“Oh,” Wells said. His shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch, and he straightened them. “If that changes, I’m your guy.”
My chest contracted. This was my soulmate. He’d done me so wrong. Both of those facts were true.
I was always the first person to advise a friend to ditch a cheater. Cheating belonged in the bad column in my personal mental chart. But the fact that Wells had cheated with someone who shared his very specific grief made it still bad, but maybe marginally less bad. And besides, Soulmail made this all so much more complicated. It wasn’t a matter of who mine was, at least not anymore. My soulmate felt unbreakably and unbearably tied to my possible happiness, to the fact that something about him orbited something about me, and maybe even if we were an ocean away from perfect, we were still somehow, inexplicably meant to be.
And Caleb. I’d never had an easier relationship with someone in my life until Natalie came along. Facts were facts, and I had to accept that Caleb was back in my life in a non-soulmate way. I could still celebrate us. I squeezed Wells’s hand, trying to reassure both him and me that he belonged here.
Mom glanced at me. “That’s generous, Wells, thanks.” She lifted her hand, preparing to tick off the clambake components one by one. “We’ve got it all. Potatoes, sausages, corn, clams, mussels, lobsters, herbs.”
“Plus another layer of seaweed, then the tarp,” Caleb said to Wells. “Classic.”
Dad clapped his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Spoken like the son of a fisherman. Or a wannabe fisherman, at least.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Let me at least draw the butter for you,” Caleb said. My parents beamed.
Wells stood. “A task,” he said, following Caleb inside.
Mom plugged in the string of patio lights. We retreated to the screened-in porch, a standalone structure Dad had crafted the summer a bunch of mosquitoes tested positive for West Nile Virus. Natalie, Mom, and I settled into the wicker furniture. “Tell me everything about New York, girls,” Mom said.
Unlike the usual answers about the small pleasures that come with city life, like immediate bagels, discounted matinee tickets, or interesting people-watching—the sort of thing people who don’t live in cities love hearing about—Natalie had a real answer this time. “Your daughter is famous,” she said, launching into a story about people taking my picture from afar while we were out to dinner.
“C’mon,” I said, shifting in the creaking chair. With my mom and Natalie, at least, I was comfortable. Actually, I wasso happy, I was nearly drowsy. I picked up a stray napkin and folded it into an origami crane the way Mom had taught me so long ago. The paper was soft, too fragile to hold its shape. It unfurled in my hands.
Mom picked a fleck from her pantleg. “Your Aunt Josie says renters are pulling out of agreements left and right since Soulmail, because their ‘family plans’ have changed. There’s some kind of emergency bill to protect landlords and rent-management companies.”
“Huh.” I filed that away. Yet another world change. “Makes sense.”
“It’s impacting everything,” Natalie said pointedly, her gaze boring holes into my eye sockets.
I raised one brow and pinched my fingers against my folded napkin.
Mom trailed her knuckles over her clavicle. “Oh, how lucky you and Helena are. Tell me everything.” A note of wistfulness was in her voice.
While Natalie launched into a play-by-play of reading her Soulmail, I craned my neck to check on my father. He was stoking the tarp-fire with the same long-handled tongs he’d used since I was a kid, the squint-lines beside his eyes only slightly deeper than they used to be. When I did a story on basal cell skin cancer rates in outdoor occupations a few years ago, I’d immediately slid him into a twice-yearly dermatology appointment. His skin looked good. I exhaled, content.
Every bite was as good as I remembered. Drawn butter dripped from my fingers. We tore into single-use wet wipe packets, silver winking in the patio light. Red lobster husks piled on one platter, clam and mussel shells tucked beneath claws, curly tails, antennae. Massacred corncobs lined our plates. Wells regaled us with a story about one of his cousins; Caleb detailedthe ocean plastic museum exhibit; Natalie flirted with every person seated.
“Excuse me,” I said, so full I could burst. “Bathroom. Be back.”
Mascara smudged below my eyes. I wet a square of toilet paper and swiped it. When I tossed it in the bathroom trash can, I halted.
In the trash were the cut-off tags from the jumpsuit my mother had on. The one she’d supposedly been wearing on repeat. I shook my head.
I pumped a dollop of Mom’s hand lotion, just because I could. I faced my reflection head-on, holding my palm to my nose to inhale the scent. It was the same lotion she’d always used. Another same. How could everything be the same as it ever was, when the whole world was so different?
I opened the bathroom door. Dad stood outside, shuffling in that gruff way of his.
“Everything okay, bug?” he asked.
“Daddy,” I whispered, my eyes suddenly welling over. He held open his arms, and I fell into them. My first safe spot.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll get used to him again.”
My heart lifted, thinking of Caleb’s presence back in our lives. I could imagine it so clearly.
Dad cleared his throat. “Families recover from this kind of betrayal all the time. We love you, and if you think this is the right choice... The first time back is bound to be awkward after people know about it.”
