Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Two
Since it was Sunday night, I opted for an email instead of a phone call. After my family left, I drafted an outline of the
documentary pitch, let it marinate for an hour, then sent it to Samantha. She called me four minutes later.
“That was quick,” I said to answer.
“Would’ve been quicker if it was easier to get through to you.” She paused. “It’s a good idea.”
Buoyancy rushed through me. “It is, right?”
“Yes. But—”
“It’ll also keep evolving,” I interrupted. “Doesn’t this feel like it could do something? It’s the first time in a while we
may be able to prevent something snowballing into a bigger problem. I’m in a unique position to argue both for and against
Soulmail, and maybe if we provide people with the right resources, we can. . .” Prevent tragedy. Lessen pain. Make a difference was too cliché. “Help,” I finished.
“It’s a huge undertaking,” Samantha said.
In the silence that followed, I squeezed my phone. “You told me to ‘keep chewing’. And it’s in my contract that Per Diem would let me produce a documentary.”
“And we will. But I’ve been told to be clear about something.” Displeasure was evident in her tone, warning bells clanging
into my spine. “That was a verbal promise, not a contractual one. We gave you our word in that meeting. It’s just as g—”
I hung up. Checked my contract, perfectly negotiated by agent extraordinaire Chuck Wheeler and company, the one I’d DocuSigned without reading but for the salary.
I’d been such a fool.
I wrote the word NO on an index card, which I considered my reference point in case someone pushed back. I left messages for
my agent’s team, my relief at talking to their voicemails instead of them so palpable I could taste it. I then dialed up the
chain of command, starting with Samantha. When she begged me to stay, I pressed the callus of my thumb on the corner of the
index card, the pressure a refrain. NO. NO. NO. I assured people, again and again, it wasn’t the money, the working conditions,
or a lack of gratitude. It was all me.
“We’ll announce when you’re ready,” Samantha said.
“This isn’t two weeks’ notice. This is immediate.”
“I hear you. I do. But come in to meet tomorrow morning. We can figure something out that works best for all parties.”
But my interest was no longer in all parties. I made no promises. When we hung up, I sent an email to Yvonne that began with
I’m sorry. Then, I balanced my iPad on the shelf Dad fixed, my phone on another, and fired up my social media livestreams. I was vain
enough to use my ring light and not vain enough to change out of my old sweatshirt. I didn’t care who saw it, but I knew I’d
watch it at some point in my life. I didn’t want to spend the time thinking about video quality or bad lighting.
“I’m here tonight to say that I’ve decided to step down from my role at Per Diem news,” I said into the lens.
“Soulmail has shifted the world in ways that are both large-scale and deeply personal. My life has certainly changed, and I’m guessing yours has, too.
I learned a long time ago that pain is a horribly good teacher.
Some of you may have seen a post about my sister—” My throat worked over her name.
“Sabrina. I don’t talk about her publicly because her memory is very painful to my family.
Sabrina lost her life in an accident that was a direct result of using ketamine.
Growing up, I was a girl with a big sister who became a ghost story in my small Cape Cod town. ”
I lifted my chin. “The pain of losing someone is specific. Soulmail has brought with it pleasure and pain, and getting to
live this life in the world of television news has taught me that pain can be a universal.
“We’re so reliant on technology that now we allow it to tell us who we love. Even though I’m quitting, I still know it’s true
that Soulmail recognizes our existing or future bonds. It’s undeniable. But it’s also dictated human behavior in a way that
no one would have thought possible. I’m no longer willing to allow this to dictate my life.” I wouldn’t let AI or whatever
was behind Soulmail tell me who to love, how to love, and when to love, either. “Time is another great teacher, and I’ve learned
my lesson.” I blinked, the corners of my mouth curving into a smile. “I’ll be back when I want to be.”
When I was done, I waited to cry, but nothing came. If I could call the little girl I once was, the daughter of a fisherman,
the only child by way of a deceased sister, and tell her that I turned down a job that paid more money than I could ever imagine,
that little girl would have reached through the phone and punched her older face. It was an enormous privilege, a terrifying
one, to turn down this opportunity for the chance to reclaim anonymity.
