“Tell us about the wedding,” says James, Phil’s youngest son, a chemistry grad student. “What do you have planned so far? How can we help?”
I’m grateful for the subject change. Now that it’s mid-April, July 14 no longer seems that far away.
“It’ll be small,” Phil says. “Not like your cousin Hassana’s wedding in Ibadan.”
Anthony slaps the table and bursts into laughter. “Remember the groom’s arrival in a helicopter? And the runaway peacock?”
Diana joins in. “I swear that peacock was out for blood.”
My mother laughs at this, too, and I’m not sure if she’s heard the story from Phil or just wants to feel like she’s part of this. Of course it’s natural for Phil’s family to have a history of shared experiences. But this is when it hits me that my family is no longer my mother and me and the occasional appearance from Ameena and TJ. We will never have in this room what we used to have, and in some ways that’s a good thing. I’ve sat through too many lonely, quiet dinners, counted down the minutes until I could escape.
I didn’t appreciate those dinners that sometimes felt haunted by my father’s ghost. I’m convinced of that now. Talking about him was hard, but not talking was worse. So often, I’m trapped between the pain of remembering and the fear of forgetting.
* * *
—
Dinner winds down slowly, and it’s nearing nine thirty when young kids are taken home to be tucked into bed. I can’t recall a Passover with my mother lasting past eight o’clock.
I help her in the kitchen, though Phil tells us he has it covered and tries to shoo us. He’s a good one, he really is, and I’m happy that my mother is happy. I wish it were easier for me to accept this change as a wholly positive one, instead of lamenting what I’m losing. Which of course makes me feel like a selfish piece of garbage. Guess it wouldn’t be a holiday without a healthy dose of self-loathing.
Finally, Phil gets my mother to agree to take a break. She retreats to the living room with a book about music, leaving Phil and me alone in the kitchen. There is definitely a lot more dishwashing involved with a family this big.
“You wash, I’ll dry?” he says, and we work in silence for a few minutes.
I run a sponge along the antique serving dish that belonged to my grandmother. “This was—really nice,” I say, stumbling over my words.
“We were happy to be part of it.” More silent scrubbing and drying, and then: “Your dad loved radio, yes?”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’d be so proud of you.” Ever so gently, Phil dries the serving dish, treating it with the same kind of respect my mother has for so many years. “I’m not trying to take his place. You know that, right?”
“I know you’re not an evil stepfather. You don’t have to worry about that.”
He grins. “Perhaps not, but it’s still an adjustment. You can’t be used to”—he gestures to the dining room—“all of that madness yet.”
I give a sheepish shrug. “Not really,” I say before we plunge back into semi-quiet, the only sounds are the running water and the classical music my mother is playing in the next room. Brahms. Classical has never been my favorite, maybe because the lack of words forces me to stay in my own mind instead of listening to what’s inside someone else’s. Still, growing up with it ensured I knew my way around it.
I could be content with this. I could continue giving him superficial responses, or I could make a concrete attempt to get to know my future stepfather. Because regardless of what I do or don’t say, it’s happening. A few months from now, this man who’s shown my mother and me nothing but kindness will be an even more permanent fixture.
Maybe there will always be a ghost in this house, but it doesn’t mean that I need to disappear, too.
“You mentioned during dinner that there’s a new conductor at the symphony?”
“Alejandro Montaño,” Phil says with utmost reverence. “A living legend. He’s a little quirky, to put it lightly, but he’s damn brilliant.”
“Quirky how?”
“Well, to start, he’s been singing parts of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro overture out loud.”
I gasp. “No.”
“Yes,” Phil says, and maybe a relationship with him really is this easy. “And . . .” He glances around, as though worried legendary conductor Alejandro Montaño might overhear us. “He has a dreadful voice.”
“And, of course, no one can say anything.” From my mother, I know that conductors can be dictators of the classical music world.
“Of course not.” He accepts another bowl I pass to him. “You really are doing a great job with the show, Shay. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Thank you,” I say. “My dad always talked about how radio was more than just one thing. It could make you laugh one minute and then break your heart the next. Actually . . .” I trail off, chewing the inside of my cheek. An idea is forming, and though Phil has always been easygoing, I’m not sure how he’ll react to this. “I’d love to be able to do some heavier episodes. Maybe . . . something about grief.”
Phil pauses in the middle of drying the bowl. “Connected to relationships?”
I nod, the idea gaining a little more weight. “Maybe it could be about finding love again after—after losing a spouse or partner.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, and I curse myself for saying the wrong thing. He and Diana can joke about things I’d never joke about with my mother, but this might be off-limits. Maybe I’ve crossed a line.
“You know,” he says finally, “I would really enjoy listening to that.”
I can feel my shoulders soften with relief. This could be how I make up for lying to our listeners—by producing something real and raw. By finding the truth, as Dominic is so fond of talking about.
“What if you two came on the show to talk about it?”
“The two of us? On The Ex Talk?” My mother reenters the kitchen, rubbing at her throat, her dark brows climbing nearly to her hairline. “You don’t want me on the radio. I highly doubt I’d have anything interesting to say.”
