You’re a catch. You’re a ten. I wait for a compliment from this person who’s only ever been vile to me.
He clears his throat. “Cool,” he finally says.
Excuse me while I walk right into downtown rush-hour traffic. Cool is the Kevin Jonas of compliments. It’s like saying your favorite color is beige.
“And you?” he asks. “Not too horrified by the idea that we dated, in this alternate reality?”
I shake my head. “And you’re not dating anyone right now.”
“Not since I moved here, no. Which I assume you know after your late-night stalking session.”
I cover my face with my hands. “Would you believe me if I told you I dropped my glasses onto my laptop and they happened to hit that like button?”
“Not one bit.”
“So it’s that the show isn’t news.”
He nods. “I went to school for journalism—”
“Wait, what?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes.
“—and that’s where I want to be. It’s killing me that the mayor story will be passed along, that I won’t be able to follow up on it.” He polishes off the last bite of his food. “Not to mention, I can’t even picture what this show would sound like. I wouldn’t know where to start with it. Like you said, most of the podcasts I listen to are . . .”
“Boring?” I supply. “Lucky for you, I am a connoisseur of fun podcasts. I’ll email you a list.” I’m already mentally compiling one. I’ll have him listen to Not Another Star Wars Podcast and Culture Clash and Femme, to start. All of them have great cohost banter.
“Can’t wait.”
“Maybe this show isn’t typical public radio,” I continue. “But it’s the edge we need. If we do a good job with it, you can do anything in radio that you want. Hosts are at the top of the food chain. It’s no small thing that Kent offered this to you. It’s a big fucking deal.”
“You don’t think he was a little . . . manipulative?”
Ameena essentially said the same thing.
“That’s just Kent. He knows what he wants. And he clearly loves you.” I hope he doesn’t catch the jealousy in my voice. “This is different from anything public radio has ever done. Sure, the national desk has done stories, sometimes series, about dating and relationships, and same with member stations. But there’s never really been an entire show dedicated to them. Isn’t it exciting, to think you could be part of that?” He shrugs, so I keep going. “I’ve been behind the scenes for so long that I want to see, I guess, if I can be more than that.”
My confession sits heavy between us.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” he says quietly.
“It’s not something I tend to broadcast very often.” I start ripping apart napkin number two. “But if you don’t think you can do it . . .”
He leans forward across the table, his eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t name. “Oh, I could definitely do it.”
I force myself to match the intensity of his gaze. It feels like a challenge, and I don’t want him to think I’m backing down. I hope I don’t have lipstick on my chin. I hope he doesn’t think I’m too old for him, at least in the hypothetical sense. I hope he realizes exactly how much I want this.
And that means wanting him, too.
“Three months,” he says finally.
“Six.”
“Shay—”
I hold up a hand, trying to ignore how much I like the way he said my name. It rumbled in his throat, sending an electric spark from my toes to some places that haven’t gotten much attention lately. I wonder if it’s how he says a woman’s name in bed. A growl. A plea.
Jesus Christ, I’m thinking about Dominic in bed with someone. I am not well. If I’m turned on simply by the sound of his voice, we’re going to have serious problems.
“Three months isn’t long enough to build a devoted audience,” I say. “Six months, enough for me to get the hosting experience I need, enough to elevate your name to the point where you can move on to something else when we’re done.”
“And if we’re caught?”
“I’m not snitching. Are you?”
His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s thinking. “Fine,” he says, and though that word makes my heart soar, what I really want is for him to say my name again.
“Thank you!” I leap up from the table, and it’s only when I’m standing that I realize I’m not sure what I was going to do. Did I think I was going to hug him? “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t regret this. I promise. This show is going to be fucking amazing.”
He’s watching me with an expression of clear amusement. Instead of going in for a hug, I stick out my hand.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” His hand is large, slender fingers fitting between mine and warming my skin. “It was a pleasure breaking up with you.”
7
“His name is Steve,” says the Seattle Humane Society volunteer when we stop in front of the last cage at the end of the row. “But I don’t know if he’d be a great fit for you.”
“Why not?” A tan Chihuahua mix sits in the far corner on a gray fleece blanket, watching me with big brown eyes. He has giant ears and a small black nose and an underbite. He is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Initially, I hadn’t given it much thought when Ameena suggested getting a dog. But my house has felt eerier than usual lately, and having a little animal waiting for me at the end of the day might be exactly what I need. Aside from a pair of guinea pigs Ameena and I had right out of college, I’ve never had a pet of my own. We had a dog named Prince when I was a kid, though I don’t remember him much. My parents had him before I was born, and I was nine when he passed away. Still, I am a perpetual asker of “Can I pet your dog?”
Flora, the volunteer, hmms under her breath. “He . . . has a lot going on. We think he’s about four years old, but we’re not sure. He was found on the streets in Northern California, and he was brought up here to have a better chance of getting adopted. He was actually adopted at the end of the year, but he wasn’t a good fit for the family. They had three young kids, and he’s not aggressive, per se, but he can get a little territorial.”
