Then I opened my social media apps and frowned. I chewed the inside of my cheek, wondering why my more recent statswere so minuscule in comparison to my new usual, before I X’d out.
This. This was the kind of thing that meant literally nothing in the universe.
“No,” I said into my living room. “I refuse to be this person.”
I resolved to put the phone away, but it lit up again. Wells. Coming to the apartment to celebrate. For the first time.
Natalie had sent a series of emojis. A handshake, a shooting star, champagne.
My mother had writtencall us!!!, and Dad had thumbs-up’d her message.
Nothing from Caleb.
I scooted away from the wall.
It was sixty-something degrees and rainy. My sweatpants were either still packed or dirty, so I put on an old NYU sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, then wrapped myself in a couch blanket. I buzzed in Wells, glanced at my apartment. It looked good. Homey.
He brought champagne, and I drowned it in orange juice. “There’s a new reality show on,” Wells said after we’d clinked. “Couples competing in relationship tests with the grand decision of deciding whether to undergo IVF or not.”
“Seriously? What’s it called,Race to a Baby?”
“Wow. Almost. It’s worse, though. It’s calledPink or Blue, Anything Will Do.”
I laughed, then realized he was serious. “Doesn’t that feel...”
“Unethical?”
“Beyond. Hard to imagine bartering an infant for fame.”
“Agreed. I can’t wait for the documentaries behind the making of these shows.” The rain drummed on the windows. I was full of warmth, but not the temperature kind. The happykind. If we got married, I’d get to make sure theFrom Yes to I Doepisode presented us in a decent light. I burrowed into the couch. Even if things between us were fraught, maybe there was something cosmically reassuring, something simple, about being with your soulmate. And that was exactly what I’d been turning over in my mind ever since I was offered my new role: a seed of an idea, that there was maybe data to collect about people who had addictions and what their Soulmail status was. I filed that into the research section of my brain. “How was the weekend away?”
He brightened. “Oh, you know the drill. It was great.” Wells pressed the pad of his thumb to the stem of the flute. My body continued to respond to this man, which was probably good. “Dad was cheesed about your fan-casting thing. Mom said she wants to take you to lunch soon.”
“Mmm,” I said. Before all this, Wells’s mother would’ve rather watched plants grow than take me to lunch. “I’ve been eating lunch at work a lot.”
His grin flashed. “I hear you. I do. We’re moving slow. Slow and steady, the therapist said, right?”
“Right,” I repeated. “Remember what she also asked us to think about?”
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“Why Soulmail paired us.” In that session, I had started to cast my mind around for the obvious—we got along well, the sex was good, we seemed to have the same goals—when Wells had covered my hand with his. “I didn’t need a Soulmail to know she was mine,” he’d said. I’d trapped the side of my tongue in my teeth—a literal bite-back of a response?—but thewhybehind pairing us had stuck with me. Our Soulmail was an indisputable fact, which meant I’d work with it, though I’d trade a lot to know what was behind the rationale. I checked my phone again. Still nothing from Caleb. I swallowed, willing the snarl of emotion in my throat to vanish.
Wells leaned over and adjusted his sock. “I like to think it’s fate.”
Fate. I put my flute on the coffee table, resolute. If the universe was trying to teach me a lesson about forgiveness, I’d at least let it try.
In bed, our roles were comfortable, easy, effortless. My earlier doubts shifted somewhere into the ceiling above us. I didn’t have to tell him not to nibble my earlobe; I didn’t have to explain I don’t like my neck kissed. He knew to cup my jaw in his hand. We knew our pressures, our angles, our subtleties.
After, we lay beside one another, our pinkie fingers just barely grazing. Sweat lined the cleave of my breasts, the small of my back. Outside, the rain poured over the windows.
In the kitchen, Wells cracked the cupboard next to the refrigerator (he knew where the snacks would be without asking—another point for our soulmateship) and retrieved a bag of salt and vinegar chips. The rip crinkled over the rain. I lit a candle, one of the unscented soy ones my mother loved.
“I have a tux fitting next week,” Wells said.
“You do?” My voice was shockingly neutral.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Should I go?”
