“Influencers do,” Nat finished. “Like Aili.”
“Exactly.” Nat’s teenage influencer cousin was our primary source to the current generation. Watching Aili amass hundreds of thousands of followers led me into a circuit on the rise of the influencer. I was constantly filling research notebooks with different ideas, and because most of the things that interested me were at least tangentially related to my life experience (hello, years of notes on the reverberations of addiction in families). No matter the niche, the key was in captivating an audience for just a moment and building trust. Approachability. Authenticity, like the hotel receptionist had intimated.
“Well, you had your viral moment,” Nat said. “Maybe it’ll blow over now.”
“Hopefully,” I said. But I had the hunch the changes Soulmail had brought to the planet weren’t going anywhere.
Eleven
Soulmail chatter was everywhere. The hotel lobby that morning, the walk to work, the security guards in the office lobby. People were excited, unsettled, waiting for whatever would come next.
Later that morning, I sat at my desk in the Per Diem staff writing department. I felt at home for the first time since Soulmails came out, even though the bags under my eyes carried an oversized load. Phoebe and Josef had flown in by way of Maui and Mallorca, and the miffed and chagrined Alma and Lu were relegated back to their early-morning weekend slots.
My phone dinged. Natalie, sharing a link to a TikTok where her cousin Aili fumed over not receiving a Soulmail on her first day of adulthood. Her video was gaining tons of traction.
Speaking of traction: Between the viral post, my flubbed appearance on Per Diem, and the article inPeople, I’d amassed something I thought I’d never see. Three hundred thousand followers. A mix of unease and something else—excitement?—swirled in my gut.
I snapped a blurry selfie, then uploaded it to my stories. BACK TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING FOR ME, AND UNCONFIRMED INTEL: NO NEW SOULMAILS TODAY, I captioned it. I ghost-tagged Cousin Aili in the post. My mentions immediately exploded. Newfound relevance was incredibly strange.
I opened the DM with Caleb, warmth and espresso now sliding together in my veins.
Here I am in New York City, where apparently you are too, he had finally messaged.
I typed. Deleted.What are the odds, I wrote finally.
To my surprise, he answered right away.That two kids from the Cape wound up inManhattan?Probably easily calculable. Much greater than the odds I’d get a phone call from my mother screaming that you were on tv, but here we are
I wouldn’t have banked on those before yesterday, either, Ianswered.
Fair... Were you happy with your Soulmail?
Didn’t open. You?
Of course I didn’t. You know me better than that,he wrote.
I arched a brow.Do I? Now that would be breaking news
You used to, anyway.
THAT I can agree with
Ha, he typed.It’s been forever. I’d love to see you. Want to meet up? Get coffee or a drink
Depends
On what?
While I mentally drafted my answer,I clicked a new browser tab, typed insoulmail, then returned to Caleb. My Trendscroller plug-in charted all the hottest keywords in the country—a useful tool for developing content for a news media conglomerate. When this one loaded, I opened my mouth in shock.Soulmailwas the only keyword chartable, with numbers two through ten flatlining.
And a link to my viral social media post was right there on page one. My name, inextricably linked to Soulmail.
My pulse picked up speed. I turned back to my messages. Might as well be honest.
On whether you’re willing to admit you brutally ditched me after high school
Now THAT is something we need to address. Either way, would love to see you
Before I could parse out whyweneeded to addresshimditchingme, Samantha sailed into the newsroom, a spray of flowers propped on her hip. Emerald glasses again: all business. She marched straight for my desk, blocking my view of the live monitor, where Phoebe and Josef dissected Soulmail updates.
