my closed lids.
After, my body hummed with pleasure. Wells slipped into sleep within minutes, his breathing soft and low, his wrist resting
atop my hipbones. My brain felt like a mismatched puzzle. Squares of feelings—Mom and Sabrina, Wells, everything with Caleb:
all jammed together.
Without discussion, we’d switched our usual sides. Maybe it was a good thing. A fresh start. Wells rolled over. I debated reaching for my phone, but my mind flew to the article, the what-ifs of the wedding, the special. The what-if of tomorrow, even.
I did the only thing I could do, which was stare at my aunt’s cracked plaster ceiling until I finally fell asleep.
“That clock can’t be right,” I said as I entered the living area the next morning. I inhaled the scent of burned toast and
coffee. “Nine in the morning is lunchtime.”
“Only for those who obliterate their circadian rhythms.” At the counter, Natalie frowned at her phone.
“Ha. Where are Caleb and Wells?”
She jerked her head. Caleb tipped in and out of view from his spot on the rocking chair out front; Wells was nowhere to be
found.
A beach day, the light promised. Saturday. Across this stretch of the arm of Massachusetts, weeklong visitors would be turning
over, collecting trash bags and clearing out for the next family to arrive. Those here for the weekend were slathering sunscreen,
fixing sandwiches, packing coolers. I retrieved a piece of cold toast from what appeared to be a communal plate, crammed it
into my mouth.
Natalie said my name, her voice breaking on the first syllable, so it came out Livia.
My stomach bottomed into my toes. I swallowed the chalky toast. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, Natalie handed me the phone. A 212 number was in the middle of calling. New York City.
“Who—”
“I don’t know. They keep calling. I answered the first time, and they asked for you.”
“And?”
Natalie shrugged. “I hung up.”
I squared my shoulders. I took a long pull from someone else’s water glass then answered. “Olivia Adler.”
“Finally,” came a hurried voice I recognized immediately. “Your phone is off.”
I refrained from asking what color glasses Samantha had on. “Why are you calling Natalie’s phone?”
“Obviously, to track you down.”
“I’m on vacation. You know, that thing you very much need to take?”
Beside me, Natalie mimed tiptoeing away. I tried waving her back.
“Yeah, well, listen up, sis. I have news. You can tell me to bug off and leave you to your time, and I will.” She paused,
waiting for it to build. “But I think it’s something you’ll want to hear.”
The vibrations of Caleb’s rocking chair rolled through the floor, tickling the pads of my feet. “Fine,” I said, powering on
my phone and leaving it beside the toast plate.
“Okay. Listen up. Last night’s special was the biggest audience draw the network has seen since the early 2000s. Biggest scheduled, that is,” she stressed. “They want you back in tomorrow afternoon to discuss plans. With a capital P. Plans.”
Something stirred deep in my gut. I couldn’t figure out if it was dread or excitement. “Plans,” I repeated. I found the tote
bag from yesterday, removed a bottle of sunscreen.
“Nothing has been clarified yet,” Samantha said. “But one of them did say the phrase ‘bigger opportunity.’ I have a feeling
they’re running you in for an anchor spot.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“I never wanted an anchor spot,” I said slowly.
I snared my lip between my teeth, a tiny spiral of something licking at my insides.
My whole life had been overrun by Soulmail.
But there were so many more stories out there.
If I was co-anchor, then I could slink away from Soulmail, from the thing that now ate my personal life while being the heartbeat of my work one.
With a real platform, I could pilot new storytelling.
Together, Phoebe and I would make a dynamic team; there were no other female co-anchors with our age difference, which had to have potential to draw in viewership.
And viewership meant eventual funding. I could fund a research team, develop that documentary.
Maybe there was something about addiction and Soulmail after all—something about choosing to stay with someone dealing with addiction versus Soulmail saying you should.
Or knowing your future soulmate was a child of someone you couldn’t trust.
Maybe I should look in the mirror.
“And I never wanted to own a penthouse,” Samantha said. “But look at me now.”
“My flight isn’t until Sunday afternoon,” I said finally.
On the line, Samantha tapped keys. “There’s a helicopter pad in North Chatham. I can set it all up. By the way, they wanted
you today, but I told them you were away. Bought you an extra day.”
“Thank you? I guess.”
When we hung up, I stared at the bottle of sunscreen in my hands. Natalie was in the shower. I went outside, where Caleb read
a book.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Caleb said. He flipped over the book, smashing it against his lap. His thighs, that was. Sunshine glinted
off his stubble.
“Hey.” I tucked myself against one of the posts of the covered deck. “I just got off the phone with my boss.”
Caleb stopped rocking, and the book flew onto the sandy deck floor. “I thought you weren’t working this weekend.”
“I’m not.” I pointed at the book. “Aren’t you going to mark your page?”
“I did.” He tapped his head. “What’s this about your boss?”