Chapter 40
Forty
Something irritating about Wells was that I enjoyed the smell of his sweat. This was probably nature’s pheromone confirmation
of Soulmail, but whatever brand of deodorant he used felt customized just for him, spicy and deep. I’d seen pictures of him
playing college lacrosse, and even with his blond hair matted and drippy, his post-workout self was flushed, youthful, a photoshopped
Prince William.
Right now, that version of Wells gulped a glass of water in my apartment. “Oh, good, you got the bag from the door guy.”
“Hank,” I said. Automatic. My phone rang with what must be the third call from Marta Jenkins, PR. “Hold on,” I said to Wells.
As soon as I answered, Marta Jenkins launched into a series of platitudes.
“There aren’t enough ‘don’t worries’ and ‘wait it outs’ in the world for this,” I said. “I knew this would come out someday.
I told everyone that much in my offer meeting.”
Wells tugged open my pantry, retrieved a granola bar. He hauled himself onto the counter, tore the foil with his teeth.
“Yes,” Marta said. There was something in her tone that made me stiffen. “But we want to avoid this looking like we’re trying
to spin something. Since you’ve never mentioned your sister before, it’s natural people will wonder why.”
Cold silence filled my chest. She was right, at least partially so. “Her death isn’t something my parents like talking about.”
“Understandably so. We’re sorry for your loss.” She paused. “It must have been impossible for your parents.”
I waved my hand at the sympathy, impatient. “Thank you. But now, I’d like to put together something for air, something—”
“I’m not in charge of the segments,” Marta said. “Like I said, we’re terribly sorry. We can have a meeting come Monday on
how to handle this, all right?”
Handle this. Something in my life was once again something to be handled. I bristled.
“People found out about Sabrina?” Wells asked when I hung up. He shook his head, broke the granola bar in half. “I’m so sorry,
Liv.”
“Wells.” A plea. “This isn’t the life I was supposed to have.” The words almost slapped the air, and at the same time, my
insides wrung with buoyancy. I could float to the ludicrously high ceiling of this place.
“All right.” His focus darted throughout the room. “Let’s see. We can—”
“No.” My leg muscles clenched. A sharp knife of pain sliced through my knee. “I really hate to say this.” We were bound to
one another, tethered by some invisible universe string. “I know what our emails said. We aren’t right for each other.” Imaginary
scissors to the imaginary string.
His jaw ticked, his hand clutching the granola bar. His face paled, maybe, but also drooped. “What are you saying?”
I repeated myself, because I knew it was clear, but his face didn’t move. I tried again. “I’m saying we’re breaking up.”
“But we can’t.” He hopped from the counter, his movement thankfully sloppy, because in that moment, I found I was a sucker
for fluid, graceful jumps. “You’re my soulmate, Olivia.”
“I know,” I said, trying to keep my tone gentle.
I was furious with the shrapnel of guilt that wedged into my intestines.
Here was my soulmate, who’d grieved a huge loss, who’d done something horrible out of sadness.
Who was trying. Would I have been more open to his efforts if not for reconnecting with Caleb?
It was impossible to say, but it didn’t matter.
Even though we were unequivocally matched by way of something I never could’ve predicted happening, I was learning there was more to life than facts.
I couldn’t get over what he’d done now. “I hear you. I do, Wells, but I’ve never gotten over you cheating on me. ”
“I told you, I’ll wait. I’ll do anything—”
“Please,” I murmured. “We gave it a go. I don’t like doing this.” I turned my head, focused on the pattern of bricks in the
building next door. I knew I was trashing the wedding episode, and I dreaded reporting this to Yvonne, updating Samantha.
All I could do was bank on the network supporting me the way the museum had Caleb. “But it’s over. We’re over.”
“How did you figure this out?”
The question made me pause. I think I figured it out the moment that text message lit our bed, but maybe part of me knew it
before that. I didn’t tell him the bottle of melatonin was what shoved me over the imaginary cliff, because even admitting
that to myself sounded ridiculous. I said nothing.
“Oh, Olivia,” he said, his voice breaking on my name. “Do you hate me?”
I shook my head. “You don’t deserve to punish yourself every day for the rest of your life.” Even though part of me wanted
him to at least some of the time. He betrayed us first. Forgiveness was important, but it wasn’t that I hadn’t forgiven him. It was that I would
have spent the rest of my life wondering what if, what if, what if.
“Don’t.” He was crying. I moved to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. Habit, or routine, or obligation. Desire normally
clicked in for me here, but it was thankfully absent.
“I’m sorry we didn’t work out,” I said, because it was true. If it weren’t for that text, I wouldn’t have needed an email to marry him.
He embraced me, burying his face into my hair, mussing it. We were quiet for a while. I waited for him to pull away first.
My last gift.
“I’m so sorry I did this to you,” he said. “To us.”
I nodded. I was sorry he did, too. “Thank you. I know you are.”
“What now?” he asked, but there wasn’t much to say. Our breakup would be cleaner this time. We didn’t live together anymore.
No rings to return. Only a universe to buck.
“We’ll need to cancel the wedding for real.”
He nodded.
“You can move out west with no strings attached now, at least,” I offered, and at this, something on his face shifted. It
looked like relief.
He laughed a little. “Maybe,” he said. He was already rueful. I knew he’d find someone again, maybe someone whose soulmate
had died, or whose soulmate was platonic. Someone who would find herself lucky to have him.
But that soulmate wouldn’t be me.