But for a few minutes, it felt like it could have been.
I wasn’t sure how long I could improvise with him like that, though, so I was relieved when calls started coming in. “You sound like me and my ex,” Isaac from West Seattle had said with a laugh. “Although I don’t think I’d have nearly enough chill to host a radio show with him.”
Then Kayla in Bellevue called in to lament that she seemed to scare off potential dates by being too forward and making the first move.
“As women, we’re told we’re not supposed to initiate things,” I said, realizing it was something I had a strong opinion about. “That it’s more romantic for the guy to do it. Aside from how outdated and heteronormative that is, how else are you going to feel like you have any semblance of equality in a relationship? I never want to wait around, hoping someone else will decide to take control when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”
“I love when women make the first move. In fact,” Dominic said with a glance at me, “Shay’s the one who asked me out.”
“That’s right,” I said, not even needing to flip to the place in my notes where we summarized our first date. “I walked right up to him in the break room and asked if he wanted to grab dinner after work. And my mom just proposed to her boyfriend.”
Kayla pressed me for more details, and I realized I was happy to share them, to gush about my mother. After I’d had some space to process it, I could admit that it had been a great proposal.
I continue scrolling through Twitter, laughing at a tweet from someone who swears that if Dominic were her ex, she’d never have let him go. The sound of my joy startles Steve, and he leaps into action, licking my face until I surrender and peel myself out of bed.
On our walk, I check my phone with frozen hands. I lunge for it immediately after my shower, dripping water all over the screen. I refresh our hashtag while waiting for the toaster to release my multigrain bagel.
By the time I’m ready to leave for work, it’s eight forty-five. I have never, in my history at Pacific Public Radio, gotten to work later than eight fifty-five. I may be perpetually late to dinners with my family and friends, but never, never to work.
I haven’t had a chance to reply to the text Ameena sent after she listened to the podcast last night, unable to take a break at work. Holy shit! You and your fake ex-boyfriend sounded so good! So I call her on Bluetooth as I sit in I-5 traffic.
“Hello, radio star. It appears video hasn’t killed you.”
“Not yet, at least,” I say. “Hi. Yesterday was a whirlwind. I didn’t want you think I’d forgotten you in my rise to fame.”
She snorts. “Two thousand Twitter followers, and you’re suddenly too good for me?”
“I wasn’t going to say it, but if you feel uncomfortable with my extremely low level of celebrity . . .”
“Seriously, though, you guys sounded great,” she says. “Really natural. I forgot for a moment that you hadn’t actually dated, and I was cursing you for breaking up with him.”
“Ha,” I say. “Thank you. It sounded sort of real to me, too. Dominic hasn’t been entirely terrible to work with.”
“TJ wanted me to tell you that he was all ready to call in with a fake story about breaking up with me in public to save you if you needed it, but he didn’t have to. He was almost disappointed—he spent a lot of time coming up with it.”
“Tell him I appreciate it anyway.”
My speakers go staticky, like she’s covering the phone. “Ack, I have to run into a meeting,” she says. “Brunch on Sunday?”
“You know how I feel about brunch, but I’ll do it for you.”
* * *
—
The panic over being late sets in once I step into the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. I’m convinced Kent is going to yell at me as soon as I open the door, but that’s not what happens.
First, Emma McCormick at reception: “I loved your show, Shay!” And in a lower voice: “I shouldn’t ask this, but was he a good kisser? He seems like he would be. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but if you do . . . you know where to find me.”
Then Isabel Fernandez: “You two sounded fantastic! We should have done this a long time ago.”
Even senior editor Paul Wagner tells me he and his wife listened to the podcast during dinner last night and couldn’t stop cracking up.
None of it feels real. At any moment, I’m convinced Kent will pop up and say, Gotcha! Or that someone at the station will ask a question about my relationship with Dominic I’m unable to answer. That’s the part that makes my multigrain bagel threaten to come back up.
This is only how it begins, I try to convince myself. We’re telling a story. That’s what radio is. The show will grow beyond our story—it has to. It’s the only way I can stomach our lie.
I need to talk to Dominic, with all his journalism do-gooder morals. I need to know how he’s feeling, if he’s overwhelmed by the social media response or withering under the weight of a lie he never thought he’d tell.
But I don’t get the chance. He’s already at his desk, laser-focused on his computer screen. The ends of his dark hair are damp and curling slightly against the back of his neck. If his hair is still wet, he must not have gotten here that much earlier than me.
As soon as my bag hits the floor beneath my desk, Kent swoops in.
“My office,” he says with such urgency that we don’t waste any time following him there.
“Ruthie should be here,” I say when Dominic and I sit down in front of Kent’s desk.
“Here!” She rushes inside with two mugs of coffee, which she places in front of Dominic and me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, but she waves a dismissive hand. My mug is a relic. 2003 KPPR FALL PLEDGE DRIVE, it declares in blocky purple letters.
I’m not sure how I feel about this new dynamic between us. I don’t want to be that kind of host.
