The Ex Talk

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “Pacific Public Radio. Pacific Public Radio.” Dominic tries this a few times and nods. It’s both funny and validating, watching this six-three giant taking direction from me.

  “And the thing you feel is going to sound distorted on the recording,” I say. “Aside from having better recording technology, which we’re not going to be able to afford anytime soon, you can practice better breath control. It takes some time, and you’ll probably be thinking about it a lot at the beginning, but it’ll get easier.”

  He repeats the phrase into his hand several more times, sounding smoother. When he finally drops his arm, his sweater sleeve brushes my shoulder. I wonder if it’s wool or cotton, soft or rough. Maybe I don’t hate the way he dresses at all.

  “Thank you,” he says. “That’s actually really helpful.”

  We try the promo again.

  I’m Shay Goldstein—

  And I’m Dominic Yun. This Thursday at three o’clock on Pacific Public Radio, tune in to our new show, The Ex Talk. It’s all about dating, breaking up, and making up from two people who managed to stay friends after their own relationship ended.

  We can’t wait to share our story and hear yours.

  “Better,” I say. But I can’t get the sound of my own voice out of my head. With the show premiering so soon, it’s the last place I want to linger. “Culture Clash was good this week.”

  “Don’t tell me! I haven’t listened yet.”

  “Okaaaay, but there’s this one part where—”

  He makes a show of clutching at his ears. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible?”

  “Most people.” I give him an angelic smile. “There’s also this newish Buffy podcast I’ve been meaning to check out.”

  “Five by Five? It’s great. First episode was a little shaky, but they found their footing by the third.”

  “So you don’t only listen to the news,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows.

  “You mean, I’m a complex and layered human being?”

  “Jury’s still out.”

  His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Now that’s a good podcast.”

  I snort. He doesn’t need to know that I subscribed to one of his Supreme Court podcasts, Justice Makes Perfect. I haven’t listened to any of the episodes yet, but I might. It’s only fair—he listened to mine. I am a firm believer in reciprocation.

  A few more run-throughs of the promo. If possible, my voice sounds more grating each time. I sigh, pushing the microphone out of the way and dropping into one of the two sound booth chairs. It’s always better to record standing up—less pressure on your diaphragm.

  “Are you sure my voice sounds okay?”

  “For the nine hundredth time, yes.”

  “You’ve clearly never had anyone laugh in your face about it.”

  “No, but I’ve gotten anonymous emails telling me to go back to China,” he says. “Which is especially hilarious, given I’m not Chinese.”

  “Oh.” Shit. That is not even on the same planet as my issues. “Wow. That is really fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair, abandoning his lean to take the chair next to mine. “I want to say I’ve gotten used to it because it’s happened often enough, but you really don’t. You let it fuel you. You do even better because you know there are people out there who are waiting for you to fail.”

  At that, he lets his brown oxford tap the leg of my chair in a way that’s maybe meant to be comforting.

  Huh. We might be getting along.

  I don’t hate his company, not entirely, and I’ve mostly forgotten what happened in the break room. (Even if my throat went dry when I saw him filling a glass of water yesterday. I’m gonna be pissed if this turns into a fetish thing.) Maybe there’s a way for the two of us to be friends. It won’t be the relationship I had with Paloma, which was off balance from the beginning. But we could be something like equals. A real novelty in the public radio world.

  I stare down at his shoe. The polished leather, the crisp laces. He’s a little less intimidating when he’s sitting next to me, but possibly even more of a mystery.

  “One more time, then?” I say, and he hits RECORD again.

  * * *

  —

  None of our listeners will see me, but I decide to dress up for show day. I wear a structured gray minidress, patterned tights, and lavender Mary Jane heels I found at a rummage sale with Ameena last year. My thick hair goes into its regular ponytail, but I straighten my bangs, which makes them sleek and shiny. I debate wearing contacts, but it’s been forever, and I’m so attached to my tortoiseshell glasses that I don’t want to risk any minor change to my vision.

  You have a face for radio, my dad used to tell me with a grin. An A-plus dad joke. God, I still miss those.

  The morning creeps by. It’s about as agonizing as getting a root canal followed by a Pap smear. At lunch, my stomach can only handle a third of a sandwich from the shop on the first floor while Ruthie reviews the rundown next to me. I manage to get mustard on the skirt of my dress, and I spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom scrubbing at it.

  Kent comes by our cubes as Dominic and I are practicing our intro.

  “My favorite couple,” he says, not-so-subtly gesturing to the Cupid-printed tie he wore in our honor. “Or favorite former couple. You two are going to knock it out of the park. We’re all really excited about this.”

  But there’s an undercurrent to his words:

  Don’t fuck this up.

  Ruthie prints our most updated rundowns. This first show has no guest. It’s Dominic and me, telling our fake stories, waiting for calls to roll in.

  I stumble over literally just carpet on our walk down the hall to the studio.

  “You okay?” Dominic asks, reaching out to grab my elbow, helping steady me. My dress is short sleeved, and his fingers are warm against my skin.

  Well, now I’m not. “Five by five,” I manage to say.

