“You’ll definitely have to consider...”
But I wasn’t paying attention to the line anymore, nor was I waiting for Caleb. I was tagged in a picture of a stranger’s Soulmail. A now-regular image. Except this one featured Micah Kimiko’s name and birthday.
I signed anNDAbut I don’t care. Sue the hell out of me, the person had written. This is too important of a time in history to lie. Micah Kimiko is my soulmate. We’ve known each other since elementary school
I waved Samantha over, showed her my phone.
Her grin sprawled. Cheshire. “I’ll go make a call,” Samantha said.
A small dig jabbed into my stomach. It felt like something familiar. Guilt? Why would I feel guilty? I was tagged. They knew who I was, and I had to assume they wanted me to boost it somehow.
But still. Even if it was the truth, it still felt icky to poke into the lives of other people. After all, if someone pried intomylife, I ran the risk of emotionally dissolving like the spider web filaments in the corners of my childhood bedroom.
Two weeks after the Soulmails dropped, I headed toward my reunion with Caleb. I’d typically allow myself extra time in case I had to wiggle out my knee, but the joint was nearly painless for the first time in decades, possibly thanks to Dola’s supplement suggestions or my newly purchased, surprisingly supportive platform wedges.
The night was warm but breezy, the city streets milling with people. The dirty sidewalks were about as clean as they ever got, rinsed from an afternoon thunderstorm that left water spots and broke the humidity for the first time in days. Outdoor diners perched happily below shady awnings.
My pace was marked by swiping sweat from my upper lip.We’d chosen a tiny brick-walled speakeasy ten blocks from the hotel. I’d gone there over the winter with Natalie, and we had both loved it, but now, every step I took increased my heartrate threefold.
“Excuse me!” a woman wearing a yellow fedora said. “Are you Olivia Adler?”
I pasted a smile on my face. “Guilty,” I said.
I’d acclimated to the hair-and-makeup routine, to brushing my teeth by the guest cove sconce light, to the brief-but-friendly banter that introduced my new current events segment, cheekily namedDu Jour. After every segment, Per Diem staff would put together a sixty-one- to sixty-four-second clip and upload it to scheduling software for posting. It seemed easy, but after the first few days, I could see how influencers’ boundaries muddy quickly. In real life, it’s not exactly common to stare someone in the face and tell them their teeth are too big for their mouth. Or the parasocial flipside:I know we’d be besties if we met, more than one person wrote. Comment Mountain was both horrifying and flattering, the equivalent of being handed a gift while someone else backhanded your cheek. And getting recognized was a whole other level of bizarre.
“Can we have a selfie?” Yellow Fedora asked me now.
“Sure,” I said. I leaned toward her, waiting.
“You’re such a breath of fresh air,” she told me. She checked the picture. “Oh, you have a makeup line on your cheek.”
“Typical,” I said, rubbing at it.
She lifted the brim of her hat. “Want me to edit it out before I post?”
I shrugged. “It’s yours now,” I said, giving her a wave. If the worst thing that could happen to me was people commenting on inexpertly applied contour, then they could have it.
At the next crosswalk, I waited for the walk light to whistle its birdsong, the orange hand to brighten into the figure of a human. Beside me, a sidewalk lemonade stand worker blendedfreshly minced lemons with sugar and water. The sharp citric bite curled into my nose, bringing me back and back and back to the annual neighborhood lemonade stand that benefited the food pantry, to tiny Caleb with his freckles and glasses and space between his two front teeth, so much smaller than me. Our birthdays were just one day apart—November 30 and December 1—which meant in our town in 1990s Massachusetts we could be born within thirteen hours of one another and yet be in separate grades. My December birthday made me the oldest kid from kindergarten on, except for the kids who repeated grades; Caleb’s last-day-of-November gave him the youngest-student status in first grade above me.
Maybe that was our undoing. If he hadn’t been one grade older, leaving for college the year before me: Would we have agreed to fall into bed together on his last night home? Both of us inexperienced in every way possible, both of us consenting before we were even taught we should. His basement, two in the morning. A silly handshake—Promise it won’t be awkward after, right? Could things with us everbe?—the overwhelming feeling of warmth and safety and that sensation of home that was tough to replicate. We fumbled with the parts we’d always kept hidden, honest with what felt good, right, incredible.
Retrospect was an egotist.
By the time I reached the speakeasy, sweat drenched my lower back. Ducking under an awning, I checked my phone to see how early I was. Five minutes. An email notification hovered over the time.
Subject: From Yes to I Do Production Schedule
Olivia,
Long time no chat. Given the level of exposure of your new role (congrats!), production slotted your episode as our season premiere. We think we’ll do one more add-on filming for your special, plus one-on-ones with you and Wells sometime in Oct/Nov. You haven’t done a cake tasting yet, have you?
Cheers,
Yvonne
I slumped against the wall. I was smart enough to understand that avoiding telling the network about my canceled wedding was classic borrowed time, yet foolish enough to keep my mouth shut anyway. And now that my options were dramatically limited to fessing up or running away forever, my back sweat could fill the Mariana Trench. I smoothed the skirt of my light green line-patterned sundress, mentally shoved a fresh wave of Wells-flavored loathing aside, and entered the speakeasy.
The bar was small and modern, cool and quiet against the bustle outside. The air had a surprisingly fresh feel to it for a substreet space. I wrinkled my nose at the chalkboard placard by the door, advertising HAPPY HOUR FOR PROVEN SOULMATES.