After I downloaded new budgeting software, I FaceTimed Nat and told her everything from dumping Wells to quitting Per Diem.
She reacted precisely how I needed her to, as usual. (“You’re kidding.” “You’re—what?” “Soulmail clearly makes mistakes, and you and Wells are living proof.” A gasp, her hand to the spot where her collarbone curves. “Oh, your parents. My heart. No.”)
“I love you so much,” I said tearfully. “I wish you were my soulmate.”
“There’s room for us both,” she said. “And it’s my job as your soulmate to remind you to cancel your 4:00 a.m. alarm.”
“Already did.” I yawned.
“Wanna fall asleep over FaceTime like we’re in middle school?”
“Definitely.”
But she must’ve shut it off at some point, because the next morning, I woke to her calling me.
“Finally,” she said. “Getting ahold of you sucks.”
Apple’s genius setting. I yawned. “What’s up?”
“Turn on Per Diem,” Natalie said. “Now.”
Phoebe was in my chair. Arguably, it was her spot in the first place—Josef said he preferred to be on my left so the camera
could capture his good side. But they had replaced her old chair for my new one.
She was tanned and glowy, despite it being late October in the northeast. I was filled with a sense of certainty that glued
my cells together: She never should’ve been removed from that spot.
“They lured her back?” I said. “That was quick.”
“Shh,” Natalie said. “Not that.” She paused. “It was fast, right?”
I waited, and when the camera shifted to the morning’s guest, my mouth went dry. “Oh, my god.”
Caleb was dressed in a suit cut so perfectly for him it made me ache. It was probably the one he’d intended to wear to my
big event, the one that felt like it took place last century yet was somehow less than forty-eight hours ago. Behind him was
a screen advertising The Longevity Project, with a snapshot I recognized: that yawning tunnel my back had been braced against, the constellations of people.
“And you’re close with our good friend Olivia,” Josef said.
Caleb gave a jerky nod. “Yes. Childhood friends. This appearance was meant to surprise her,” he added.
He was terrible on television, which made me want to kiss him even more.
Phoebe jumped in to smooth it over. “We’re all glad Olivia’s taking the time she needs.”
“So that’s the narrative they’re pushing,” I muttered.
“Shush,” Natalie admonished on the line, and I fell silent.
“Where did this idea come from?” Phoebe prompted.
Inexplicably, Caleb nodded. Like his mouth was full, and he was waiting to answer the question. He shifted in the chair. Beneath
the perfect five-o’clock shadow scruff he sported, he pinked. “A group of friends and I were talking about archives.” His
voice was flat. “I thought about how this time we’re all living in is one that’s changed society as we know it, and I wanted
to document it in a new way.”
Josef leaned back, folding his arms. His I’m listening, I’m cool, we’re pals posture. “And these little clusters—they tell us who our best matches are in life, essentially,” he said.
“Sort of. They illustrate the constant presences in our lives, and when there are confirmed overlaps, we can see the strength
of the relationships,” Caleb said.
“He’s a robot,” I whispered.
“Cameras are not his friend,” Nat agreed.
“It’s a very intriguing exhibit.” Phoebe turned to the lens. When I looked closely, I saw it: the slightest tick of her eyes
as she read the teleprompter. “The exhibit is now open, and we encourage you to visit the website on the screen to register
your own soulmate.”
“Just make sure you do it at least an hour ahead of time, if you’re going to come,” Caleb said. “The program refreshes hourly, so we give it time to process, confirm, and regenerate the illusion.”
“And we’re told yours was the first entry?” Josef asked Caleb.
He nodded, then cleared his throat before answering. I cringed. “Yes.”
Phoebe pretended to check the paper on the desktop for information she’d definitely memorized. “You’re the pinned number in
this project?”
“Uh-huh.”
I willed myself to focus, to trace his dark eyebrows, his curls, the way his throat undulated with every swallow.
“What does your soulmate think about that?”
Caleb paused. Here was my moment of satisfaction. I pressed my lips together. Phoebe didn’t understand why people wouldn’t
open their Soulmails. He’d eviscerate them with something intelligent, yet kind. But he hesitated.
