Soulmail fallout had a rippling effect. Arrests, suicides, and homicide rates skyrocketed, stabilized, then plummeted lower than before. Police had never been busier, people never more accident-prone. Law-abiding citizens hopped subway turnstiles, then returned days later, chagrined, and paid double. No one knew how to behave, especially those whose lives had been questioned, upended, instead of confirmed. Government expert Alanna Sorensonn, still stunning even with a grave expression, came back twice in one week. “It’s nothing like we’ve ever seen,” she said both times.
Christian leaders denounced Soulmail. Buddhist leaders accepted it. Hindu ones nodded without surprise. Many others refused to acknowledge it, citing individuality. How politicians treated the emails and notes became the single-most-important talking point. The president’s Soulmail information was formally classified for one hundred years.
I interviewed a font expert, who noted the plain intricacies in the Soulmail letters. They were sans serif—without decoration. Imitations poured in, were quickly debunked.
Worldwide, leaders joined forces and offered a reward to determine who was behind Soulmail. This was the key, the thing that sent shivers across shoulder blades, lifted arm hair to attention. The unanswerable. Which government, which billionaire, had enough money, enough power, enough expertise to predict this individual human experience?
Sixty-eight percent of book deals and movie options announced since Soulmail included the termregret, an enormous market shift. It made sense. It was suddenly a key theme in people’s lives, especially when childhood and college and young adult ex-lovers realize they had, in fact, been meant to be. Or not.
All the while, the stories poured in, morphed, became larger than they had been. Rival gang leaders in Argentina were soulmates; they joined forces and disbanded their operations. Those who turned eighteen after Soulmail dropped became louder, chattier. This was unfair, they complained. We will be the new generation, the before-and-after Soulmail, the ones who saw what could happen and could do nothing about it.
My interview list felt eternal. My agent’s assistant told me that Phoebe Habbit was complaining to the network heads that I was getting too much attention. I told him she was right. I was officially verified without paying on social media, but that surprised smile was snatched from my face when my dad’s cousin emailed, asking to borrow money.
I debated whether I should open my Soulmail. Everything in life felt uncertain but mostly exciting, and the more stories I heard, the more appeal there was in the idea of a certain future. But still, something in me resisted.
One generational expert went viral for proposing new monikers for generation alpha, claiming the line was drawn in the before-and-after, cleaving it into generation alpha and generation anima. (Latin forsoul.)
All the while, a new question swirled: Would it happen again?
“Yes!” I whisper-shouted, pumping my fist in the air. The action rocked me forward. I tightened my core to avoid falling over, thanks to the archaically thin-heeled on-air shoes I was sporting. I rubbed my knee.
“Good god, you’re an insurance liability.” Dola dabbed a brush into a small pot of touch-up lipstick. “What’s up?”
“I got the apartment,” I said.
“You and Wells are moving?” Samantha materialized from behind me. Her face was screwed into a frown.
My pulse spiked. “Near Gramercy.” I took a deep breath, exhaling, trying to reorient its rhythm. I’d replied to Yvonne’sFromYes to I Doemail asking to meet, but her auto-reply had kicked me an Out of Office, so I was dancing in a truth limbo until I could officially pull out of the episode.
“Go you,” Dola said. “Trent and I are moving in together!”
What a strange world. Dola and Trent were co-employed, received each other’s names via email as guarantee they were destined to be, and now they had decided to move in together three weeks later. A veritable disaster pre-Soulmail, but after? Who knew. “Goyou,” I echoed. “And Samantha, what’s up? You look extra angry.”
“I’m not angry,” Samantha said. “Actually, that’s a lie. Your interviewee is being demanding. He says cashews are bad luck.”
I gave a quiet groan. Today’s interview was with the HeartString dating website guru who was all over Instagram ads last year.
Commercial music cued on, and ten yards away, Phoebe and Josef stood and stretched.
“Anyway,” Samantha said, her tone more brusque than usual. “You ready for the new Du Jour set?” She tipped her head toward the hastily designed brown-beige-tan alcove. “You like it?”
“It works,” I said.
“It’s very neutral,” Dola said diplomatically.
“No reds or blues to stay apolitical, no blacks or whites or grays because they’re too cool for such a hot topic,” Samantha explained.
My phone buzzed with an unstored number. Before Iimplemented the three-call setting on my phone, I would’ve ignored it. “Gotta love viewer psychology,” I said. “Excuse me.”
“Miss Adler!” a bright voice said when I answered. “Finally got ahold of you. Our calendar is filling up fast.”
I puzzled through the familiarity. “Yes?”
“We need to schedule your food tasting.”
The room went hot, or I did. This was the phone number from our wedding venue. This was—I put a name to the bright voice. Leila. The venue coordinator.
“Have you spoken to Wells?” I asked, my voice as neutral as the new Du Jour set. I was within earshot of two people who still believed I was engaged.
