Ethan nodded. “Oh, yes. Over and over again. We review our lives and return to our soul group to evaluate our soul’s growth on its journey.”
I nodded. It was the kind of thing you wanted to be true. I could see how people clung to their ideas, swerving like tall tulips toward the ground. It was hard to stay upright when this sort of hopeful faith was dangled in your face. Ethan and Jada’s concept of the afterlife was almost comforting.
“I hope what we’ve said influenced you,” Ethan said, giving me something like a bow.
“I think viewers will like it,” I said. “I don’t normally watch myself on camera. A hang-up of mine, I guess. But I’m tuning in with my family this weekend.”
“We’re huge fans of your work.” Jada’s voice was breathy. “This is such an honor.”
I accepted the compliment, but my shoulders pinched with tension. I stepped off to the side for a powder and lip retouch, a spritz of hairspray. Then I snapped a photo of my wide grin, posting it with the caption:don’t miss this weekend’s special, starring me and my poppy seed.
The cameraman put down a half-eaten apple. “Cue-in the tag. On in three,” he said.
On my X spot in front of the backdrop, I waited for hissilent raised index finger, then I spread my chest wide, smiling at the camera. “Everyone, I hope you have a great weekend. When we come back on Monday, I’ll interview Soulmail vow renewalists Johnna and Marcy, social media’s newest sensation. Until then, I’m Olivia Jane Adler, and this is your daily Du Jour.”
“Nailed it,” the cameraman said, retrieving his apple. “One take. Make it easier next time, will you?”
My face flushed with pleasure. I laughed and thanked him, then checked my phone. The photo I’d cross-posted less than three minutes ago was skyrocketing. I mentally reminded myself not to feed my ego with social-media-derived dopamine, especially with the hip-check of reality that my meeting with Yvonne was in two hours.
“That,” Samantha said, emerging from the wings, “was absolutely prime.Primetelevision.” She linked arms with me. “I can’t believe I didn’t put you on air ages ago.”
“You barely knew who I was ages ago,” I reminded her.
“My, how the mighty have risen,” Samantha said, winking.
My spirits high, I walked back to my new office, my mind overflowing with post-interview energy. Ethan and Jada had had thatthing—that invisible connection that I was beginning to see more and more while researching these stories.
Maybe the release of Soulmail would eventually be deemed a good thing. It was impossible not to argue its downsides, the way it had the ability to rip apart lives, but maybe on a metaphorical, Libra-shaped scale, it would soar upward. That mystical sense of unity that some of the soulmated couples had—romantic, platonic, familial, or strange—it was striking. World peace was a taller order than an email could deliver, but perhaps if Soulmail was here to stay, maybe it would help the world find some measure of accord.
I rounded the second-to-last corner before my office. Fatigue edged into my comedown. As exciting as the last month-plus had been, I could see how this job could burn someone out. The competition was fierce, the eye of the audience glaring and picky. Even so, filling in at Per Diem during this crisis was maybe more rewarding than I’d hoped.
I shook off the energy, determined to enjoy myself for the upcoming weekend home. Hugging Mom: high on the list. Checking on Dad: maybe even higher. Laughing with Natalie and Caleb? The corners of my mouth involuntarily deepened. Yes.Do the things that make your eyes light up, Mom always said when I was a teenager.
I nudged open the door to my office and promptly dropped my phone on the floor at the sight of an incredibly familiar face.
“Wells?”
Twenty-One
My ex-fiancé sat in my dark office like a hitman in a movie. I flicked on the light without tearing my eyes from the traitor. “Why are you sitting in my chair?” I asked, working to keep my tone even.
Wells rose. He had the presence of mind to look chagrined. “I brought you flowers,” he said, gesturing at yet another signature Amica Georges bouquet.
I pressed my lips together. “I’ll ask you only once to leave. Unless you’re here to confirm that our wedding date is officially canceled, in which case I’ll still ask you to leave.”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.” He produced a phone from his slim-cut pocket. It was newer than the one I’d thrown across the room with the arrival of Cambrey’sIf she’s working this morning, I can come over again??text.
Sourness filled my throat. My gaze landed on my work tote, where an expired pepper spray and pocket air horn lived. A distraction. In my wildest dreams, I had never thought about using them on Wells, who had mastered heart-shaped bacon, who loved me in spite of his mother not liking me, who dutifully donned his sweatpants and watched Lachey-hosted reality TV. But right then and there, I was full of rage. I was ninety-nine percent sure I wouldn’t use those self-defense tools on him, even if one hundred percent of me wanted to. I could imagine the headlines now:SpicySoulmailDarling Pepper Sprays Handsome Ex.The Soup Du Jour Is Jealousy. The Cost Per Diem Is High.
My fingers itched to flail, to yank a drawer, to do something. “Wells.” My tone was even, but my heart broke around his name. It was impossible that I had wondered what it would feel like to gaze at his face, standing together at the altar. And now, here we were, on display in the newsroom of the third-most-watched news media show (on average) in the country. The computer monitors whirred, the HVAC hummed at the lowest possible decibel; the hush of staff voices made very plain we were being watched—easy within these glass-paneled walls.
“If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call security,” I said. My lips felt puffy, slick with the touch-up paint.
But he simply stared at me.
I swallowed. “I’m not kidding, Wells. This will get out. We’ve already had articles written about us.Us. Don’t make me call—”
Wordlessly, Wells handed me his phone. The screen was on.
