“On in sixty seconds,” the production assistant said. “People are thirsty for this soulmate info. Remember, Olivia. You write for these spots. Just read the teleprompter.”
“Nerves are normal,” Richard said. “I’ll cover you.”
I nodded, my mind turning.
Next to the production assistant, Samantha raised both fists, shaking them gamely in my direction. “Places, everyone.”
People are thirsty for this soulmate info.
“You’ll do great.”
“Forty seconds.”
My mind whirred. I might do great. I might not. Anchors were performers, which was the reason why the position wasn’t desirable to me. I’ve never been a willing performer. My time trying to keep my parents’ moods afloat taught me how to appeal to an audience. From age six to eighteen, my goal was to maximize their happiness, to lift them from their grief. I’d zero in on what they needed in that moment, and I’d deliver it, which was how I learned I loved to fixate on behind-the-scenes information. There was nothing better than a podcast that broke down an excellent show’s episodes, a documentary on the making of something. The assemblage of facts, the sweat equity, the work. A peek into the mind of Oz. That was the kind of information Per Diemnevergave out, and it was what I craved. Except... I scanned the set. There, beside the dummy monitor set up to show on-air talent the live broadcast, PerDiem’s social media livestreams were angled to show the background. Videographers, lighting tech, the PAs walking around with clipboards, sometimes the director’s chairs.
According to Natalie’s therapist, I armed myself with information to control my own destiny, carefully constructing my place in this world by knowing as much as I can about as much as I can. My own therapist handled me with too much care to offer that kind of opinion.You worry about what you can’t control, she’d once said, and I’d retorted: I can’t control what I worry about.
“Twenty,” the PA called.
I wished I was in my bed watching a great documentary. I wished the weight of my ring on my hand was comforting and not aching. I wished, wished, wished I could rewind time, but here we were.
“Five. Four. Three...” The producer held up a peace sign.
At the very last second before we were live, I wrenched the multicarat engagement ring from my finger and tossed it into the hidden ledge beside my silenced phone.
Per Diem’s familiar opening tune streamed into the studio. My insides turned to a slippery gel. I pressed my forearms against the table topper, took a deep breath, and set my gaze on the teleprompter. “Good morning. I’m Per Diem special correspondent for the day, Olivia Jane Adler.” I smiled warmly at the camera.
“And I’m Richard Litchfield.”
I angled myself toward the lens, doing my best to hide the fact that I was reciting the scrolling screen. “We’re here during our annual guest anchor week to bring you some breaking news out of—” I pretended to check myself. My pulse began to even out. “Well, out of everywhere in the world.” The teleprompter scrolled.
[.>]
Smoothly, instinctively, as if we had done it every morning of our lives, Richard and I exchanged what would turn out to be a reassuring glance. Later, when I watched that segment myself, I felt it, too. It was the kind of expression that told the audience we trusted each other. And right then, in this new, strange society that still just so happened to be our ordinary world, every audience member needed that.
Off camera, Samantha flashed aslow downgesture, then bent over her phone.
Richard squared himself toward the table. “If you’re tuning in now, you may have noticed something different in your email this morning.”
“That’s right, Richard,” I agreed. “Nothing in humanhistory has quite prepared us for this. We have very little information, but there’s one thing Per Diem has confirmed: This is real.”
When Richard took his turn, Samantha silently snapped her fingers at me. “Wrong camera,” she mouthed.
I flushed. The dummy monitor screen showcased my reality: Me, speaking earnestly to what appeared to be stage left. I’d lost my place.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, talking over Richard. I blinked furiously. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Still getting my bearings here.”
“No problem,” Richard said easily. “I think that’s the way the whole world might feel right now. Getting our bearings. But practice makes perfect, eh?”
I threw a smile in his direction. “My mom always said perfection wasn’t real. I’m a living case of that.”
“A wise woman,” Richard said.
Samantha pointed to the teleprompter, a pained expression on her face.
“Oh,” I said, tingles racing up my neck. “I’m lost again.”