“We should probably ask the more obvious.” Josef half-raised his elbow. “Have you opened yours, Caleb?”
No, I thought.
Caleb straightened. “I have,” he said. “But for the Longevity Project, I entered my name without a soulmate.”
“What?” I cried. “What the hell?”
“Olivia,” Natalie said into my ear. “He never told us that. Oh, my god.”
“I gotta go.” I pressed the red X on my best friend, then I swiped across the screen until I found the folder, where I now
had eight-hundred seventy-three notifications, including sixty-seven texts. I steeled myself and opened Caleb’s thread.
Livi, please pick up
My hands balled into fists. He didn’t know the three-call deal.
I’m sorry about the other night
I just saw your TikTok
What happened? Did they force you out?
I called twice . . . I’m guessing you need some time alone
You’re not going to believe how this morning shakes out, I guess
Caleb didn’t answer my call. I tied my hair up and showered to punt the fog from my mind. Halfway through, I succumbed to
the overwhelming urge to go for a run. I’d been so tense the past twenty-four hours that my body felt like it was made of
LEGOs. I fantasized about being in a hammock somewhere, palm trees providing the precise level of shade I needed to read a
book on some stilted structure above someplace aqua, all hot sun and coconut scents, maybe the Maldives or the Azores, before
reality gave me one giant hip-check because I was down one fiancé and one job, an equation that formulated two negative income
streams.
After I dried off, I jammed my hat on my head and my feet in my sneakers, then flew down the stairs. I was too jacked up for
the elevator bay. I waved to Hank and emerged into the crisp fall air, looking left and right, unsure where to turn, when
I saw him.
We locked eyes. He breathed hard, my heart possibly pounding harder. Sweat rimmed the collar of his shirt, and he clenched
his suit jacket in his hands.
My mouth trembled. I blinked tears from my eyes. “Who is it?” I asked.
His face fell. “I don’t understand how this could happen.”
I didn’t either. Is this how Josef felt when Marco left him?
Probably not, since they had this whole life, and the twins, but .
. . Was I supposed to just crush my feelings like they were parts of a leftover bonfire?
It wasn’t fair that I’d loved him since we were kids and might still, and that through some ironic twist, he was bound to fly off into his fated future.
Where were you when, I thought. You’ll remember this: When the man you love had a new soulmate.
Two cabs honked behind him. He stepped toward me, once, twice. He said my name. His face was painted with pain. Up closer,
the skin beneath his eyes was dark.
My fingers clenched. I worked to unfurl them.
He closed his eyes, took a breath. “It’s you,” he said.
“Of course it’s me, Caleb—”
“You don’t—”
“How could—”
“God, Livi, wait.” He dug into his pocket. His hands shook, and they whirled across the screen. “I don’t want to be like Wells.
But this is a huge thing.”
I waited. “It is,” I said softly. “I thought you weren’t going to open it.”
“I wasn’t. But I’ve been borderline obsessing over it. After you left the museum, I thought, if she isn’t mine, then maybe
I should learn who is.” His brows furrowed. “And then I passed by my colleague’s office, and I was thinking about what they’re
working on—an exhibit about people in history that have changed their mind about something, which led to a drastic shift in
the world.”
I pursed my lips. “Do they want an intern? I suppose you could say I’m job searching.”
His mouth twitched. “It was between that and who’d be famous in two hundred years from our modern era.”
I groaned. “Even more up my proverbial alley.”
Caleb sighed. “Anyway, I changed my mind.”
“Who is it?”
“You need to ask me twice,” he said. “I really need you to make the choice yourself, because once you know, you can’t un-know it. And I don’t know what to do right now.”
“Who is it, who is it, who is it,” I said. “That was three times. One more for insurance.”
“You’re sure.”
I shrugged. “Honestly, at this point, I’m equally sure of nothing and everything.”
He shook too much. I took the phone from him and nearly dropped it.
Olivia Jane Adler, I read, my eyes swimming. And my birthday.
I looked at him, the screen, back to him. His face was anguished.
“I don’t understand,” I said slowly.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Neither do I. But somehow, you’re my soulmate, and I’m not yours.”