“Where did they get that fucking doll?” I hiss to Ameena.
Ameena frowns at her canvas, where she’s captured the essence of the doll in a way few people could. “I don’t know, but I swear her one eye is following me.” She peers over at my rendering of it. “What the hell, Shay, you made it worse!”
“I’m sorry!” I lob more paint onto the canvas. “My mind is in about a hundred places.”
“I get it. I’ve barely been able to focus on work this week with all the interview prep the conservancy sent over.”
A thing that is happening: Ameena flying to Virginia for a final interview.
She told me ten minutes ago. I’m still processing.
The wine helps, but it’s also led me down a few questionable paths lately, so I’m not about to trust it completely. I’ve amended my vow: I am not drinking only if Dominic is nearby, since I can’t be trusted to make good choices.
So far this week, we’ve stuck to our plan to pretend Monday night never happened. We’ve been polite, probably too polite as we dance around each other in a finely tuned choreography of avoidance. Our conversations are about work and work only. No late nights at the office, no more tidbits about our personal lives. His face is as stoic as it’s ever been. For the first time, I’m dreading tomorrow’s show, and painting with Ameena isn’t as much of a distraction as I’d hoped it would be.
Part of me is relieved we’ve been able to put it behind us, but another part—a part that’s growing larger each day—can’t stop thinking about the kiss. Can’t get his stupid nice face out of my head. That brush of lips was so brief that sometimes I’m convinced I imagined it. I haven’t even told Ameena.
And it’s not just the kiss. It’s what we talked about, our shared loneliness, and how I felt we might be turning a corner in our relationship. Because if the kiss didn’t happen, then none of that did, either. We’re not friends? Dominic had asked. No. I suppose we’re not.
“Do you want help with the interview?” I ask Ameena, banishing Dominic to the darkest corner of my brain and tying him to a chair. No. Wait. That’s worse.
She shakes her head. “TJ’s been really great about it.” Then, without looking up from her painting, she says, “He said last night that he’d move with me if I get the job.”
“Oh . . . oh wow.” I let this sink in. At least if TJ were here, Ameena would have more of a reason to visit. I don’t want to admit my biggest fear: that I am not enough of a reason on my own. “That’s good, yeah?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “It would make my decision easier if they offer me the job, but it’s still going to be a tough one.”
“I’d come see you. We could do Virginian things, like . . .”
“You don’t know anything about Virginia, do you?”
“It’s for lovers?”
“Supposedly.” She sips her wine. “And are you still pretending your cohost isn’t cute?”
My face heats up. You’re cute. That was what he said Monday night. Then he said he liked my hair down—liked it a lot. In related news, I’ve worn ponytails the past two days.
“I can admit he’s cute. But even if I liked him, and even if he liked me, which he doesn’t, this wouldn’t be able to be a thing.” If he had any nonprofessional feelings for me, he wouldn’t have been so eager to forget the kiss. Simple as that.
“Why not?”
I glance around, then lower my voice. “The whole point of the show is that we used to date, and that our breakup was amicable enough for us to host it together.
“So maybe you got back together.”
Lies on top of lies. “It wouldn’t work,” I say. “You know how I get in relationships. How much of a nightmare would it be if I somehow fell for him, and he didn’t feel the same way, and we were stuck still hosting the show together?”
“Okay, okay. You’re right,” she says, but in this way that sounds like she knows I won’t listen to anyone but myself about this. And she’s not wrong, but I’m not wrong, either. Dating Dominic Yun would be a catastrophe. Even the hypothetical is enough to turn my stomach inside out.
Ameena’s staring at my painting. “Can you at least turn that thing away from me?”
* * *
—
I decide to wear my hair down the next day. Show day.
I wake up early, by which I mean I had a Dominic nightmare around three a.m. and couldn’t fall back asleep. I have plenty of time to shower, let my hair air-dry, and straighten my bangs.
And it doesn’t look bad at all.
