“That’s—really awesome of you,” I say. He cares about the show. It shouldn’t come as a shock to me, and yet it does. He wants it to succeed as much as I do. “Thanks for doing that.”
“I wanted to be able to surprise you with it,” he says, and then wryly adds: “So thanks for ruining that.”
I want to swat his arm, but I’m worried I’d miss and dump what I assume is fuchsia liquid into his lap instead, so I keep my hands to myself.
After we polish off the pomegranate soup, Nathaniel returns with the final course. “These are handcrafted dark chocolate cherry truffles.” He pauses. “We always encourage the couple to feed each other.”
“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I say.
“You must have the full experience,” he insists.
“We should do what the man says,” Dominic says, and louder, as though making sure the mic catches this: “Let the record show that Shay Goldstein did not want my hands anywhere near her mouth.”
“I have no problem with your hands near my mouth. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever put there,” I say sweetly.
“Too racy for public radio,” Dominic says with a cluck of his tongue.
“Shay, go ahead,” Nathaniel says, sounding as though he’s trying to hold in a laugh.
My hand stumbles around on the table before I find one of the truffles. It’s bite-size but probably deathly rich. “The airplane is preparing for landing,” I say as I bring it up to where I imagine Dominic’s mouth is.
“Ah, yes, nothing more romantic than imagining you’re feeding a picky child,” he says, and I must press the chocolate into the side of his face because he adds, “Runway’s a little to the left.”
Carefully, I maneuver it across his stubbled cheek and over to his mouth. There. He parts his lips to take a small bite, his teeth grazing my fingers. And oh my god, that is a feeling I’ve never before experienced during dinner. His lips are so smooth, contrasted with the roughness of his cheek, and I can feel the chocolate melting on my fingertips.
“Sorry,” he says in a scratchy voice that makes my hand wobble against his mouth and my heart do something similar inside my chest. “God, that’s phenomenal.”
He goes for the chocolate again, his tongue slicking the pads of my fingers. Breathe. I can do this. I can feed Dominic Yun a truffle without losing my shit.
Except every time we make contact, I imagine us up against that wall again, him inching closer and closer until there’s no space between our bodies. And the various other ways he’d use his tongue and his teeth, how he might savor a girl the way he savors this piece of chocolate.
I hope Nathaniel knows this place is dangerous. We may be in a darkened restaurant designed to get people in the mood to ravage each other, but this is our job. I cannot have these kinds of feelings at work.
Finally, it’s his turn to—ugh—feed me. I’m convinced it won’t be as disconcerting as the sensation of his teeth on my skin, but he reaches my closed mouth a second before I’m ready, before I’ve had the chance to process what’s happening. He nudges my lips apart with one gentle finger before slipping me a bite of the most decadent piece of chocolate I’ve ever tasted.
“Good?” Dominic says, and suddenly he sounds much closer than just across the table.
No. This truffle is downright indecent. It’s not good, the way my teeth scrape his fingers. It’s not good, the sweetness of chocolate and the salt of his skin. It’s not good, the way I have to press my thighs together to guard against the sensation building there and demanding relief.
This is not foreplay. It’s work.
We might be tricking our listeners, and now the darkness and proximity are tricking me, morphing my annoyance with him into some kind of deranged attraction.
“Great,” I manage, and it’s really not good, the way I crave chocolate the rest of the week.
Twitter
Saffron Shaw () @saff_shaw
happy friday, loves!!! today’s #saffrec is a podcast called @TheExTalk!
they only have a few episodes out but the hosts are so so charming and REAL! give em a listen so they can make more, k?
Replies: 247 RTs: 9.2K Likes: 16K
14
The Apple Podcasts Top 100.
We slide into spot number ninety-seven on Friday afternoon, after Saffron Shaw’s tweet, and we ride that high all weekend. The tweet gets picked up by the Mary Sue, by Vulture, by NPR’s own pop culture podcast. My follower count jumps to three thousand, to five thousand, to eight thousand. I lose the ability to keep up with my notifications, and at one point, #shayminic might be trending.
It’s wild.
Monday is basically a wash. Kent brings in donuts at nine, pops a bottle of champagne at ten, and takes us out to a long lunch at eleven thirty. We don’t get much work done after that.
The whole time, my mind is spinning. From the shock of our sudden fame and the pressure to sustain it, yes, but there’s something underneath. The station is treating Dominic like a hero, which would normally make me roll my eyes. But he did help make this happen—I have to give him credit for that. Leading up to episode 1, I figured I’d be most anxious about my voice. And while I probably won’t ever love listening to myself, I thought our lie would be easy. We were storytelling.
Except when listener tweets make it so clear they buy every detail of our fake relationship and well-crafted breakup, I can’t help wondering which side of this my dad would be on. People have so quickly become invested in this story that isn’t real, regardless of how Kent pitched it to the board of directors.
And yet there was Dominic, purveyor of Truth in Journalism, basking in the attention and letting Kent buy him another beer.
“Going down?”