“You would,” I insist.
Phil pats his hands dry and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “If Leanna doesn’t want to, then I’m afraid I’m out as well.”
“But—you both would sound so great.” I’m suddenly deeply attached to this seconds-old idea. I can imagine it: violinists healing from loss and rediscovering love through music. In my head, I become their conductor and the show becomes a symphony, a mix of strings and voices, with pauses at just the right time for the listener to take it all in.
“I’ll think about it,” my mother says. “Chag sameach.”
“Chag sameach,” I echo, and I hug them both before I leave.
On the drive back to my house, I forgo a podcast for the first time in what feels like forever. Classical music swells from my speakers, wrapping its notes around my heart and guiding me home.
The Ex Talk, Episode 2: We Need to Talk
Transcript
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Welcome to The Ex Talk! I’m your host, Shay Goldstein.
DOMINIC YUN: And I’m your other host, Dominic Yun.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And we are two people who dated, broke up, and now have a radio show about it. Is that how we should introduce ourselves every time? We’re still working on it.
DOMINIC YUN: I like it, but you never seemed to want to listen to my opinions.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: That’s because mine were usually better. We want to thank everyone who listened to our first episode, posted about it online, or shared it with their friends. If I can get sappy for a second, I’ve always wanted to host a radio show, and I didn’t think it was ever going to happen. So truly: Thank you.
DOMINIC YUN: We have something a little terrifying on today’s show—well, terrifying for us. Ideally it’ll be enjoyable f
or you, the listener. A bit of schadenfreude for your Thursday afternoon, or wherever in time you happen to be when you listen to this podcast.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: We’re thrilled to have Dr. Nina Flores in the studio with us. She’s a renowned couples counselor who’s here to help us figure out what went wrong in our relationship. Dr. Flores, thank you so much.
DR. NINA FLORES: Please, call me Nina. It’s my pleasure.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Nina, we’d love for you to take some calls from listeners, but first, we want to get your take on our relationship.
DOMINIC YUN: Maybe you could have even saved it.
DR. NINA FLORES: Well, Dominic, I want to be clear that it’s not my job to do the saving. I give couples the tools to have an open dialogue about whatever they’re struggling with, the ability to step back and analyze their relationship, to ask themselves, “Is this the best thing I should do or say in this scenario?”
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: So there’s no magic wand?
DR. NINA FLORES: Correct.
DOMINIC YUN: Let’s say you break up, but you still have to work with your ex. I would imagine a lot of our listeners can relate to that as well. And in my situation, well, my ex was intent on making my job as difficult as possible. What kinds of tools would you give me in that scenario?
Nina laughs.
DOMINIC YUN: I’d also like to point out that Shay is rolling her eyes.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I am not! There was a smudge on my glasses.
DOMINIC YUN: I see. You wanted to have a better view of my face.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: A better view of its flaws. Did you just stop halfway through shaving this morning and call it good?
DOMINIC YUN: It’s already three o’clock. I have very powerful testosterone.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: You heard him, folks, we have a great big strong MAN in the studio today. However will the women be able to keep from fainting?
DOMINIC YUN: Keeping their sarcasm to themselves might be a good start.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I’m starting to feel it. I—I’m getting weak. I’m not sure how much longer I can be in your presence. The room is spinning, and I’m hot all over, and—and—
DR. NINA FLORES: You know . . . forgive me for saying this, but in the interest of getting everything out in the open and on the table—I’ve worked with a lot of couples, and I’m sensing something between you two. Something you two haven’t talked about. Some lingering tension, perhaps?
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: What? Oh—no. No lingering tension here.
DOMINIC YUN: Definitely not. Everything is on the table, Nina. Trust me.
13
The master’s jar starts during episode three, when a caller named Lydia tells us she met her ex in grad school.
“I don’t like to talk about it, but I also have a master’s degree,” Dominic says, catching my gaze, half his mouth tilting into a smile. There’s a self-awareness to it he didn’t have a couple months ago, or if he did, I never noticed. It’s too funny to bother me anymore, especially now that it’s become a joke with the listeners. They latched onto what I said in the first episode and even found some of his old college articles and tweeted them out.
Lydia’s laugh is a fuzzy burst through the phone line. “You guys should start a master’s jar. Like a swear jar, except Dominic has to put in five dollars every time he mentions his master’s degree.”
It’s wild, the way she talks about Dominic like she’s known him for ages. My favorite podcasts have built up years and years of in-jokes, and I can’t quite believe that we’re already starting to have something like that. A vocabulary just for us and our listeners.
“That’s perfect,” I say. “I’m all for shaming Dominic.”
“Five dollars?” Dominic says, incredulous. “How much do you think we make?”
So that’s how the empty Costco jelly bean jar ends up on my desk with DOMINIC MASTER’S JAR written on it in Sharpie. Ruthie decorates it with blue and orange stickers, the colors of the University of Illinois—Northwestern’s rival. At the end of every month, the listeners get to vote on the charity we donate the money to. By the end of the week, there’s twenty-five bucks in there.