  Ruthie breezes into the studio, setting a glass in front of each of us. “Water for my favorite cohosts,” she sings.

  “Thank you. I would’ve forgotten.” Though I did it so many times for Paloma, I don’t want Ruthie to feel like she needs to wait on us. “How do you seem so calm? I reapplied deodorant half an hour ago and I’m still sweating buckets.”

  “I’m your producer,” she says. “It’s my job to stay calm.”

  And she’s right—it would be so much worse if she were freaking the fuck out, too.

  I wonder how much worse it would be if she knew we’d never actually dated.

  Fortunately, my nerves don’t leave any room for guilt. Not today. Not when I am five minutes from a lifelong dream. Ruthie disappears into the adjoining studio, and Dominic and I sit together on one side of the table with our twin water glasses and spinny chairs, clamping headphones over our ears.

  The RECORDING sign blinks on.

  “Coming up next, the premiere of our brand-new show, The Ex Talk,” Jason Burns says. “But first, these headlines from NPR.”

  It’s happening. We’re really about to do this.

  My own show.

  “I have some prescription-strength antiperspirant in my gym bag,” Dominic says. “I could ask Ruthie to get it.”

  I give him a horrified look. We’re in a small enclosed space together. I might die if he thinks I smell bad. I will definitely die if I have pit stains. “Do I need it?”

  “Oh—shit. No. No. You seemed stressed about it, so I thought I’d offer. You smell normal. Sort of . . . citrusy. It’s nice.”

  It’s nice. Not you smell nice. An important distinction.

  “Thanks,” I say with some hesitation, accepting the compliment on behalf of my Burt’s Bees shampoo.

  His leg bounces up and down underneath the table. Dark jeans tod
ay.

  “And what’s going on there?” I ask, pointing.

  His stage fright confession comes back to me. He said he’d be fine on the radio, without a visible audience. God, he better be right.

  “Ah. That’s me trying to hide how nervous I am. How am I doing?”

  “Terrible,” I say. “We both are.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. This is something he does often, I’m beginning to realize. Like he doesn’t want me to know he finds something funny, or a real laugh might mess up his stoic facade.

  “There’s one thing we’re good at doing together, then,” he says. He takes a drink of water, and my heart speeds up for an entirely different reason.

  Focus. I flip through my stack of papers. How did Paloma make it look so effortless? Our choreographed intro, our fictional anecdotes, the sponsor breaks . . . And yet it’s impossible to prepare for everything. If someone calls with a question not in my notes, will I have an answer?

  WWAMWMD?

  Ruthie comes through our headsets. “Thirty seconds,” she says, a little breathless.

  I cross and uncross my legs. Scratch at the mustard stain. Attempt a sip of water and dribble some down my chin.

  “Hey,” Dominic says right before the ten-second countdown. Finally, his leg pauses its frenzied jiggling, and he knocks my knee with his. “Shay. It’s just like the two of us having a conversation.”

  “Right. Right. We can do that.”

  His gaze locks on mine. “And I’m really glad you talked me into this.”

  Then Ruthie points to us.

  And we’re live.

  The Ex Talk, Episode 1: Why We Broke Up

  Transcript

 

  “You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well, baby, you’re already in that cage . . .” (Breakfast at Tiffany’s)

  “Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of . . .” (Casablanca)

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” (Gone with the Wind)

  “If I want to be a senator, I need to marry a Jackie, not a Marilyn . . .” (Legally Blonde)

  “We should break up or whatever.” (Scott Pilgrim vs. the World)

 

  DOMINIC YUN: It was a cold December day—

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Pretty sure it was the beginning of January.

  DOMINIC YUN: It was sometime in the winter. You were wearing that blue sweater—

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Green.

  DOMINIC YUN: And I was wearing my favorite gray beanie.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I really hated that beanie.

  DOMINIC YUN: I hated that you hated that beanie.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Obviously, that’s not why we broke up, but poor communication is one of the top reasons relationships don’t last.

  DOMINIC YUN: I’m Dominic Yun.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And I’m Shay Goldstein, and this is The Ex Talk, a brand-new show from Pacific Public Radio. Thanks for joining us. We’re coming to you live from Seattle, or if you’re listening by podcast, somewhere in the somewhat recent past. Full honesty: This is not just our first episode but also our first time on the air like this. I’ve been a producer at the station for ten years, and Dominic’s been working as a reporter since October, which was also around the time we started dating. And earlier this year, we broke up.

  DOMINIC YUN: But we still had to face each other at work every day, which I think made it easier for us to stay friends. Or at the very least, passive-aggressive acquaintances.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: We’ve both been really excited about getting behind a microphone like this and having a chance to talk about something that public radio has never devoted an entire show to: dating and relationships. That’s what The Ex Talk is about, with an emphasis on sharing stories—your stories. We’re hoping to break down stereotypes and gender roles when it comes to relationships, and in the next few weeks, we’ll have experts on the show to help us out.

  DOMINIC YUN: On this first episode, we’re talking about why we broke up. We’ll take some calls a little later, but we wanted to start with our story, because clearly it’s something even Shay and I can’t agree on. Here are some other reasons couples break up these days: jealousy, broken promises, insecurity, infidelity—

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Working too closely with your partner.