He shows up in front of the elevator just as I’m waiting for it. Oddly, this hasn’t happened since the show began. I’ve always needed to rush home to walk Steve, while Dominic seems content to stay late.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to pay the AI golf club startup on the sixth floor a visit,” I tell him. “They seem like good people.”
“Never pegged you as the golfing type.”
“I’m a complex and layered human being.”
That earns me a smirk. “You know, I’m hating this much less than I thought I would.”
“You’re not hating your nearly ten thousand followers?”
“Don’t be bitter because you’re only at nine thousand.”
“Nine thousand five hundred.”
And I’m sure we’ll both be flooded with sponsorship opportunities soon. Still, I’ve had to limit looking at my mentions, since some people don’t exactly respect the boundaries between our private and professional lives. Sure, the show blurs the two, and the images of famous movie breakup scenes one listener posted with my and Dominic’s faces photoshopped onto the actors’ bodies were entertaining. Yes, I retweeted it.
But some comments have strayed a little past PG-13. I was flattered by it at first—strangers finding me attractive is certainly an ego boost—but it stopped feeling innocent when someone tweeted at me asking if Dominic’s circumcised. Then someone asked Dominic to rate my performance in bed. And those were some of the tamer ones.
I have enough unsavory thoughts on my own without the internet making it worse.
The elevator arrives, and when we both go to hit P, his hand gets there first. God, he looks even taller in here.
My brain does bad things in enclosed spaces with Dominic, but I want to take advantage of our alone time, ask him the questions I can’t in the newsroom.
“It’s weird, isn’t it, that some people want us to get back together?”
“Apparently, both of us are in the right and in the wrong, and we deserve both better and worse.”
“We should really stop reading the tweets.” I settle into a much less impressive lean against the o
pposite side of the elevator, toying with the strap of my bag. “You don’t feel . . . I don’t know, dishonest?”
He pauses, and then: “You made it pretty clear when you begged me to do the show with you. We’re telling a story.”
“Right.” I thought maybe he was wearing a facade for Kent—not that he’d abandoned his journalistic morals. Maybe they weren’t that strong to begin with. It changes my opinion of him, just a little. I guess I liked that he had something he was so passionate about. So steadfast.
“How’s your family handling all of this?” I ask. “Do they listen to the show?”
His mouth curves into that frustrating side smile. “They wonder what I did to drive you away.”
“And you told them it was your insistence on falling asleep to the lullaby of a judicial-system podcast?”
“Naturally. I was going to tell one of my buddies from college. Undergrad,” he adds. “But we’re all spread out, and we don’t talk as much as we used to. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed here for college,” he says, and there’s a hint of . . . nostalgia? in his voice. “But then I wouldn’t have the master’s degree.”
“That’s five dollars.”
“We’re off the clock,” he says, feigning a look of innocence. “You’re not going to let me off easy?”
I hold out my hand, and he groans and slides his wallet from his pocket.
This ease between us, it’s very new. I don’t entirely hate it, even if it makes me more aware of all the angles of him: the slant of his shoulders, the curve of his cheekbones. It’s cruel that I can’t go back to simply being annoyed by him.
A ding indicates we’ve reached the parking garage.
“This elevator’s been so slow lately,” I say. “Well. See you tomorrow.”
I’m heading toward the booth with the security guard, where we swipe our badges every morning, when Dominic says, “Wait.”
I turn around.
“Do you . . . maybe want to grab drinks? Mahoney’s next door has a great happy hour. Half off everything. To celebrate the top one hundred,” he adds. “It’s a big milestone. I mean—I guess we celebrated most of the day, but there’s no such thing as too much celebrating, right?” He finishes this with a sheepish laugh, a rake of his hand through his dark hair. Is he . . . nervous?
“Oh—” I start, caught off guard by the comment. Drinks. Drinks with Dominic. Dominic asked me to grab drinks with him. A friendly round of drinks between colleagues. Surely that’s all it was intended to be. He’s trying to prove we can be friends, just like our alternate-universe selves after our made-up breakup. “I, um, can’t. I have to feed my dog.”
“Let me guess, he also ate your show notes?”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god. I just realized how that sounded. I swear, I really do have to feed my dog.”
“You just adopted him, right?” Dominic’s features soften, but I don’t feel any less relaxed. “I love dogs. My apartment doesn’t allow them.”
“Last month. We’re still getting into a routine. He’s a bit of a weirdo, but it’s like, he’s my weirdo.” Now I might start rambling. “I didn’t realize I’d love him so much, but I do, despite all his idiosyncrasies. Or maybe because of them.”
For a few seconds, I think I might want to invite him over to meet my dog.
But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Dominic in my house, playing with Steve? That’s too strange a visual to even imagine.
“Okay—well,” he says, nodding toward the doors. “I’m off to drink alone.”
I groan. “Please, don’t make yourself sound that pathetic. I’ll feel bad.”