People at the station have been trying to bait him, too. Mike Russo mentioned his daughter will be applying to college in the fall and wondered if Dominic knew of any good schools in Illinois, and Jacqueline Guillaumont asked if he had an opinion on the piece about higher-education funding she was working on. The funniest thing of all, maybe, is that he’s being such a good sport about it, shaking his head, offering a tight smile, and backing away from any question that could steal five dollars from his wallet.
In a landslide, the listeners vote to send our first donation to the University of Illinois alumni association. I film a video to post on social media while Dominic pretends to shed a tear as he makes out the check.
* * *
—
The next week, Dominic and I wind up at a trendy new downtown restaurant to collect some tape for an upcoming show about aphrodisiacs. At Oscura, we’re completely in the dark, both literally and metaphorically: All the lights are off, and the dishes, a prix fixe menu based on whatever the chef is in the mood for, are made up of primarily aphrodisiacs. Ruthie went here on a date when it opened and said it was a trippy experience. Today they cleared out the restaurant for a private lunch for Dominic and me.
“This is a cold pomegranate-beet soup with maca root,” says Nathaniel, the maître d’, and I hear a soft clink as two bowls are placed in front of us. “It’s a plant that has been called the Peruvian Viagra.”
A recording device sits on the table between us. We wanted to experiment with our segments, mix in some prerecorded elements. Since we can’t see what we’re doing, it’ll make for great radio, and my inner audiophile is positively giddy. The first course was oysters with some kind of fancy cocktail sauce. I’m probably one of only a handful of people in Seattle who don’t like seafood, so I couldn’t tell if they were good or not. But Dominic said wow after his first one, so I assume they were. The second course was a potato galette with a pistachio crust, the third a chicken curry with heaps of fenugreek, and now we’re on the last course before dessert.
In the dark, my sense of smell is much stronger, and the Viagra soup smells incredible. Tart yet earthy, with a hint of sweetness from the maca. I dip my spoon and lift it to my mouth. “Oh my god. I could eat a vat of that.”
“How much science is there behind all of this?” Dominic asks. “Because what I’ve read is that oysters aren’t scientifically proven to be aphrodisiacs, though there’s some evidence to back up something like maca or fenugreek.”
“Our goal is to provide our guests a fun, inventive dining experience,” Nathaniel says. “But our chef does have a master’s degree in nutritional science. I can bring him out for an interview at the end of the meal.”
“We’d love that, thank you,” Dominic says. “About how long did it take you to get used to the dark?”
“There was a lot of stumbling at first, a lot of dropped plates.” If I could see, I imagine he’d be smiling. “But we got the hang of it after a couple of weeks.”
“Do you just have people ripping off each other’s clothing by the end of the meal?” I ask. I am a Serious Professional Journalist.
Nathaniel laughs. “Not exactly,” he says, “but if they were, we wouldn’t notice.”
He retreats to the kitchen.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Dominic. “The maca isn’t too strong?”
“Are you asking if I’m horny?”
I choke on my next spoonful of soup. “Gross, no, I don’t want to know that.”
Truthfully, I feel a little something not unlike what I felt in the station kitchen. It could be entirely psychological, the dark playing tricks on me the way the alcohol did. The table is tiny, and our knees keep knocking together be
neath it. It’s only when he pulls his legs back that I realize we’ve been touching for the past one and a half courses.
“You’re still anxious about the numbers,” Dominic says.
“How can you tell? You can’t even see my face.”
“It’s your tone.”
I didn’t realize we’d been spending so much time together that he’d be able to gauge my moods by the sound of my voice, but maybe we have.
“A little,” I admit. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not that I thought we’d be this overnight smash hit, and our listeners really have been amazing. I guess I just crave validation,” I half joke in a way I hope sounds self-deprecating.
Dominic’s quiet for a few moments, and I curse the dark. Not that I’d be able to read his expression anyway. “I wasn’t going to say anything unless it seemed like it was going to happen, but . . .” He takes a breath. “A friend of mine from undergrad, he works in PR with Saffron Shaw.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“She’s on that CW show, Oceanside?”
“I’ve heard of it.” I’ve watched a couple episodes. Fine, seven. “One of those shows where all the actors are in their midtwenties playing teens?”
“James Marsters was in his midthirties when he started on Buffy,” Dominic points out.
“Fair. Wait, how have we not talked about whether you’re on Team Angel or Team Spike?”
“Team Riley.”
“Please leave.”
He laughs. “Just wanted to test you. I’m Team Angel to my core. The romantic in me, I guess.”
Huh. I never would have pegged him as the romantic type. I confirm for him that I’m on the same team.
“Saffron has like, this rabid fan base,” Dominic says, “and she does this thing on social media where she recommends something to her followers every week, a show or a book or something. My friend thought Saffron would be into The Ex Talk, so he was going to try to get it to her, but I haven’t heard anything.”
The Ex Talk Page 12