I pushed my palm in his direction, gave him my best withering glance, and left the room. By the door, I hesitated.“Tell me what’s going on,” I said into the phone, my eyes locked on one of my most prized possessions. A framed cereal box top, hanging above the thrifted console table beside the doorway. The last thing we both see before we leave, an omnipresent reminder ofus.
Mere weeks into our relationship, Wells had torn the cardboard side from a box of Trader Joe’s Honey O’s cereal and left it propped against my coffeemaker one morning.I keep trying to think of a word to describe how you make me feel, Wells had written to a six-year-younger me.I’ll let you know when I’m smart enough to explain what brings me to you.
For years, it became a running joke between us.I think I know the Honey O’s word, I’d say:joyful, rowdy, exhausted, and he’d purse his lips and answer something like:close, but not it.
And then last January, I’d come home from grocery shopping to find our apartment covered in a trail of torn Honey O’s box tops. Each one had a word or phrase on it, likefulfilledandthe way you cry at YouTube videos of dogs greeting soldiers. In our bedroom, Wells was down on one knee, holding my ring and a final scrap of Honey O’s box top that blared from its frame in this very moment: YOU’RE MY HOME.
I’d loved that our story was made of cereal cardboard and a cheesy, zero-pomp proposal. It told me that he knew me. Loved me. And I guess other people—or, in the very least, the algorithm, felt the same way. The snippets of video I’d posted with the intention of sharing with friends went viral, funneling about ten thousand stray internet followers my way, leaving comments likeomg this is everything. why am I crying for strangersrn. you are so lucky. My ex-fiancé proposed inParisand I’d take this any day.
My stomach sank. To make matters exponentially, infinitely worse, Per Diem was airing a one-hour special of our wedding as a crossover with the network’s reality seriesFrom Yes to I Do. They’d filmed dress shopping in February, followed by our visitto Amica Georges florist. I was beyond thrilled when I was offered an executive producer credit on the episode, which would bolster my documentarian résumé big-time.
Pain lanced my side. Wells’s actions had taken a jackhammer to my stepping stone.
On the phone now, my boss inhaled. I couldn’t predict Samantha’s answer, but without waiting for it, I left behind my cheating fiancé, my cereal box tops. With each quick step down my apartment’s long hallway, my awareness that something big was happening multiplied. My lips went dry, my breath raking my throat, my stomach overboiling with anxiety. Words likeapocalypse, aliens, new pandemic, terrorist attacksuddenly took on new meaning. Fear elbowed into my gut. “Wait, am I safe?”
“Safe as we all are,” Samantha said. “Though this will be one of those where-were-you-when moments, it’s a different kind.”
“Is the president dead?” I whispered, exiting the apartment without shutting the door. Go ahead, robbers, take what I’ve got. I hurried toward the fire exit stairway.
Samantha’s pause was weighted. “Eighteen minutes ago,” she began, “what appears to be every person on the planet received an email. The people who have email, anyway. Everyone else got some kind of communication. We’ll get to it.”
I rounded a corner of the stairwell, panting. “And?”
“And that email contains the name and date of birth of your individual soulmate.”
I slowed for a fraction of a second. This was what pulled me into work? “Your soulmate,” I said, my tone flat.
“Correct.”
“Samantha. You’re being scammed. Soulmates aren’t real.”
“I know how it sounds. But it’s not a scam.”
Trapped heat billowed up the stairway. A fine layer of sweat broke over my forehead. “How d’you know?” I managed.
“We have confirmation from the United States military.”
This piqued something deep inside me, because that sounded official, and facts were facts. In the lobby, I nodded to our typically friendly doorman, but he didn’t look up from his phone.
Outside, a long black town car idled with the back passenger door ajar. Without breaking stride, I dove onto the rear bench seat, banging my forever-injured knee on the doorjamb. Pain reverberated against the scar left behind by the surgery to fix my severed ligaments, the result of my only time ever skiing.
“Good morning,” came the voice of a woman sitting across from me. Samantha herself. Next to her were two people I recognized from the prep team: hair and makeup. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of our lives.”
Three
Despite the early hour, not a hair on Samantha’s head was out of place. Rumor had it she had cut her curls short twenty years ago after being mistaken for Oprah three times. She regularly wore two pairs of glasses—emerald or amethyst—which she alternated depending on her mood. Right now, she had on the greens. A hard workday. My producer held two phones, one in each hand.
“Seriously?” I asked, indicating both devices.
“On hold with the network heads.” Samantha waved one of them.
I introduced myself to Dola and Al—makeup and hair, respectively—who converged on me with serums. The zesty pep of citrus quickly filled the leather, limo-like interior. Pre-dawn New York was about as quiet as it got. It was too early for the bustle of tourists and too late for barhoppers, and even the typical early-bird Monday workout fiends were seemingly missing. The few people we passed had their heads tipped toward the sidewalks, scrolling their phones. We rode by an unhoused person clutching a crisp piece of paper none of us in the car yet recognized—a telegram.
“We’ll spin you as a special correspondent,” Samantha said. “Which isn’t even a lie, since you already work for us. Besides, you’re a somewhat known entity these days.”
I frowned. “What?”
“The wedding special was announced already, remember?Now, in the Per Diem metaverse, you’re a supporting character. You got me? Like anSNLwriter who appears in a sketch once a season.” She straightened. “So? Is Wells your soulmate?”
