“People are starting to know,” Samantha said, urgency bleeding through the car. She craned her neck. “What is the goddamn holdup?”
“I’m reading mine tomorrow. When my head is clear. I feel like my therapist would be proud of me.” Natalie’s therapist was the wisest, sharpest woman I had never met. We held her advice like gospel. “This is gonna change the worl—”
The line cut. I stared at the screen. Fourteen messages from Wells, all of which I ignored. For the first time since I’d been ripped from sleep, I tapped my email. Sure enough, there it was.
No Sender. Subject line: Your Soulmail is Attached.
It was a crossroads. A notch in time. A fragment in the dimension. Whatever name this Soulmail contained, once I opened it, there would be no forgetting the knowledge. If thiswas even real. It wasn’t possible, but Samantha made it seem otherwise.
What-ifs crowded my brain, volleying between known entities like Wells, the guy my friends called College Tom, who I’d dated on and off through sophomore year at NYU, high school prom dates, or my childhood best friend, Caleb. Because he was part of my personal fabric, Caleb popped up in my subconscious every week or so. I tried to never think about him, except for those occasions once or twice a year when I unsuccessfully stalked him on social media.
Then there were unknown entities. This email could contain a stranger’s name.
And my parents. My stomach sank. I had to worry about my parents’ Soulmails, too, and their inverse paternal worrying about mine, since they could no longer worry about my sister’s. I could barely remember Sabrina alive—I had only been six when she’d died. Sabrina would never not be seventeen. Like many other subjects, my parents and I had never discussed her especially gory death. That wasn’t my role. I was their protector, their entertainer, their pride, not the person who yanked their hanging threads.
Now I stared at my No-Sender-Soulmail. I could sense it, that familiar urge to know, know, know. But one thing about knowing is you can’t un-know.
If these were as real as everyone in this car seemed to believe, then this email would permanently change my worldview. And what if I was unhappy with the information inside? What if it was Wells? I ran my tongue over my teeth, then turned my phone over. The choice to know my supposed soulmate could be made later.
Samantha shook the phone in her right hand. “Goddamn it. I should check Reddit.”
As Dola pressed translucent powder beneath my eyes,something in my chest stirred. I zeroed in on it, trying to identify the feeling.Nerves or excitement, maybe.“Wait,” I said. “Has anyone in here read theirs yet?”
Al shook his head. Dola’s hands stilled on my face, then resumed.
“Good,” Samantha said. “I knew you were the right choice for this. Starting to talk like the storywriter you are. And, my dear, my answer is a resoundinghell no, but I’ll get to it. It’s buried in the four hundred plus new emails I’ve received since bedtime.” A click came from one of the phones in her hand, and Samantha widened her eyes at the car. “Shut up,” she mouthed.
“Samantha, you’re on the line,” a hurried voice said.
“I’m here.” My producer straightened. The driver slowed the car.
“No chance our anchors can break this,” the voice on the line said. “Phoebe’s on some private charter off Hawaii. She’s trying to get back, but it’ll take a bit. Her connection’s too unstable to go live. And Josef’s going straight to voicemail.”
“Like I said, he’s in Mallorca,” Samantha said.
“You have the gal ready?”
Her attention flickered my way. “Pulling up now.”
“You’re sure about her?”
I volleyed my eyes between my hair and makeup team. I bit back a snort.My team. Right. Al patted my shoulder.
“I told you,” Samantha said smoothly. “Gen Z face. Millennial brain. Polite enough for boomers and the middle of the country, and edgy enough for the coasts. As a last resort, she’s not bad.”
An excellent thing to text Cambrey. Something like giddiness streamed through my veins, fighting for a spot beneath the inadequacy stamping my nerve endings.You might be a tragic lover with great breasts, Cambrey Coyle, but I am not just a last resort. I am also, to quote, “not bad.”
“You better be sure,” the voice warned. “Job’s on the line.”
Samantha ended the call, expressionless.
“Your job is on the line?” I said, horrified.
She waved her hand. “That’s a daily refrain. Have you seen our ratings? My job is usually on the line somewhere between five and six every morning.” She frowned. “Why are you wearing pajamas?”
I glanced at my jumpsuit. The driver slowed and then stopped outside of Rockefeller Plaza. Here, at least, people were on the sidewalks.
“Wait,” Dola said.
