“Pretend you didn’t want this.”
I faced her head-on. “I’m not pretending.”
Phoebe returned a practiced laugh. “We share an agent, you know.”
“Okay. And?”
“And, you know how hard Chuck Wheeler is to get?”
I jammed the straw from my iced tea in my mouth. “Samantha gave me his name. I didn’t even have an agent until after Soulmail started.”
A tiny slash by Phoebe’s mouth was the only indication of a frown. “Right. So what is it then?”
“What is what?”
“What is it that youdowant?”
Not this. Tea sloshed in my stomach. This new life promised big money, which was a conduit to stability, but it was missing something huge. I missed diving headlong into a subject, slicing un-key details, polishing the facts for people to learn. The pilot light of curiosity flickered on inside me, and I thought,there you are. I wanted someone smarter than me to figure out how and why Soulmail was happening. I wanted to know who mine was, but only if their name would give me a net positive outcome. I wanted to figure out if I was actually attracted to Caleb Mariner or if nostalgia had me under its wing. I wanted someone else to figure out this whole wedding debacle, and I wanted kids, which probably meant I should start researching freezing my eggs. But I said none of that to Phoebe. Instead, I said, “I want to deliver correct information to the audience, because I think it’s dangerous when people just spout off whatever opinions they can create.”
“Good god.” Phoebe’s cheeks flushed. “Youareserious.” She leaned closer, peering at my face. “You’re telling the truth.”
I shrugged. “Yeah?”
“You do that in front of everyone, right? Real truth. Like online? Strangers?”
“Of course I do,” I said slowly.
“I get it now,” Phoebe said. Her eyes scanned me up and down like I had a QR code stamped head-to-toe. “I’ve decided I like you.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks, I think?”
“Have you opened your Soulmail?” Phoebe asked. “I know you said you didn’t, but that article...”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet. Maybe never.”
“Really,” she said, looking somewhat surprised.
“You said yours is your son?” I asked, because the most personal thing on earth had become weather-and-sports small talk. Phoebe and Josef had to work in their angles on Soulmail all the time, given how much it had woven into ordinary news.
Her smile was genuine. “Yes. It works for me. Not so sure for him.” He used to appear on Per Diem for holidays and kid-related segments long ago, when he had glasses and a lisp. Then in his teenage years, his social media accounts were discovered by TMZ—which probably wouldn’t have been a big deal if Phoebe hadn’t just done a segment with a child psychologist, where she claimed she’d forbidden her son from having social media, and he was happy about it. “But poor Josef,” she added.
I blinked. “I thought he hadn’t?”
Phoebe’s eyes darted for the security cameras. “He didn’t at first. But his is his best friend, and his husband is upset about it. Marco hasn’t opened his, but Josef is nervous.”
“I wish mine was my best friend,” I said. When the elevator door opened, Phoebe moved to exit, then pressed her arm against the side to keep it open. “Were you serious about joining you for the special later?”
“Yeah.”
Phoebe gave a nod, then headed down the hall. “Protect yourself, kid,” she called.
The interview went better than I’d thought it would, since I was speeding through my upcoming trip details in my head while trying to make sure I didn’t open my mouth too wide because I had a poppy seed trapped in my back molars. Whatthe guests hawked—preached—would, in the very least, make good TV.
Afterward, I shook hands with Ethan, the spiritual regressionist, and his coworker (disciple?) Jada. “You’re both naturals,” I told them.
Ethan beamed. “Thank you. Loads of our work is on camera now, as opposed to the old days, when we’d gather in mini groups to talk about soul clusters and soulmates.”
I pictured them pre-Soulmail, gathered in a folding-chair circle in the basement of some church. “So this isn’t that new for you, then. These are experiences you’ve really had?”