“Aren’t we all?” I ask, forcing a laugh.
Flora doesn’t return it. “We’ve had him here almost three months now, and we’ve had a lot of trouble placing him. We think he’d be better off as the only pet with an experienced owner. No kids.”
Three months. Three months of this constant yapping and no human to cuddle up with. Three months of loneliness. I can’t even imagine what it’s like at night here, after all the volunteers go home.
“I don’t have any pets or kids,” I say.
“But you’ve never had a dog, right?”
I did mention that when I walked in. But after walking up and down the rows, I can’t imagine going home with any of these dogs— except Steve.
“I had one growing up,” I say, standing taller and trying my best to appear like a responsible dog owner, someone who can handle a supposedly “difficult” dog like Steve. He can’t weigh more than ten pounds. “And I have a friend who’s a trainer.” Sort of. Mary Beth Barkley was sad to hear about Puget Sounds ending, and I promised I’d do my best to get her booked on another show.
“Well then,” Flora says, “let’s see how he does with you.”
She unlocks the crate and bends to take him out, but he backs up into the corner. She has to get into the crate on her hands and knees and bring him out, and when she does, he’s shaking. I can’t imagine a creature that small being a problem dog.
“I’m right out there if you need anything,” Flora says after leading us to a room filled with treats and toys. And she shuts the door, leaving Steve and me alone.
I crouch down. Steve sniffs the air tentatively.
“Hey, little guy,” I say, holding out
my hand, letting him know I’m safe. “It’s okay.”
He inches closer, his tan body still trembling. His underbite makes all his actions seem uncertain. Once he’s within licking distance, his pink tongue darts out and gives my fingers a swipe.
“See, I’m not so bad, right?”
He comes even closer, letting me stroke his back. He’s much softer than he looks, and his paws are white, like he’s wearing tiny boots. I scratch behind his ears until his eyes half close and he drops his head to my knee like this is the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.
Apparently I am doomed to fall quickly with dogs, too—because just like that, I am in love.
* * *
—
I sign the paperwork with Steve in my lap. I decide his full name is Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers Goldstein. A very traditional Jewish name. Flora gives me a leash and a collar and some information about local vets and obedience classes. I don’t want to set him down, even when I have to take out my wallet to pay the $200 adoption fee.
Flora is overjoyed but hesitant. “The dogs are usually shyer here at the shelter,” she says. “So don’t be surprised if his personality changes a bit when you get home.”
“Is the underbite anything I should be worried about?”
“He’s perfectly healthy. It’s just a little quirk.”
“I love it,” I say, and I turn to him. “I love you and your underbite.”
They tell me I have two weeks to bring him back for a full refund if it doesn’t work out. A full refund. For an animal. It feels cruel, like they’re almost expecting me to bring him back.
On our drive home, Steve vomits in the car carrier. When we get inside, he vomits again on a rug I never really liked, pees on my coffee table, and poops on the living room carpet. If my house felt empty before, now it’s teeming with chaotic energy. I set up his bed in my room, and he humps it for a solid forty-five minutes before turning around in a circle four and a half times and curling himself into a tight ball. When I try to get near him, he growls, baring his underbite.
Steve, it turns out, is kind of a hot mess.
“I am not taking you back,” I say adamantly, more to myself than to him. “We are going to make this work.”
I clean up the house, then chase him around for fifteen minutes before I manage to hook the leash onto his collar. But when I take him outside, he stands frozen in my driveway like he’s never seen the outside world before.
It’s nearly six o’clock, after he runs about a dozen laps around my yard, when he finally tires himself out and returns to his bed. He already knows it’s his, which I decide to consider a win. Once I’m certain he’s asleep, I take a photo and send it to Ameena. He starts making these little dreaming sounds, and I nearly die of cute.
Because I can’t stare at my dog all evening, I head to the kitchen to make dinner and call my mother, which I’ve been putting off since Dominic and I agreed to do the show a few days ago. And maybe this is one benefit of a small family: I only have to awkwardly lie to one person about my fake ex-boyfriend.
As much as I want to be honest with her, we both know how much my dad valued truth in radio. The idea of my mother calling me out, telling me my dad would be disappointed . . . I can’t go down that road. I have to stay in this place where imagining him hearing me through his car speakers would make him happier than I’d ever seen him. That means keeping the truth from her.
And I’m not sure I could handle the judgment if she knew I’ll be lying to my future listeners, too. No—not lying. Bending the truth. That’s what Kent said.
Besides, I can’t help thinking that if I can prove myself on this show, then maybe one day I’ll be part of something that doesn’t bend the truth nearly as much. That once I have this hosting experience, the career I always wanted will finally be within reach. Or, since it’s radio, within earshot.
“I was dating this guy and it didn’t work out and we’re going to be doing a radio show about it,” I say in one breath when she asks how work is going.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “A radio show about . . . what, exactly?”
