Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
I didn’t see Caleb again until Natalie’s birthday party. She was always snippy about her Labor Day Weekend birthdate, but
the attendance at this one was spectacular. Wells was the only one who declined. He’d pre-planned time at his parents’ for
the weekend.
To my utter and complete shock, about an hour after Wells had gotten on the train that afternoon, I’d gotten a text from Wells’s
mom. It read:
Hi Olivia! We wish you were coming this weekend. See you soon?
I’d laughed aloud, then put my phone away without answering.
Tonight we were at Talbos, an open-air cafe I’d never been to. The New York Magazine review called the space “breathtaking, with food both unexceptional and satisfying enough,” and true to word, the huge archway
ceilings and view of the Hudson delivered. The night was balmy and humid, but comfortable. Natalie had invited Caleb during
our last night on the Cape.
I wore black pants, a tight black top, sneakers, and an impenetrable sense of self-awareness that forced my posture into ramrod territory.
I’d slicked my hair into a high ponytail and looped a strand of hair over the elastic the way Natalie always complimented.
Alone, I accepted a glass of whatever the signature drink was—something bubbly and tart—then nibbled on mozzarella ball, basil, and a cleaved cherry tomato speared on a toothpick.
The unexceptional and satisfying bite landed against the fizzy, nervous feeling broiling in my stomach.
I crumpled the accompanying napkin in my hand, unsure of where to stash it, when I was engulfed in a familiar perfume.
Natalie’s mother always gave hugs that lasted the precisely correct amount of time. It was getting louder despite the outdoor
space, and I had to lean closer to Helena while we traded how-are-yous. Helena began to tell me about a trip she and Natalie
were planning to Singapore two years from now, and I measured my heart to see how much their mother-daughter-mateship hurt.
Nothing. Progress. “Tell me all about it,” I said.
Her smile broadened. “I’d love to. Anything but talking about Soulmails. It’s all people want to discuss.”
“Oh, I could tell you all about that,” I said, and she laughed.
And then, there he was. Caleb. He stood against one of two outdoor bars, leaning with his arms crossed, laughing at something
a man next to him said. He’d grown longer stubble. His muscular arms tensed beneath his T-shirt. The guy knew what worked
for him. He looked like the sort of person who might ride a motorcycle and play darts instead of one who worked at a museum.
Mid-laugh, he spotted me, then made his way in my direction.
I squeezed the napkin still in my palm. The toothpick knifed my skin.
“Be back in a bit,” I said, brushing Helena’s upper arm. I pulled my shoulders back, broadcasting confidence I didn’t feel,
meeting Caleb by a string of patio lights.
“Long time no see,” I said.
“Livi.” His upper lip twitched. “I owe you a huge apology.”
“No, you—”
“Yes. I do.” He gathered himself, plucked a piece of something I couldn’t see from his shirt. “This is . . .” He gave his head a sharp shake. “Wait. That’s not what I’m—ugh.”
My cuticles were rags. I touched one, a filament of skin as sharp as Caleb’s admission. “This is weird.”
“Very.” He cupped my elbow in his palm, steered me to a seat at a high-top table. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable when
we were home,” he said. “That seriously wasn’t my intention. Something about being there, and all this stuff happening at
once . . . Look, the best part of my life was the time we spent growing up together, and it’s shitty we’ve spent so long apart.
But it wasn’t right for me to give you an opinion you didn’t ask for. I’m really sorry.”
I worked to cover the beat of sadness in my face. “Oh,” I managed. “I accept your apology.” My heart pounded. “I think if
we’re going to do this friend thing, then we maybe need to talk about things when they’re on our minds?”
“Agreed,” he said, a wash of relief springing across his features. “Good news is, I’ll never run out of things to talk about.
Conversation is important. Do you know it’s sort of one of the biggest predictors to longevity?”
I blinked at the change of subject. “Wait.” I searched my memory for the ringing bell, placing the napkin-wrapped toothpick
on the table. “I do. I researched this for a story. It’s your social relationships.”
“Basically, but it’s more than that. I was listening to some Soulmail podcasts, and lots of people are guessing those who
are around their soulmates often are going to live longer. Hypothetically, of course, it’s too early to predict.” He cracked
a smile. “Almost made me open mine.”
Resignation and regret scraped an X across my chest. The universe had decided, and I had to accept that. We were rounding
on two months since Soulmail started. If they were going to impact an increase in social cachet, then it wouldn’t be measurable
for a while. “Can’t really say yet, right?”
“Definitely. AI is reportedly all over it. And the science is already there when it comes to social capital.” He leaned forward. I missed his tooth gap. “Both the depth and the number of relationships you have impact how long you live and how happy you are doing so. Plus, it’s never too late to
build new relationships. And isn’t that, well, everything?” He took a deep breath. “You make me happy, Livi. I hope you’re
cool with the light task of contributing to the number of days I live.”
“Oh, I’m adding on years,” I said. “Give me some credit.”
“Ha.” He straightened. “And this proves someone who isn’t your Soulmail-mate can have just as much good impact on your life
as someone else.” He reached across the table and brushed my knuckles with his. Our mutual impact, cataclysmic and ripply
and still not enough.
I swallowed the strangled sound in my throat. “Well, sure,” I said slowly. “You know those people I interviewed for the special?
The soul family thing?”
He arched a brow. “How could I forget?”
“Imagine if they were right. I’m a skeptic, admittedly, but they’d probably love what you’re saying right now.”
“Diversifying your social portfolio?”
“You sound like a financial analyst instead of a museum archivist,” I said. “Unlike the soul people, who are basically creating
a family tree—”
But Caleb’s eyelids dropped, rose. Stricken. “Archive,” he muttered. He rose from the chair, gripped my hand. “Archive! Olivia,
you’re a genius.”
“Huh?” I asked, but my reply was swallowed in the loud commotion appearing beside us. Natalie was dressed head-to-toe in the
brightest pink I’d seen outside of a highlighter. Her eyes flickered between our gripped hands. I released his, trying to
ESP-her with an it’s not what you think, even if it was.
“Come dance with me,” Natalie sang.
“Olivia can,” Caleb said warmly. “I could only come by for a drink. Happy birthday, Natalie.”
“Happy birthday!” Natalie trilled back at him. I winced. She’d have a banger of a headache tomorrow. I slipped my elbow into
hers, and she righted herself against me. “Oops!”
“It’s a good thing I love you,” I told her.
“Good social capital,” Caleb said. He gave my bicep a squeeze.
As he left, I led my bright-pink friend onto the crowded dance floor. Someone passed out neon glow-in-the-dark necklaces,
and for the first time all summer, I danced until my feet ached. My knee hurt for three days after, but it was worth it.