I froze. Wells. “I wish I hadn’t told you,” I said.
“No. I’m glad you told us. That’s a load too big to carry alone.”
“It must be so easy for you and Mom to be soulmates. Comfortable, right? You’re already in your life.”
“That we are,” he said. He fell silent, rubbing my back in the way he had when I’d lost a soccer game, cried at Sabrina’sanniversary, been ditched by a friend. His shirt sucked my tears up like a Dyson. “Can I tell you something weird?”
“Of course,” I said, muffled into his chest.
He drummed a pattern on my shoulder blades. His heartbeat thudded against my ear. “The fish are acting funny,” he said finally.
I pulled away to peer at him. “Dad? Are you okay?”
“I told you it sounded weird,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s me, or them, or something else: me just reacting to a strange world.” He paused. “There were less fishermen out the day Soulmail started. A couple boats have hung it all up. Ronnie moved to Florida, Mickey to California.”
“What do you mean they’re acting funny?”
He shrugged. “The world’s gone that way a few times in my life.” He pressed his lips together. “When tragedy strikes an individual family, that family breaks. We both know that. But when something touches the world...” He squeezed my arms. “Maybe nature knows.”
“Maybe, Dad,” I said, smiling.
“Still the same old Liv.”
“Always.”
Twenty-Five
An hour or so later, we settled in the rearranged living room for the big special. The TV was new, and shockingly, mounted to the wall. (Best Buy. Dad was unable to resist explaining the deal: free mounting with the purchase of any TV). Two new sconces flanked it, along with framed family photos—the last one of all four of us, Sabrina’s smile tight; another with my senior picture. I looked so young, my face rounder, freckles dancing on my nose.
While we waited, I muted the TV. The pre-show introduction featured Phoebe and Josef. Above them was a snapshot of the image of the article from earlier that afternoon—Wells and I on the airplane. I stilled. They’d been called back to tape this today. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
From behind, Wells rubbed my ear. I bristled.
“Still can’t believe all of this,” Mom said. “The fact that you’re on TV. My baby.”
“It’s nothing.” I ducked my head. “This is even more out there than most of my segments. Just to forewarn. Wereallydon’t have to watch it either,” I added.
When I appeared onscreen, Dad turned up the volume.
“I love your dress,” Natalie said automatically.
I poked her. “That’s because it’s yours.”
“It is?” Natalie squinted. “It is!”
“I like that,” Mom said. “Sharing clothes is good. For the earth.”
Dad gave a light laugh under his breath, then turned on the closed captioning.
If someone touched me, it was possible I would shatter. There was a reason I didn’t watch myself on camera. And this was it.
I examined this version of Olivia Jane Adler: the trace of dark under-eye circles, the puffiness inevitably present on mornings after I eat fries. On-screen Olivia had no idea that Wells skulked in her office, about to rob her of her choice to not know her soulmate.
Wells moved his seat to the one beside me. He dropped a hand on my thigh.
“Oh, Liv,” Mom said, sipping from a mug of tea. “I know I’m not supposed to comment on your body anymore, so I’ll just tell you this: you look great, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I stood. I once threw up on the previous carpet in this living room after insisting I was fine. My mother had scrubbed it with a kelly-green can of Comet, which bleached the rug to the point it had to be replaced. Another time, on this very couch, I’d recovered from wisdom teeth removal while hallucinating my dead sister sitting on my feet. I’d been too terrified to tell my parents.
