The Ex Talk

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  We’re done. Puget Sounds has been my entire public radio career, and now it’s over.

  An ending, and soon, a new beginning.

  Our coworkers rush her studio, trading hugs and reminiscing, I’m sure. I can’t hear any of it, and I’m not certain I should be part of it. Paloma’s leaving. I’m staying. In a few days, I’ll feel better, but right now, it’s bittersweet.

  Dominic’s waiting in the hall, leaning in the doorway of the break room. My brain’s so weird that I can’t even appreciate his forearms today. He tips his thermos of coffee at me as I head back to my desk.

  “Good show,” he says, and he must be ill because I think he means it.

  8

  It’s late the next Wednesday evening after work that Dominic and I craft both our relationship and our breakup.

  In preparation for tonight, I printed a bunch of “how well do you know your significant other?” quizzes and borrowed a couple board games from Ameena and TJ. Everyone’s left for the day, with the exception of the evening announcer running NPR content with occasional breaks for the weather. (Partly cloudy. It is always partly cloudy.) The only lights in the newsroom are the few directly above our heads, and it’s already dark outside.

  Dominic and I spent all of Monday and most of Tuesday in meetings with Kent and the station’s board of directors. All public radio stations have them to handle ethics and finances, and they own the station’s license. To them, our relationship was real— Kent’s the only one who knows the truth. Earlier today, Kent announced the show to the rest of the station. And exactly as he’d predicted, they ate it up.

  “I thought there was something going on between them!” Marlene Harrison-Yates said. “They were always either nonstop bickering or going out of their way to avoid each other.”

  “No wonder Dominic was so opposed to the show during that brainstorm,” Isabel Fernandez said with a knowing smile. I tried to smile back.

  I haven’t finished mourning Puget Sounds, but I can’t let myself get stuck thinking about it. The Ex Talk launches at the end of March as a weekly Thursday show, giving us a few weeks to create content and solidify our backstory. Our lie isn’t hurting anyone. That’s what I keep telling myself.

  “Let’s start with the basics,” I say, turning my desk chair to face him and flipping open a notepad. “How did we start dating?”

  Dominic leans against the desk across from mine, tossing a rubber Koosh ball into the air. The newsroom has been shuffled around so that our desks are next to each other. Where mine is organized chaos, his desk is wiped clean, with the exception of a pair of headphones on one side. I’ve never seen a desk that spotless.

  “You heard my irresistible radio voice,” he says drolly, catching the ball. After-Hours Dominic is only slightly less stiff than Eight-to-Five Dominic. His jeans are the darkest blue, his shirt a gray plaid with one and a half buttons undone. That second one is fighting with all its might to stay buttoned, but every time Dominic moves, it slips a little more.

  “Are you going to do that all the time?” I ask, pointing at the Koosh.

  He throws the ball and catches it again. “It relaxes me.”

  “You’re not going to take notes?”

  “I have an excellent memory.”

  I give him a hard look. He rolls his eyes, but he drops the ball onto his desk, slides into his chair, and opens a Word document.

  “Thank you.”

  “I listened to your podcasts, by the way,” he says. “I liked Culture Clash.”

  “Yeah?” Maybe I should give him more credit. I didn’t think he’d actually do it, but I guess he was committed to the research. “Which episode did you listen to?”

  He levels me with a stare. “All of them.”

  “You . . . what?” I wasn’t expecting that. “All of them? There must be more than fifty episodes!”

  “Fifty-seven.” His expression turns sheepish. “I had some time.”

  “Huh. Guess so.”

  I scrutinize him as a strange feeling works its way through me. It’s not quite pride, though it’s validating that Dominic agrees Culture Clash is good. I think I might be touched.

  Dominic gestures to his computer screen. “Can we at least acknowledge how ridiculous this whole thing is?”

  “Acknowledged. So I think what we have to do is establish that we were—ugh, I know this is horrifying—flirting pretty early on when you started working here, and that our relationship was solidified by your second or third week, though obviously we kept it secret from everyone at the station. New city, new job, and a new relationship all at once. You think you can handle that?”

  “Guess I have to,” he says. “What did this flirting look like?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I say, caught a bit off guard by the question. “How . . . do you usually flirt with someone?”

  He balances his index and middle fingers on his chin. “Hmm. I guess it’s not always a conscious thing, is it? If it were someone at work, I’d find excuses to walk by their desk, to talk to them. I’d joke around, try to make them laugh. Maybe I’d touch them, just a little, but only if I was positive they’d be into it, and if they weren’t, I’d stop immediately.”

  I let myself picture this. Dominic not just leering down at someone, but brushing her arm with the back of his hand, passing it off as an accident with a shy smile. Dominic placing a palm on someone’s shoulder, telling her how much he loved her show or her story. Dominic trying to make someone laugh. I’m half tempted to ask him to tell me a joke.

  The Dominic Yun who flirts with a hypothetical coworker is not the Dominic Yun I’ve known since October.

  “Right,” I say. “And—apparently I’d have liked all of that.” I clear my throat. “How long did our relationship last?”

