The first fact: The emails originated from an indeterminate IP address that changed every few nanoseconds. The texts were not from a traceable phone number; they came from a thirty-six-digit address that would lead investigators nowhere. Soon, lab tests would reveal that Soulmails delivered by hand were the same kind of paper, but the font varied. It was the one most amenable to the population of the country in which it was delivered. Those hired to deliver physical Soulmails were difficult to track down at first, and when they finally were, their stories were consistently inconsistent.
Another fact: The internet experienced a worldwide shutdown for thirty-three seconds, starting at 3:00 a.m. EST.
A last fact: They were coded in such a way that no matter what people did, they couldn’t be deleted, though most people hadn’t realized that yet.
All that was just the how. The method of receipt. That didn’t begin to touch the who. If everyone above the age of majority received a Soulmail, then that meant long-married couples either had one another’s name, or they did not. It meant single people might learn the name of someone they hadn’t met yet. Some people opened theirs to read the name and date of birth of someone who already had a date of death.
Some people—happily partnered or not—decided to never open theirs at all.
This was just the beginning.
There were other matters to be addressed, like whether soulmates even existed. And if they did, what it meant to be a soulmate at all.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Five
“Two-minute warning!” the production assistant yelled.
I sucked in a lungful of air, trying to slow my pulse. I had to physically forbid myself from abandoning the studio in favor of my sturdy desk in the newsroom.
Feeling like a kid playing dress-up, I braced my forearms on the gleaming quartz topper of the news anchor table, trying to puzzle out precisely how I agreed to this. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was the wrong person for this role.
I slid my phone from the table’s hidden ledge. Sent the same text to both Natalie and the group chat I had with my parents—turn on Per Diem, now—then blocked Wells. I figured I’d squeeze at least a drop of satisfaction from that, but instead, my insides felt filleted.
Our history spun in my head. Three weeks after we’d met, Wells had left a browser open on the table; he’d Googled how to make grilled pizza with spinach and feta, which I’d identified as my favorite food on our first date. On our second date, he’d described everything Charley-related. The guilt he felt for staying in their rental while Charley went on one last snowmobiling run. The accident, Charley pinned beneath the vehicle, the aftermath, his friend’s swollen brain and the piece of skull surgeons had removed and the inevitable, awful honor walk Charley’s loved ones had taken. “I guess bad things always happen on the last time out,” he’d concluded.
I’d shaken my head. “But that’s like saying something lost is always in the last place you look.” At the quizzical expression on his face, I’d shrugged. “Why would you keep looking after you’ve found it?”
I’d admired his self-promise to look after Cambrey. When I’d confided in him about Sabrina, he had clasped my wrist with his thumb and forefinger, giving it one gentle squeeze. As my arm warmed, he’d said, “It feels so good to talk about him with someone who understands.”
Yet now, I made a mental note to schedule an appointment for STD testing. Rage zipped back into my bloodstream. Soulmates, indeed. If this phenomenon had happened yesterday, would I have wanted Wells’s to be the name waiting in my email? Today his name was my landmine.
The studio thermostat was kept just north of a meat locker temp, but golden white light heat blared against my retinae. The scent of ozone off-gassing from the cameras buzzed in the air. Far above me, mezzanine-style, was the glass-walled newsroom where my out-of-sight desk lived.
I blinked back tears. I craved a good cry, but in private. Right now, I neededsomethingto feel better. Even though being a visible face of news was never my dream—I was more backstage crew than first on the call sheet—more than anything in the world, I wanted to be good enough, either for someone or at something.
A woman came by and wiped my teeth (myteeth!), then shoved a Listerine strip in my mouth. The mint cleared my mind. “Thanks,” I whispered. I checked my phone one more time and swiped to my social folder, where shock thundered into my bloodstream.
The red notifications icon on the video I’d posted was not a bubble. It was not a grain of rice. It was five-figured, the length and shape of a Tylenol pill. My post was viral.
“Morning, Olivia.” Richard, Per Diem’s beloved meteorologist, walked on set, wiping the bridge of his nose with a handkerchief. He sat in the chair to my left. A makeup artist chased after him, re-powdering. “Nervous?”
I swallowed, wondering why the algorithm gods had chosen to make this post go viral. “What makes you say that?”
He pointed at my leg, which I hadn’t noticed was acting like a jackhammer of its own volition. “A different kind of morning, eh? Who’s yours?”
How many times would all of us hear this question over the next day? How many times would we ask? I wondered if Dola and Trent Foster were still talking to one another. Or if they ever would’ve talked to one another if it weren’t for this. I gave my head a little shake. “Never had a day like this one. I have no idea who mine is. I didn’t read it. Did you?”
“Of course I did. How could you not?”
“I’m not sure what the deal is with it yet,” I said. “Can’t undo it.”
“My brother said the same thing just now. He’s seventy-one. Says he doesn’t want to regret his life any more than he already does.” Richard winked.
I grinned. “You just... Read yours? Immediately?”
“Not right away. Logged in after Samantha called me. But mine was easy. Soulmate’s my wife.” He beamed.
