“Oh.”
He grimaced. “Y’know, I was here on September 11. There have been no other days quite like it, thank heavens. The interruptions, the chaos, the trauma. At the time, it felt like it was just happening to New York, and of course, that wasn’t true. People across the world lost loved ones. We all lost the feeling of safety.” He paused as we readied ourselves to return to air. “This feels momentous in a different way. Like it’s going to change everything we know.”
The teleprompter started its scrolling. Richard volleyed me the first line of our canned commentary on the president’s speech; I scanned my scripted teleprompter response.
[.>]
“This just in,” I said instead.
As my words rang in the air, the rhythm of the backstage crew encountered an immediate hiccup. Camera operators halted, sound staff hesitated, and those in director’s chairs jolted upright.
My pulse raced. Sweat clung to my underwear waistband.
But the barest of smiles played at Samantha’s lips, and she gave me a nearly imperceptible nod. Tate Dimmock, the head of the network, entered the set, his jaw arranged at a precise angle.
Tate Dimmock was never present on set.
Every one of my nerve endings screamed at me to get back on script. Read the teleprompter verbatim. Go home, see what cheater-flavored garbage Wells had to serve. Call Natalie and drink coffee or water or wine and talk and talk and talk. Keep my job, the one I loved, by nodding and doing, doing and nodding.
Tate folded his arms. I did everything I could not to look at him again.
“We have confirmed reports of a woman in New York City whose Soulmail named her infant daughter.” My throat thickened. “That child unfortunately passed away.” A scurry of activity swarmed the backstage area. Beyond the lights, people made frantic cutting motions, hands cupped around the mouthpiece of headsets.
Tate mouthedbreak, and Samantha put her hand on his elbow, pointing to the social media livestreams. The network head rubbed his hand over his mouth then recrossed his arms, frowning.
I steeled myself. “This sheds a new light on who—orwhat—we might think of as soulmates. Our information indicates that not only can a soulmate be a platonic friend or family member, but they can also have already tragicallypassed on. It appears that these Soulmails have access to a fundamental truth: your soulmate can be anyone on earth.”
(12M REPOST:a fundamental truth: your soulmate can be anyone on earth)
Richard cleared his throat. A stab of guilt entered me then, because my deviation forced him to go off-script. Luckily, the meteorologist knew how to dance.
“That is monumental,” he said. “You’re witnessing history right along with us, folks.”
Witnessing history. I thought of hisy’know, I was here on September 11, of the way that Per Diem had given this man a career, of the way his hair used to be dark and now it was gray. The passage of time marked by the photographs that lined his office. Per Diem was somewhat perfect in that way, an upper-mid-tier news organization. Famous enough to be recognizable, not so famous that it was a mill, a tightrope. People planted careers here and they grew. “Richard,” I ventured. “Would you like to share with our audience your decision on whether or not to open your Soulmail?”
A consummate professional, Richard didn’t miss a conversational beat. “Of course,” he said. “Opened it right up. Found my wife’s name.” He leaned toward the camera lens. “Guess I won’t be forgetting her birthday this year, eh?”
My smile was real. His energy was radiant dad, grandfatherly jokester. “Took you long enough.”
“And you haven’t opened yours,” Richard prompted.
I nodded. “Right.”
“I’m sure you join many others out there.” He tipped his hand in the direction ofout there, where at this very moment, people across the world existed in various stages of shock and disbelief. “What made you choose not to?”
“Huh.” I rested my chin on my fingertips, searching my temporary co-anchor’s face for the answer. Everything aroundus fell away, like we were at a dinner party, like we were the sort of people who engaged in deep conversations on the regular. That was when I understood that protocol was broken. Bets were off. “Maybe it boils down to what you expect. Maybe you trusted your wife would be yours?”
“I did,” Richard said.
“I’m lucky that there are a few people in my life who I’d love for it to be.” Unromantically, Mom. Natalie. Sabrina? Clearly, Wells was off the list. “But there’s no coming back from a non-perfect pair, you know? What if it’s someone who’s died already? Or someone I haven’t met yet?” I paused. “If that was my circumstance, I guess I wasn’t ready for an email to dictate the rest of my life.”
Fear, I didn’t say. Apprehension. For the time being, I was taking a chance on living with the unknown.