  “Three months.” He says it so matter-of-factly, as though he’s put thought into it.

  “Why three?”

  “Fewer than that might not be seen as serious enough, and any more than that, I wouldn’t have been back in Seattle yet. The longer the relationship, the more serious we were, the less likely people will believe it.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”

  “Like you said. We nail this, and then we can do anything we want.”

  We order pizza and continue plotting. Our first date: dinner at Dominic’s favorite Korean place, easy, since I’ve already been there. Our second date: getting lost in a pumpkin patch corn maze the weekend before Halloween. We spent the holiday together, our first one, forgoing costumes while we handed out candy at my place. That was the night we made our relationship official, deciding to keep it from our coworkers for obvious reasons. The station was small, and we didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.

  We liked the idea of having a Halloween anniversary, since weren’t relationships a little spooky?

  “Do I call you Dom?” I ask.

  His face darkens. “No. Never Dom.”

  “You don’t correct Kent.”

  “You’re not in charge of my paychecks.”

  Fair point.

  I shove uneaten pizza crusts to the side of my plate and pick up my pen again, tapping it a few times against my notepad. “This isn’t about the relationship, exactly, but do you think I should do some kind of vocal coaching?”

  Dominic’s mouth twists to one side. “Your voice is fine. Maybe it’s a little higher than other people’s, but it’s your voice. That’s not something you should have to change.”

  He’s wrong, of course. Everyone has always made sure I’m aware of exactly how grating my voice is. He’ll find out soon enough—I’m sure we’ll be flooded with emails from opinionated listeners.

  “What I’m more concerned about is keeping this from everyone,” he continues. “We don’t have any social media record.”

  “It’s not too out of the ordinary,” I
say, “especially since we weren’t telling coworkers. Have you told anyone about it? About what we’re doing?”

  He shakes his head. “Not the truth, no. It’s not that I don’t trust my parents, but they can get pretty chatty with their friends. What about you?”

  “Only my best friend, but I trust her completely. We’ve known each other since we were in kindergarten.” I’m not sure I can explain to him why it was easier to tell Ameena than it would be to tell my mother.

  I turn back to my notes. It’s nearing nine o’clock. I walked and fed Steve earlier this evening before running back to the station, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to wrap this up as quickly as possible. “So. Moving on. The reason we broke up . . . it has to be something that would enable us to stay friends. Or at least friendly enough to host a show together. I don’t want it to cast either of us in too negative a light.”

  “Huh,” he says, “I was expecting you to paint me as the villain.”

  “Guess I’m full of surprises,” I say. “Let’s think back to why our last relationships ended. I haven’t dated anyone seriously since early last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was . . . more invested than he was,” I say, not wanting to completely embarrass myself. “What about you?”

  “Next question.”

  “Come on. You know I saw her on your Facebook. She dated you before I did. I should probably know something about her.”

  I try to imagine it, Dominic and cute redhead Mia Dabrowski. She must have really broken his heart if he’s still this uncomfortable about it.

  He swipes his keys from a drawer below his desk. “I’m gonna need alcohol to get through the rest of this. Any requests?”

  * * *

  —

  Dominic Yun and I are drunk at work and playing catch.

  He walks backward toward the bank of windows looking out onto a darkened Seattle street, laughing when he stumbles against someone’s desk. He recovers, tosses the Koosh to me. Twin pairs of empty beer bottles sit on our desks. I don’t know where my hair tie is—probably somewhere on the other side of the newsroom after I tried flinging it at him but overshot by a significant amount. His second shirt button lost the battle a while ago, and his hair is rumpled. He’s wearing only one shoe, revealing a polka-dotted sock on his other foot. This is a version of Dominic I never thought I’d see, and I don’t hate it.

  Alcohol was a very good idea.

  “What we really need,” I say, fumbling with the ball, “is a catchphrase.”

  “A catchphrase? Like what . . . WHAAA-ZOOOOM?” He says it in his best AM radio talk show host voice.

  I snort, beer coming up my throat and burning a little. “No no no. Not a catchphrase. A whatchamacallit. An intro. Like”—I put on a 1950s White Man Radio Voice—“‘Hi, I’m Shay and this is Dominic, and we definitely used to date.’ But you know. Catchier.”

  “I don’t know, I really like ‘wha-zoom.’”

  I hurl the ball at him as hard as I can, and he somehow catches it. I fold my legs up onto my chair, having kicked off my boots a while ago. I have tights on underneath my skirt, so hopefully I’m not too indecent, sitting like this.

  A bit of scruff has grown in along his jaw—an eleven-o’clock shadow—and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hand over it. If it would be rough like sandpaper. He’s usually so clean-shaven. I can’t decide which look I like best, and sure, while it’s concerning to mentally debate whether Dominic is more attractive with stubble or without, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that he’s an aesthetically pleasing human being.

  I am perfectly capable of having a fake relationship—a fake breakup—with an attractive coworker. I am a professional.

  He walks back over to our desks and drops into his chair. “I’m sorry about Puget Sounds,” he says, stretching out his long legs until they touch the base of my chair. He nudges his foot against it, spinning my chair a couple of inches in one direction. “Your last show really was good.”

