It happened exactly how I’d always heard it would.
After an extended absence, someone extremely important came back into my life. Years, decades, generations: we always love a reunion episode.
It was fast. Making plans for tomorrow while at plans for today. Wrapping nostalgia and future together, the best kind of trope.
And then suddenly, that familiar stranger became busy. After I told him about the biggest promotion of my life, he didn’t reply for three days.Awesome, he wrote.
He made then broke plans twice, citing a work project that wouldn’t quit. I didn’t make plans a third time, an action that broke my heart, lyrics to a country song I don’t listen to.
I did my best—my worst, which was sometimes also my best—to rationalize that I was also busy, but then I made excuses when he went from busy to busier to busiest, the extra grammatically incorrect comparison-wise for emphasis, even though it was just the two of us.
Days went by, as they’re supposed to do. I threw myself into other things to maintain mybusierstatus. I started solo therapy. Not the HeartString one recommended via every podcast commercial, but a well-credentialed someone who immediately destroyed my ego, which was a good thing.
My relationship re-progressed. The world felt a little duller, but a little realer, maybe. When he brought the wedding backup, I didn’t say no. Or yes. Neither of us mentioned the pending October payment, but he started staying over a couple nights a week. He didn’t mention how small the kitchen was again, and neither did I, but he did replace the expandable table without telling me. I was touched.
And recognized. I was a Face. One even New Yorkers recognized. On certain streets, people lifted devices in my direction, which I acclimated to faster than I would’ve thought. On other streets, I was a no one. I tried to stick to those. While out one afternoon, I found a stationery store on one of those new streets. I purchased a large notebook, started recording everything I could that was new in this life. Behind-the-scenes media life, a printout of my Soulmail Notes app folder.
And as it tended to do, the tide stopped carrying me and started pushing against me. Social media comments accused me of inventing Soulmail for clout, which amused nearly everyone. I was deluged with remarks about my weight, life choices, the parentheses around my mouth, which confused me until I examined my face in the mirror. The tiny cups I thought of as dimples. Smile lines. First I made a mental note to start face yoga, or get injections, or research the right time to get a facelift, but instead, I posted a video with no makeup and no filter, and the internet wilded out. Half of them praised me, a quarter offered advice, fifteen percent talked about me like I wasn’t there. Men, or at least profiles appearing to be men, filled my DMs. One percent stopped following me, zero percent of me cared.
My parents figured out how to send memes, which was all they did for days, which was how I realized: they’re aging. Everyone was, but not everyone lived far away from their loved ones by choice. I sent quiet inquiries to find out their long-term care plans, and set up a special account toward their future care. My therapist suggested a phone session with them to mediate their Soulmail lie. I agreed. They agreed. Everyone cried.
September wound down. My favorite time of year.
When my period was late, I called Natalie, who was in Bali on a trip with her boarding school girlfriends. She coached me on buying the test. Her internet connection punked out right when I was about to plunge the plastic stick into a cup of my own pee, so I chickened out and went to bed to cry myself to sleep. I woke bathed in a night sweat. As a former story writer, I knew night sweats can be dangerous, which would immediately spark a sleepless night of health anxiety, except I also had a low backache, a classic period sign of mine. Sure enough, my period arrived in the morning.
The relief was indescribable. And then unease trickled in when I remembered I wanted kids in a way that was the deepest, realest, truest thing about myself. This should not have been a potential crisis.
I tried reasoning that my relief was because I was at a weird career moment, but I knew that wasn’t true. I researched freezing my eggs and learned freezing embryos—something a person must create with genetic material from someone else—has a higher success rate.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Thirty-One
During the fall kickoff week, a couple clasped hands on the Du Jour set couch, already repurposed for Josef and me to hold live interviews. They were excited and friendly, and I was about as bubbly as a wet sock. I forced a smile. “How does it feel to have one of the biggest new podcasts in the country?”
“Soccer Mom Seasonhas been a whirlwind,” Ann said. “Honestly, the hardest part was naming it. Our publicist tried for ‘Two Moms Named Ann,’?” but Ayn here rightfully didn’t want to change her name.”
“Yes. And ‘Fifty Shades of Gay’ was taken,” Ayn quipped.
Josef laughed. “Your story is resonating,” he said. “Two town moms. Kids have been playing together their whole lives. Husbands in the picture? And then you find you’re fated to be soulmates.”
Both Ann’s and Ayn’s faces tightened a fraction, but they nodded.
“And you’ve made the leap not just as platonic soulmates, but romantic ones. Would you have guessed this would’ve happened before Soulmail?” Josef asked.
Ayn shook her head. “Both of our marriages were strong. We were never particularly close. Occasional carpool, block parties, that kind of thing.”
“I didn’t even have her number saved,” Ann said.
Ayn rubbed her thumb against Ann’s index finger. “At firstwe thought, oh, great! The universe is gifting me with a new best friend.”
“But it was more than that,” I said.
“Totally. There we were, two middle-class suburban moms, kids, and husbands. Content as can be. And then we were suddenly swimming in these strong, all-encompassing feelings.” Ann whirled her hands in front of her face.
“And then?” Josef prompted.
Ann’s smile was practiced. “And then Ayn tried ghosting me for a week.”
