The truth of what he said tunneled through me, wind beneath an overpass. “I think I feel trapped,” I whispered. “And I don’t know who to blame other than myself.”
Josef bent low to my ear. “Sometimes when people feel this way, they create a villain to direct their anger toward, when the truth is there’s no villain at all.”
“Bet you’re happy,” Samantha said as we walked out of a meeting to discuss my newsy sign-off phrase in late September. “Taglines can make a career.”
In the end, network heads usually won, and this time, Tate’s advocacy for the Du Jour catchphrase to remain as-is was by default my win. It had become such a part of daily lexicon that people complained when I anchored and didn’t use it.
“Sure. ‘And that’s the daily Du Jour’ lives on.” I paused. “Hey, for my documentary, I have a hypothesis I want to test that people prone to addiction who have living Soulmail-mates are more likely to stick to sobriety practices than people whose soulmates are dead. What do you think?”
Samantha slowed her steps. “How can you test this idea?”
“I can run an anonymous poll. Maybe on Reddit? Or our socials?”
Her frames were black now, a light tortoiseshell pattern on the tips. I’d Googled the price of the glasses and, despite my inflating bank account, a small-to-medium-sized portion of my insides had recoiled. She pushed them up. “I can see it being true. Having a guaranteed support around and all that.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “But won’t you need years of data to back up its longevity?”
“Yeah. I guess I was thinking the one-day-at-a-time perspective.”
“Maybe,” she said. “You’re not wrong, but we just may need more distance to learn. Keep chewing.”
Hair and makeup spent more time on me now that I was co-anchor. The only thing that saved me through those first early wakeups, longer workdays, and general scrutiny of the public was that Dola and Al were reassigned to be my main team.
A week into my new role, I sat in the makeup room, my head splitting open with the kind of cracking headache that reminded me of the payment for pulling all-nighters in college.
Dola ran a gelled brush through my eyebrows. “What’s going on? Did I get something in your eye?” She frowned.
When I tried to shake my head, my left eye twitched. “Uh-uh. Headache.”
“Light hurts?”
“Yeah,” I said. My voice was a croak.
Her face softened. “Stress? Lack of sleep? Hormones?”
“Is this multiple choice? How many answers can I pick?”
Dola dimmed the lights, bringing a wave of instant relief so enormous tears of gratitude filled my eyes. She removed an ice pack from the fridge, draped it over my neck, and pressed a pill into my hand. “Excedrin Migraine,” she whispered. “Phoebe used to get them.”
I had a migraine? That fit, but I’d never had one before. “What about the makeup lighting?”
“I’ll do touch-ups after with your eyes closed. Now—do you want me to distract you? I could also play some soft music, or we can just be quiet.”
“Tell me about things with Trent,” I whispered. The coolness rushed over my neck, and I sank into it.
“Soulmail is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Trent Foster is my four-seasons love.”
My forehead creased, sending a jolt into my skull. “Like the hotel brand?”
Dola’s laugh was quiet. “You think I’m crashing at one of those? I mean we’ve got year-round love.”
“The ‘all relationships go through seasons’ thing?”
“Nope. It’s something my mom always said. Your person needs to balance all four to be endgame. You need the kind of partner who has the same goals for how they’d want to spend summer vacation. Fit in with family and friends. In autumn, things are punchy. Exciting. Spiced everything. Are you a match in bed? And then in winter, cold days are like rough patches, so your person must be warm, solid, dependable.”
“And spring?”
Dola shook a setting spray. The liquid was two-toned when it sat on the counter, a silvery white top over a vial of Caribbean Ocean. I anticipated her incoming command and closed my eyes. “Everyone’s always talking about spring being rebirth, but it’s more that it’s unexpected. It’s lighter for longer, even if the temp drops. Spring is bright colors and dark nights, and it can look nice and feel like hell. The first sign that things might not go as planned. Sunburns on a soccer field when it’s forty degrees. Mom’s hypothesis is, how we react to the unexpected is who we really are.”
“And you have that now?” I blinked. To my dawning relief, my headache was more whisper than shout.