I explain The Ex Talk to her on Bluetooth while unpacking one of this week’s meal kits. A white bean and sweet potato chili on a bed of couscous. Opening this box of ingredients is the most exciting part of my week. Love being single. Love it.
“You never mentioned him,” my mother says. “Dominic, you said? Isn’t that the guy you’re always complaining about?”
“The complaining, uh, may have been a side effect of our breakup.” The lie slips out so easily, and she buys it.
“I’m sorry, Shay. But it must be okay if you’re willing to do a show with him, right? It sounds like it could be a lot of fun.”
“Right,” I say through gritted teeth as I chop garlic, ginger, and a jalapeño. This will get easier, right? It has to. It’s for my career, I remind myself. It’s not forever.
I change the subject, asking her how wedding planning is going.
“You’ll come dress shopping with me,” she says, not even phrasing it like a question.
“You want me to?”
“Of course I do! I know it’s a little unconventional, picking out a wedding dress for your mom, but it wouldn’t feel right without you there.”
Which of course makes me feel even worse about bending the truth.
“I can’t wait to hear you on the radio,” she says, and maybe we both decide not to say what I’m sure we’re both thinking: that my dad would have been beside himself with joy.
“Oh,” I say before we hang up. “And I got a dog.”
Later, after I’ve portioned the chili leftovers to take to lunch this week, I get to my room and find Steve curled up on my bed.
“Steve, no.”
I am not sacrificing my bed to a seven-pound dog. WWAMWMD, I think, though surely this advice doesn’t apply to anxious Chihuahuas.
When I inch closer to the bed, he growls.
So I change into pajamas and pad down the hall to the guest room, moving Blush ’n Brush paintings off the bed so I can slip inside. The sheets are scratchy and a lamp throws eerie shadows on the walls, making me feel like a guest in my own house.
There’s probably a metaphor here.
* * *
—
Steve wakes me up at five in the morning by pawing at the guest room bed. I maybe should have splurged on a better mattress for all my “guests.” My neck aches and my back is all twisted. I’ve never felt the signs of aging sneak up on me like right now. He left a couple presents in my bed, so I heave everything off and into the washing machine. When we go outside, he’s slightly better on the leash, except then he doesn’t want to come inside. By the time I get into the shower, I only have a few minutes left to dry my hair.
“I’ll be back to walk you around lunch,” I tell Steve before I shut the door. “Please be good.”
So really, I’m in fine spirits by the time I get to work for our last day on the show.
“Is that cereal in your hair?” Ruthie asks as I drop my bag beneath my desk.
I pull it out, examining it before flicking it into a nearby trash can. “It’s dog food. Lovely. I, um, adopted a dog yesterday.”
Her eyes light up. “You did? We should have a doggie playdate! Joan Jett loves making friends.” Photos of Joan Jett the goldendoodle cover Ruthie’s desk.
Given Steve’s current emotional state, I tell her it might be a while before he’s ready for a playdate.
“Hi, team,” Paloma says during our morning meeting. She got an offer to host a jazz show on a commercial station, and she insists she’s excited about this new direction of her career. I want to believe her. “Well. Today’s the day. We had a good run, I think. Eleven years? Most shows never get close to that long.”
“You’ve been phenomenal,” Ruthie says. �
�We were all lucky to learn from you.”
Paloma smiles, but I can tell there’s some pain there. “Thank you, Ruthie. I was ready to come in here and make a grand speech, but I think all I can do at this point is thank all of you for being so wonderful to work with. You’re as much a part of this show as I am.” With that, she sniffs, as though holding back tears. “Ready for our last rodeo?”
Paloma, Ruthie, and I designed this show to be something of a retrospective. We spent hours finding clips of Paloma’s best shows, the funniest moments and most heart-tugging ones. The driveway moments—the ones where you can’t bear to go inside until you finish the story.
On Monday, Dominic and I will take the next steps forward in planning The Ex Talk. The real work will begin. But today, I am still a producer, and this is still my show.
An hour has never gone by so quickly. Toward the end, our coworkers crowd into the studio with champagne. Ten minutes left, and then five minutes left, and then Paloma takes the mic for her farewell.
“To the listeners who’ve been with us since the beginning, and to the listeners who maybe only recently discovered us, thank you for your support all these years. Starting next week, you’ll be able to hear me on 610 AM Jumpin’ Jazz radio. And our senior producer Shay Goldstein has a new show, so keep your ear out for that.” She catches my eye through the glass, and I hold a hand to my heart, mouthing a silent thank-you.
Then it’s time for her final sign-off:
“And that’s a wrap on Puget Sounds. I’ve been Paloma Powers, and you’re listening to Pacific Public Radio.”
Over to Jason for the time and the weather, and we’re officially off the air.
The studio erupts into applause, and on the other side of the glass, Paloma wipes away a tear.
The Ex Talk Page 7