There are only three chairs in here, so Ruthie sort of stands off to the side, making me feel even more awkward.
“Just a second.” Dominic gets up and leaves the room. A moment later, he returns with an extra chair, which Ruthie gratefully accepts.
“Shay, Ruthie, could one of you take notes?” Kent asks. I wait for him to add, “Or Dominic.” He does not.
“I’ve got it,” Ruthie says.
“Thanks.” Kent clicks a few buttons on his computer. “So. You may have seen a bit of an explosion about the show on social media.” He turns the screen to face us. It’s a Twitter search of our hashtag, with new results popping up every few seconds. Then he clicks over to our podcast page. “Look at the number of downloads. It’s about four times higher than any of our other shows that aired this week. That’s huge for a new podcast.”
“Oh my god,” I say.
“And we had a pretty steady stream of callers,” Ruthie puts in. “Plenty of people to choose from. That girl who talked about breaking up with her boyfriend in the middle of a road trip? Gold.”
“Suffice it to say, I was not prepared for this to happen right away, but I’m thrilled,” Kent says. “Really thrilled. These numbers could make a huge difference come pledge drive season. They could put us on the national map, too. Excellent work, you two.”
“Three,” I say.
“Right. Of course. Sorry, Ruthie.” Kent offers her an apologetic look. “I know you’d typically conduct pitch meetings on your own, but given the interest the show has garnered, I think you’ll agree it makes sense for me to be involved as well. I’d like to be part of them moving forward, at least for a while, if that’s okay with you three.”
A bit unconventional, but . . . “That makes sense,” Ruthie says. “I’m fine with it if Shay and Dominic are.”
We nod our agreement.
“I just—wow,” Dominic says, and it’s maybe t
he first time I’ve seen him struggle for words. “I didn’t realize it would be happening so quickly.”
“Believe it,” Kent says, “and enjoy it. But we can’t stop now. What do you guys have planned for your next show?”
“We were going to do live couples therapy to figure out what went wrong in our relationship,” I say. “And then the week after, we have an academic and a psychologist couple booked to talk about recent relationship studies.”
“Love it. What else?”
“Well . . . ,” Ruthie starts. “I hadn’t pitched this yet, but I thought it would be interesting to do something about interracial dating.”
“Pitch it to me,” Kent says.
Pink spots appear on her cheeks. “Every time I’m dating an Asian girl or guy, people look at me almost like it’s expected . . . And if I’m dating a white girl, or a white guy, people look at me in a different way. Like they’re wondering if the person’s only with me because they’re into Asian girls. Then if I’m dating someone who isn’t white or Asian, they’re completely confused.”
It’s the most personal she’s ever been. Three years, and I barely know anything about her.
I vow to change that.
“I’ve never dated an Asian girl,” Dominic says.
I think back to his Facebook. Mia Dabrowski. How many other girls has he dated? It was hard to tell how long they’d been together—at least a couple years.
“I’d be down to talk about that,” I say, and then to Dominic: “if you’re okay with it.”
He nods. “I’d want to have some other people of color on the show, too.”
“Great, great,” Kent says. “So you’re solid content-wise. Now with regard to promo . . .” He clicks through a few things on his computer. “We need to strategize. I have the two of you talking to the Seattle Times at noon today, and a few online outlets want to interview you, too—BuzzFeed, Vulture, Slate, Hype Factory . . .”
“What the hell is Hype Factory?” Dominic says.
“Clickbait site,” I say. Not the most groundbreaking journalism, but “Fifteen Cats That Look Like Adam Driver (#8 Will Shake You to Your Core)” entertained me for a solid two minutes last week.
“We have to hop on this,” Kent says. “We’re in a unique position here. The podcast had an incredible premiere, and I applaud all of you for that. But it’s also just one episode. I don’t want anyone’s heads getting too big yet. What we need to do is keep this going, continue to build hype around it.
“Do you know how long people’s attention spans last today? Not long. People go wild over a new Stranger Things season for a week before a new Marvel trailer drops, and then there’s a new Disney remake everyone’s talking about. Nothing lasts. But we want to stay relevant as long as we can, really be part of the zeitgeist.”
Ruthie shudders.
“What was that?” Kent asks.
“Sorry, I just have a visceral reaction to the word ‘zeitgeist.’”
I muffle a laugh at this, but Kent doesn’t even crack a smile.
“I understand what you’re saying.” Dominic pushes up the sleeves of his black sweater. “I just don’t want any of it to feel disingenuous.”
Kent’s hand flies to his chest, as though insulted by what Dominic is insinuating. “I’m not asking any of you to be anything except yourselves,” he says, with the slightest lift of his brows.
A bigger reality hits me, settles like acid in my stomach: Ruthie thinks Dominic and I really dated. Making a vow to get to know her better sounds absurd when I’m lying to her simply by sitting next to her.
“Then if we’re good here,” Dominic says, “I’m going to go listen back to the show. See how we can improve next time.”
“Excellent idea,” Kent says. “And truly: Congratulations, you three.”
