He still hadn’t answered. But I couldn’t shake wondering why he had reached out now. Now that I had a vaguely public presence. I was easily searchable before all this. Why hadn’t he looked for me the way I had looked for him?
Imagine being given the choice to learn who your person was without even trying, a woman might say to her dinner party.Would you do it?
It was a question that belonged in would-you-rathers—in deep talks, friendly debates. In eye rolls and counterpointstraded over corncob carcasses, plates with fork tines trailed through sauce, wooden bowls lined with soft pools of oil and vinegar dressings, wineglasses draped with lip marks.
A fun conversation starter, not a real question. And yet.
Overnight, the most-used emoji became the envelope with the lipstick stamp. A new meme of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan popped up from the decades-oldYou’ve Got Mailmovie with the caption:I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.
There was rejoicing. There was sadness. In New York, the heat broke, and rain set in.
The New Normal
Ten
From the moment I’d snuck out of the hotel bed and slipped into the quiet getting-ready that people do when they’re in rooms where other people are sleeping, my body was on high alert. Blood pounded through my veins like I was coming off a workout. I had absolutely, positively no plan, no fiancé, a surreal work experience, and the need to get new footing in a new world.
Priority one: Figure out where I was sleeping tonight. The thought of returning to my apartment to pack my things cranked the dial on my cold sweat. I tucked the hotel key in my pocket, plugged my dead phone into the charger, and wandered to guest reception to check about booking another night.
“Morning, Miss Adler,” the hotel receptionist said. “Let’s see our availability.” His fingers clacked on the keys. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms, wishing for a sweatshirt in the cool of the lobby. “We have room, but you’re booked under a corporate rate. The card authorization expired at 11:59 last night. If you get the person who booked this to call again, we can square you away.” He paused. “Or you could use a different card at the standard nightly rate.”
My chest muscles tensed. The regular fee at this place was easily four digits. Wells and I had an agreed-upon percentage of both incomes funneled into a joint account for monthly bills, plus a shared credit card for travel, outings, or dinners. Everymonth, we discussed with ridiculous ease who would pay what. But even though Wells wouldn’t blink at the charge, especially knowing what he’d just put me through, the last thing I wanted to do right now was use that credit card when the other person’s name on the account had torpedoed our relationship. “Let me see what my work plan is and get back to you?”
“Sure. If you want to guarantee the same room, catch us before checkout.” The receptionist darted his eyes around the lobby that was empty save for a pair of security guards. “Oh, Miss Adler, before you go?”
I waited.
“We’re not really supposed to—I mean. I just wanted to say, well, good job yesterday. We had your broadcast on in the staff room.” His voice was lowered.
My smile was automatic. “Even with that wrong-camera issue?”
He grinned. “Well, sort of. The famous news anchors, they did their usual charade, but this time, they were playing with everyone’s lives. Like how those true crime stories are usually about someone else? This time, it was personal. And then we heard there was this news anchor messing up—” here, my insides withered “—so we turned on to watch, and, well.”
I worked to maintain a non-horrified expression, but my answer came out weak. “Well,” I repeated.
He raised his palms. His skin was beautiful, blemish-free, perfectly hydrated. “No, no. It wasgood. You told it like a friend would.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed hard. “At least it’s over now.”
But it was far from over. In the hotel business center, I logged into my bank account after wincing my way through the security question answers.Middle name of your childhood best friend: Caleb Myers Mariner. Street you grew up on: West Labyrinth.
My fingers itched to check for a reply from him, but my phone was in the room. I couldn’t believe this tentative line of communication had opened between us. We’d come a long way from West Labyrinth, a long way from—
My cheeks burned. Remembering yourself as someone naïve enough to believe a handshake could maintain a friendship after one-time-only together... my god. The confidence I’d had in that arrangement. The sheer belief inus.
The screen loaded. My balance painted my feelings in clearer numbers, and another tab revealed my hunch about the price of this hotel for one night was right.
I wouldn’t go hungry tomorrow, and I had my parents as a last-resort safety net, but I wasfarfrom comfortable. This paycheck-to-paycheck discomfort was particularly cutting when I glanced at my most recent charges: Etsy for the design of a customized mini Honey O’s cereal box for our wedding favors, a ten-dollar pre-book hold for an eyebrow appointment the day after Christmas, a charge in the hundreds for the stamps we were supposed to use for invitations. Accounting for a life I wouldn’t lead. Mortification brewed low in my belly. It would be so embarrassing to cancel all this, to label the hours of preparation a waste, to tell everyone in our mutual lives we were over.
But those were problems for future me. Present me had to determine what to do now.
I exhaled. There were things I needed: more money, maybe a roommate, definitely a new address. I wanted some of my things—my computer, with all the research I’d been doing on a story about the internet and the rise of the influencer; my NYU socks with the hole under the fourth toe; the previous generation of AirPods that didn’t fall out of my ears when I ran. I craved my sneakers. Underwear. Dignity.
I opened my email and scrolled until I reached it.Subject line: YourSoulmailis Attached.I hovered the arrow over the letters, tracing each one in thought.
Curiosity was an elixir. The idea of having a good match was powerful, a bad one terrifying. It could raise me or depress me. If it was a stranger, or an acquaintance, or someone dead, like Sabrina—I pursed my lips at the sheer thought of it. It couldn’t be unlearned. Knowing would take away the wonder, the spontaneity. Whether or not these were as certifiably, indisputably real as they seemed, learning the information inside this email would do what I said on air with Richard yesterday: dictate the rest of my life.
I rubbed my temples. Think, think, think. The perfume from the lobby, probably pumped in through the ventilation system, was starting to turn my stomach.
