I met his eyes. The air between us was charged. It was like the time we were at a classmate’s birthday party at Papa Gino’s, where everyone took turns rubbing their heads on a balloon until static electricity stood our hair on end, pretending we were Whos from Whoville until one mother yelled at us, said we would all get lice. Now wind whipped my mussed hair, blew through his dark, dark curls. I could palm the air between us, throw it like an orb in a video game. His lower lip dipped.
Wells rounded the walkway, and I raised a hand to him.
“I think I do,” I mouthed at Caleb then, hurriedly, guilt clanging into my belly button.
“Had an amazing conversation on the beach,” Wells said through his panting. He jogged up the porch steps. He swiped his forehead, sweat sluicing over his cheeks. “Saw a banker I recognized from a conference I was at. D’ya know that soulmates are getting a full percentage point lower on mortgage interest loans around here? All you have to do is forward your official emails.”
“Why?” Caleb asked, frowning.
Natalie banged out the screen door onto the porch, clutching a bowl of pineapple. Her wet hair dripped on the wood. “Your phone is buzzing.”
I took it. A biomarker notification: my heart rate was experiencing a rapid acceleration. I took a deep breath, willed it down. Facts were facts, and this was hard evidence.
Wells shrugged. “I guess soulmates are a safer bet. We should consider it someday, babe. Probably sooner rather than later, before this whole Soulmail thing blows over.”
“Speaking of Soulmail,” Caleb said. “Olivia here has a decision to make.”
My ribs turned to stone.
“A work decision, that is,” Caleb said.
“Oh?” Wells grabbed a bottle of water from the house, returned with a dish towel slung over his bare shoulder. He tipped his head back and chugged. “What’s up?”
There was no decision. It had been made. It was made, in fact, before Samantha even called. It was made the second Wells showed up with the email, or even before that, when whoever or whatever sent them out.
After I filled in Wells and Natalie, he picked me up and swung me. “My girl,” he said, a note of awe creeping into his voice. “You’ve worked so hard for this.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking,have I?Before Soulmail, for sure. The late nights, the early mornings, writing and rewriting, my hair twisted back and poked through with pencils. Coffee on coffee, running for deli wraps for a 3:00 p.m. lunch. That was work. Creative exhaustion. All those fired-down ideas, punched-up, handed off stories: all of that was gone now. Now I just had to show up, be made up, recite, regurgitate. “I guess I should check my phone,” I said. “Text my agent.”
“Are helicopters safe?” Even Natalie was buzzing. “They are, right? It’ll be scenic.” Her bowl clattered on the wicker table beside the rocking chair. “Are you sure you’re okay with cutting the weekend short?”
“I wish we weren’t,” I said. “If you guys want to stay, then please do. But how can I say no?”
Natalie shimmied her shoulders. “My old roomie,” she said, thumbing a sticky spot above her lip. “You aretakingoff. This will totally give you a leg up for your documentaries, too.”
“Amazing. This is amazing,” Wells punched a fist in the air. “Ever been in a helicopter, Caleb?”
“A bunch of times,” Caleb answered. “My dad’s a pilot.”
“That’s right.” Wells mopped his face with the dish towel. “God, the air here is so thick. Well, another day, another flight for you, then.”
“Oh.” Caleb hopped down from the porch rung. “Actually, I just told Olivia, but I’m staying a few extra days.”
Ice squeezed my veins, ran over my temples. I pressed against one, rubbing vigorously, trying to unlock the moment when he might have said that instead ofI wish it wasn’t him.
Twenty-Seven
The Sunday afternoon city was boiling, slow, the same people who escaped it like locusts on Friday afternoon returning from their weekends away, suntanned and sweaty and tired. But inside the network conference room, any passerby would think it was a weekday morning. My return was greeted with doughnuts and a coffee bar. A suited figure was planted in every seat, including my new agents and manager. Samantha sat to my right. “They’re gonna start by flattering the pants off you,” she whispered into my partially blocked ear, a side effect of the helicopter ride.
She was right. Then, their exaltations transitioned into volleying numbers. With charts. It was spiky, but revealed an obvious hill-climb: There was a before and after Soulmail, which meant there was a before and after me.
“Olivia Jane Adler,” one of the suits said. “The newest name in news right now.”
I’d been so confident when the helicopter landed in Manhattan, so honored to continue this game of dress-up in someone else’s life. But even though this was beyond what I’d wanted, something felt caught and leaden at the bottom of my esophagus, like someone pressing their thumb to my sternum. When I clenched my toes in my wedges, a tiny spike of sand punched the smooth skin between them, a reminder of where I was just a few hours ago. I smiled but said nothing.
“We’re offering you the lead co-anchor slot,” Tate Dimmock said. The network head’s words were buttermilk, sour and sweet.He’d come a long way from throwing a fit when I was on camera.
Josef’s negotiations must’ve tanked. Before I could respond, Chuck Wheeler leaned toward me. “Say nothing.”