“You know you love it.” He waves, and I wonder if he really is going to a bar to have half-off drinks by himself, and something about that strikes me as so incredibly sad. He said he’d considered telling his college friends about our fake past relationship, but he didn’t mention any Seattle friends. Again, I find myself wondering how he spends his free time. If we’ve gained any kind of friendliness with each other, it isn’t enough for me to feel comfortable asking.
I half expect him to say something like another time, as though promising we’ll do drinks again when my dog’s dinner isn’t as urgent. But it doesn’t come, and as I navigate the parking lot maze to my car, I realize I was waiting for it.
* * *
—
I dump a few capfuls of lavender bubble bath into my tub and pile my hair into a topknot. Steve lounges on the rug in the middle of my bathroom, chewing on a stuffed hippo, and a glass of rosé is perched on the edge of the tub. It’s been ages since I took a bath, mainly because it hasn’t always been easy to relax in my house. Typically, I’d turn on a podcast, but the silence feels kind of nice. Tonight it feels like I can turn off my mind and just be. (Or, I’m trying to.)
Our show is doing well. (For now.)
My mother is happily planning her wedding. (And still on the fence about my grief show, but I’m working on her.)
Ameena’s been swamped at work, but we made dinner plans for this weekend. (And she’s continuing to advance in the interview process for the Virginia job.)
And Dominic . . .
Nope, not going there.
I’m stepping into the bath when my phone vibrates on the counter. I’d planned to leave it in my bedroom, but it’s possible I’m a little too married to it, to our subscriber numbers, to my Twitter feed.
Dominic: I trust your dog had a prompt and gourmet dinner.
I can’t help smiling at that. I send a response before sinking into the hot water.
Shay: He has a sophisticated palate. I think his kibble is even made with some amount of real chicken. Or at least they have to legally put that on the package.
Shay: How was drinking alone?
Dominic: Is it drinking alone if you make awkward small talk with the old trucker guy at the other end of the bar who may or may not have invited you to a trucker party?
Shay: Dominic. Are you at a trucker party? Do you need help?
Shay: Related: what is a trucker party?
His replies come so quickly that I barely have time to set my phone down before it lights up again.
Dominic: I’m at home, so sadly, I may never find out.
Shay: It’s 8:30. Go out and do whatever the young folk are doing these days.
Dominic: But I’m already in my comfy sweats.
Shay: If you’re in comfy sweats at 8:30, you’re no longer allowed to make fun of me for being old.
Dominic: Fine, what are you wearing?
I choke on a sip of wine, and Steve glances up from the floor, as though to make sure I haven’t died. Not because he necessarily cares about me, but because I am his source of food. Once he’s confirmed I’m still alive, he returns to his toy.
Dominic: oh
Dominic: oh god
Dominic: I didn’t mean that the way it sounds
Dominic:
Shay: Good, because the answer would have been weird for both of us.
I’m not flirting. I swear.
Dominic: A sexy Gritty costume?
Shay: Damn it, you weren’t supposed to guess right on the first try.
He goes quiet for a while, and I return to my rosé like the millennial trash I am. Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear. I overthink and overanalyze.
Dominic: You know what? You’ve convinced me. I’m young and sprightly. I’m going out.
Shay: No more comfy sweats?
Dominic: Comfy sweats off, party jeans on.
Shay: Ha. Have fun.
I stare down at the phone, wondering if my response doesn’t convey enough enthusiasm. I’m not entirely sure what I encouraged him to go out and do or what level of enthusiasm I should have about it. After a few more seconds of deliberation, I send a party hat emoji. That makes me feel a li
ttle better.
It’s an hour and a half later, once I’m getting in bed with a steamy romance novel and another glass of wine, that my phone buzzes again.
Dominic: have you ever wondered why pizzas come in square boxes even though they’re round
The lack of capital letters and punctuation is a dead giveaway. He’s got to be drinking.
Shay: UNSUBSCRIBE
Dominic: won’t work, I’m not asking you for money or to vote for me
Shay: Fine then. I assume it’s because it’s easier to make square boxes. And the square stops the pizza from sliding all over the place.
Dominic: so smart
I wish I could explain why texting with him makes me grin at my phone like my favorite podcast just dropped a surprise bonus episode. I probably wouldn’t like the answer. For now, I’ll blame it on being tipsy.
Dominic: Shay Evelyn Goldstein
Dominic: I am very drnuk. too drunk for autocrrect
Shay: How do you know my middle name?
Dominic: we dated for three months, of course I know your middle name
Shay: It seems as though the party jeans are really living up to their name.
Dominic: oh yeah. everything’s spinny and bouncy and beauuuuuutiful
Dominic: I’m even starting to forget where I live
This wipes the grin off my face. I’m sure it’s a joke, but I’m the one who suggested he go out. He was so in control when we were drinking at the station. Depending on how drunk he is, he may actually need help.
Shay: Where are you right now?
Dominic: the nomad in cap hill
Dominic: why, u putting on party jeans too??
I’m not going to be able to properly enjoy this romance novel or even fall asleep afterward if I’m worrying about him, damn it.
Shay: Stay there. I’m on my way.
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