But I’m still stuck on the other thing he said:
Nothing lasts.
It probably lasts even less time if you’re lying about it.
Twitter
@amandaosullivan
Who else is obsessed with #TheExTalk? Dominic and Shay are so cute I can’t. If any of my exes were like Dom, I never would have let them go!
@elttaes_amadeus
i ship @goldsteinshayyy and @dominicyun on @TheExTalk so hard, can they get back together plz??? #TheExTalk #shayminic
@MsMollieRae17
can i just say it’s so refreshing to hear someone with a REAL sounding voice on NPR? #TheExTalk
@most_dolphinately_
Dominic Yun sounds like a pompous asshole #TheExTalk
@photography_by_shauna
OMG just finished #TheExTalk and I NEED episode 2! does anyone else kinda want shay and dominic to get back together?
@StanleyPowellPhD
This is what’s on NPR these days? Wish you could take back a pledge drive donation. #TheExTalk #nothanks
@itsmenikkimartinez
His voice sounds hot. Have you SEEN his photo? Hey @BabesofNPR, take a look. #TheExTalk #voicecrush #thirst
@_dontquotemeonthis
@itsmenikkimartinez @BabesofNPR Add @goldsteinshayyy too
12
Passover seders used to be solemn affairs. They were small, just my parents and grandparents, until my mother’s parents passed away and my dad’s parents moved to Arizona to escape the Seattle gloom. And then for most of my twenties, it was just my mother making a joke about me asking the Four Questions, since I’d never not been the youngest person at the table.
Now the first night of Passover is something of a party. We’re in the house I grew up in, but with fourteen of us around the table, it’s never been this loud. The Manischewitz and various other drinks flow freely, and Phil’s grandkids had fun hunting down the afikomen, a broken piece of matzah wrapped in a napkin and hidden somewhere in the house. This was always my dad’s favorite part of a seder, and he’d get a kick out of hiding it in my mother’s violin case, between books on a shelf, and once, taped underneath the table, which was so unexpected it took me almost an hour to think to look there. Since it’s their first Passover, I gave the kids an easy one: on top of the refrigerator. But next year, I’m going to be ruthless.
I like this part: sharing our traditions, leaving space for new ones.
“We’re loving your show,” says Phil’s son Anthony, and his husband Raj nods his agreement while trying to get a spoonful of mashed veggies into their toddler’s mouth.
“The second episode was even better than the first,” Raj says. “Especially when you stumped that poor couples counselor.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “It’s been a lot of fun so far.”
Our second episode aired a few days ago, and I’ve been refreshing our subscribers almost hourly. I thought we’d continue trending upward, but our download numbers seem to have kind of plateaued. We probably won’t have a chance at sponsors until we have thousands more downloads per month. It’s still early—that’s how I’m reassuring myself, at least—but I guess I assumed the media blitz would be enough to get us out there. Unless, like Kent said, the landscape is already so saturated that buzz for a new podcast sounds like more of a hiss.
“And Dominic sounds adorable,” says Phil’s daughter, a midthirties dentist named Diana. She’s sitting across from me, flashing pearly white teeth. “I can’t believe you broke up with him.”
“Even someone with a nice voice can be . . . a huge dick,” I say, grasping for the right word and never quite landing on it. Lying to Phil’s family—my family—takes a toll on my appetite, and I push around the brisket on my plate before realizing it’s exactly what Diana’s kids are doing.
“But was he a huge dick where it mattered?”
“Diana!” Phil says from one end of the table. “Your father is here. And there are children present.”
“Dad. I have, in fact, had sex before.” She gestures
to her kids. “Exactly twice.”
More laughter at this.
This was the kind of family I always wanted growing up, especially during our quiet seders. I wanted competition for the afikomen. I wanted someone else to ask the Four Questions. Except once my dad was gone, I realized I didn’t want a giant, raucous family. All I wanted was him.
It surprises me, this ease with which they talk about sex. Ameena and I talk about it plenty, but I’ve never quite gained that comfort with my mother. Maybe it’s because I discovered grief and sex at the same time. My earliest experiences are wrapped in that tightest of blankets, warped by sadness. I didn’t know how to have either conversation with her.
“So what happened?” Diana asks. “You can trust us with the NSFW version.”
“There’s no NSFW version.” I try to sound nonchalant. “We were just . . . incompatible.”
“I know all about that. Every guy in my early twenties. So much awkward fumbling.” She reaches out and clasps her husband Eric’s chin. “Fortunately, you were willing to learn.”
“Are we really having this conversation in front of our kids?” he says. Admittedly, they’re not paying attention, bickering about who spotted the afikomen first.
“I mean, have you met me?” Diana bats her lashes at him. He chuckles and shakes his head.
Truthfully, I’d love to be able to have conversations like that with Diana. But the one time we tried to meet up for lunch, one of her kids was sick and she couldn’t find a sitter, and we never rescheduled. Or maybe I’m completely inept at making adult friends.
The Ex Talk Page 11