  DOMINIC YUN: Or maybe interrupting them constantly.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I thought this was friendly banter?

  DOMINIC YUN: I feel like that would require you being friendly.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I’m friendly! To my friends!

  DOMINIC YUN: Okay, then—one friend to another, can I ask you a question?

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Um . . .

  Sound of papers shuffling.

  DOMINIC YUN: It’s not in our notes. Because I want to hear your honest answer.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Perfect. You want to ad-lib during our first three minutes on the air?

  DOMINC YUN: Never mind. You’re building it up too much. There’s too much suspense.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Dominic Yun, I will walk out of this studio right now if you don’t—

  Dominic laughs.

  DOMINIC YUN: Okay, okay. What I really want to know, since we’re talking about, you know, our relationship, is what you’d change about me, if you could. Assuming I’m not a flawless human being.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Oh, I definitely don’t need notes for that. Okay. So the first thing is that you’d only be able to talk about your master’s degree, like, once a month. Preferably never, but I’m not sure your ego could take it.

  DOMINIC YUN: My master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern?

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Yep, that’s the one. You also—you do this thing where you lean against a wall and crane your neck to talk to people, and it feels really condescending sometimes. Like you’re literally talking down to them.

  DOMINIC YUN: You do realize you’re, like, five feet tall, right? Am I not supposed to look at you when we’re talking?

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I am five two. Respect those two inches. No, but this is my special magical world where I can change anything about you. You didn’t say it had to make sense.

  DOMINIC YUN: You could just make me shorter.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I like how tall you are. I mean—so you can reach things for me when I don’t feel like climbing up on a counter.

  DOMINIC YUN: So my worst traits are my height and my advanced education? This is scathing.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: You also have that ball on your desk you’re always throwing around when you’re thinking, and it drives me bonkers. So I’d take that away. And now you’re going to tell me what you’d change about me?

  DOMINIC YUN: Only if you can handle it.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: You know I don’t have emotions while I’m at work.

  Dominic snorts.

  DOMINIC YUN: Well, first, you’d have to get taller. It’s just creepy for an adult to be as small as you are.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I got carded at an R-rated movie last weekend.

  DOMINIC YUN: And you didn’t you tell me? I could have spent the past week making fun of you.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: We’re getting off track. Tell me more things you don’t like about me. Drag me, Dominic. That’s what the cool kids say these days, right?

  DOMINIC YUN: Yeah, the cool kids in 2016. Okay, I’ll drag you. Let’s see . . . sometimes you think there’s only one right way to do things, so I guess I’d make you a little more flexible.

  Shay coughs.

  DOMINIC YUN: Do you need some water? Or do you need help reaching it?

  Shay coughs more violentl
y.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: No, I—okay. I’m fine.

  DOMINIC YUN: So, any of those things you wanted to change about me—do you think if I’d changed, we wouldn’t have broken up?

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Well . . . no. And I think I see what you’re getting at. You’re trying to say that even if we changed those things, we still wouldn’t be right together. And as much as I hate to admit it, you make a good point. If you’re expecting your partner to change, you may not be in the right relationship. Smart.

  DOMINIC YUN: Well, I do have a master’s degree.

  11

  I wake up the next morning scrunched on the edge of my bed. Steve is spread out in the middle, tiny whiskers twitching in his sleep. Progress. How such a small dog takes up so much space, I’ll never know.

  He usually wakes me before my alarm, so we’re often on a walk before I have a chance to check social media. Today I relish the extra few minutes with my phone, arranging myself so I’m semi-spooning my dog, trying not to disturb him.

  And . . . wow.

  I was just shy of a thousand followers on Twitter, but now I’m past 2K. My mentions are a mess, and I wince as I swipe over to them, waiting for what I’ve always feared would happen if I ever got on the radio.

  But that doesn’t happen.

  Because they’re nice.

  There’s a bit of unavoidable internet vitriol, but overall, people loved the show. Loved. I’m not exaggerating—the word is all over social media.

  Relief sinks me deeper into my mattress, and I fight a smile. For weeks, I’ve been carrying around this panic that we wouldn’t be good enough, that no one would listen, that I’d screw up live on air. But this—this is a powerful feeling, and it’s much stronger than I thought it would be.

  The hour started slowly. Dominic sounded calm, smooth, completely anxiety-free. Either he’s great at hiding it, or his stage fright really did go away once we went live. I was shaky at first, laughed a little too much, but then I gained my bearings. We had our intro scripted out, a he-said, she-said choreographed dance that he immediately threw a wrench into. Improvising with him wasn’t as difficult as I worried it might be, although the whole time, I was aware the stories we told about Dominic dropping a candle while lighting the menorah on his first Hanukkah and our very public fight at an Olive Garden, the one where we tested the limits of all-you-can-eat salad and breadsticks, weren’t about us. That I never actually branded him an honorary Jew. That it wasn’t Dominic in the story about ice-skating at Seattle Center when “The Time Warp” came over the speakers and both of us knew the dance.