  “Thanks. It’s been . . . kind of hard to let it go.”

  “I get that. You’ve only worked on that show,” he says, and I nod. “Look. I know why you don’t like me.”

  “What? I don’t—I don’t not like you,” I say, getting stuck on the double negative.

  “Shay, Shay, Shay,” he says, slurring my name. “Come on. I took a class on nonverbal communication in grad school, and even if I hadn’t, I’m not an idiot. It drives you wild that you’re not the young hotshot anymore, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The intern who worked her way up to senior staff faster than anyone else in the station’s history. You were the overachiever, and now you’re . . .”

  “Old?”

  His eyes go wide, and his feet land hard on the floor. “No! Shit, no, I didn’t mean that.”

  “We’re only five years apart. You’re technically a millennial, too.” A very young one.

  “I know. I know. I’m trying to figure out how to say this. It’s hard when you feel like you can’t impress the people you want to.”

  “And what would you know about that?” Despite the relationship we’ve crafted tonight, I have to remind myself he doesn’t really know me, even if this conversation indicates otherwise.

  “I’m the youngest of five kids,” he says. “Everything I did, one of my siblings had already done, and usually better than I had.”

  And although he’s still tight-lipped about why he and Mia Dabrowski broke up, this feels much more real than anything he’s said all night. Shortly after he started drinking, he told me it was the distance. He was leaving Illinois, and she wanted to stay. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story.

  “I’ve been . . . not the nicest person to you. And I’m sorry. It’s possible I’ve also been a little bit jealous.” I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

  “More like—” He reaches for my hand and pushes my fingers farther apart. The brush of skin on skin is gentle, despite how much larger his hand is. “But I probably haven’t been the easiest to get along with, either. You’re good at what you do. I’ve thought so since I started.”

  That compliment warps my boozy brain, drawing out another one of my fears.

  “What if this doesn’t work?” I ask quietly.

  He inches his chair closer, until he’s directly in front of me. He doesn’t smell like his usual ocean-sage cologne. Tonight’s scent is something woodsy. Earthier. Maybe even . . . better?

  I need a paramedic.

  He places one hand on each of my armrests, giving me an up-close and personal view of his forearms. The muscles in his arms flex as he grips the armrests, and I have to wrench my gaze away— up to his face, which is maybe more dangerous.

  While I’ve noticed his crooked smile, his single dimple on the left side, I’ve never paid attention to how lovely his mouth is, his bottom lip just barely thicker than his top.

  You’re good at what you do.

  “It’s going to,” he says, matching my soft tone. “I didn’t play Curly McLain in my middle school’s production of Oklahoma! for nothing.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a theater kid.” I try to picture him in a cowboy hat—anything to keep me from wondering what his mouth would taste like. His knees are right up against the edge of my chair. If my legs weren’t tucked, I’d be in his lap.

  “No, the theater kids hated me. I killed my audition, but I’ve always had terrible stage fright. I’d have panic attacks before I went onstage every night.”

  Might have been helpful to know that before agreeing to do a live radio show with the guy. It’s tough to wrap my mind around. He’s never not seemed confident at work, except when he froze up on Puget Sounds.

  “You have terrible stage fright,” I echo, the beer in my s
tomach sloshing around. “And yet you’re cool to host a radio show?”

  He shakes his head. “This is fine. There’s no audience—well, not one that you can see, anyway. I’m okay with smaller groups, but anything more than a dozen people, and my lungs suddenly decide not to work. Once I found my footing with Paloma, it felt like I was talking just to her.” With his legs, he pushes off my chair, putting a foot of space between us. I let out a shaky breath. Space. Yes. That’s probably good. “You must really be a lightweight. Your face is bright red.”

  I fling my hands up to cover it. “Ughhhhhh, I’m gonna get some water. This happens every time. The downside of not being six two.”

  “Six three.”

  “Jesus.”

  I make my way toward the break room, surprised when he follows me. Inside, I turn on one of the four light switches.

  When I can’t reach the water glasses on the top shelf, he easily grabs one and hands it to me, showing off one of his particularly enviable six-three superpowers. I mutter a thank-you as I hold it under the refrigerator tap.

  “We still haven’t figured out why we broke up,” he says, leaning against the counter opposite the fridge.

  “Maybe we should keep it simple. Working together and dating got to be too much for us?”

  “That’s not very exciting,” he says. It’s fitting that we can’t agree. “Maybe you were intimidated by my raw sexual energy.”

  I nearly choke on a sip of water—that’s how unexpected this is, coming from him.

  But hey, I can play this game, too, especially with alcohol loosening my lips. “Or you were never able to get me to orgasm.”

  “I’ve never had that problem before,” he says without missing a beat.

  With just the two of us in this darkened space, I’m aware of how small the break room actually is. He shouldn’t have followed me in here. I could have climbed onto the counter and grabbed a glass myself because short people are nothing if not skilled counter climbers.

  But then he wouldn’t be standing there in one of his Top Ten Most Infuriating Leans, eyeing me from beneath a truly impeccable pair of lashes.