Even though I want to drag my chair away from his before we start recording, I sit down next to him the way I do every Thursday, fold my hands primly on the table in front of me. If he notices the lack of ponytail, he’s not giving anything away. I shouldn’t be disappointed.
For this episode, our fifth, it was Ruthie’s idea for Dominic to quiz me on dating slang.
“Breadcrumbing,” he says, glancing up from his notes and lifting his eyebrows at me. A challenge. It’s the most personality he’s shown me all week, and I try to ignore the shiver it sends down my spine.
“That one’s obvious,” I say. “It’s when you’re dating a cannibal who lives in the woods. In a gingerbread house.”
Dominic cues Jason to play a buzzer sound effect.
“Submarining.”
“When you and your partner watch Yellow Submarine to get in the mood. Also known as ‘Beatles and chill.’”
“Cushioning.”
“Oh, that’s when you bring a cushion with you on every date so your partner doesn’t have to sit on any hard surfaces.”
Dominic is laughing now, a hand clasped over his mouth. I’m trying very hard not to look at his hands, though, since I can’t seem to do it without thinking about what they did in my imagination last night. Which is something I’ve shoved firmly to the back of my mind, along with Ameena’s final interview. Gotta love compartmentalization.
“Let’s try something new,” I say, moving on to the next bullet point on our rundown. Maybe one day, I’ll barely glance at it, like Paloma used to do, but five episodes in, and while I’m okay going off script sometimes, it’s still the best kind of security blanket. “If you think you can come up with the best definition of one of the slang words we tweeted out before the show, call us at 1-888-883-KPPR. We’ll pick our favorites at the end of the show. You can also tweet them out using the hashtag ExTalkSlang.”
Our first caller is Mindy in Pioneer Square. “Okay, so, roaching,” she says. “It’s when someone tries to create a relationship out of the situation where they’re sleeping on your couch that you graciously offered to them when their apartment became infested with cockroaches.”
“That sounds like maybe something you’ve had firsthand experience with?” I say.
Mindy groans. “It was the worst. I didn’t want to send him back to his disgusting apartment, and I thought he might have feelings for me, but I figured, I’ll just do this nice thing, I work long hours, we’ll barely see each other. Well, imagine my surprise when I got home from work to find him in the bathtub surrounded by very strategically placed rose petals.”
“Roaching at its finest,” I say with a shudder.
“Dominic, reassure me,” Mindy says. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Definitely not. I’d use lavender.”
My mouth goes dry. I chance a look over at him, but he’s staring straight ahead, stoic as usual. The bath I told him about. You smell good. Is he messing with me?
“Stop,” Mindy says with a laugh. “I love you both so much. I would not be able to do this with any of my exes. And Dominic . . . you seem like one of the good ones. I don’t know if you’re single . . .” She says it suggestively, and I really don’t like what happens in my chest as a result.
“Sorry, Mindy,” he says, “I’m interested in
someone.”
That hits me in a weird place. He didn’t mention it Monday when there was clearly an opportunity for it. Or maybe it’s new. I should be happy for him, but instead I feel strangely hollow. Maybe that’s why he wanted to forget the kiss: because he was trying to start something with someone else.
The lavender had to be coincidental. Now I’m sure of it.
“I can’t say I’m not secretly hoping you’ll find a way to make it work with Shay,” Mindy says, “but whatever happens, I’m happy for both of you.”
“Thanks for calling, Mindy,” I say, aware I sound a little brusque, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Dominic hits the button for the next caller. “Now we have John calling from South Lake Union,” he says.
“Yeah, hi,” says a curt male voice. Midthirties or forties, if I had to guess. “I was listening to you in the car and had to pull over and call.”
“Glad to hear the show made an impact,” Dominic says, but I lift my eyebrows at him, unsure the caller meant this in a positive way.
A sharp laugh. “Not exactly. My girlfriend, she’s been really into it, but I don’t see it.”
“Oh?” Dominic says.
“Seems pretty convenient to me that you two, on the heels of your breakup, just happened to be qualified to host this show,” says John in South Lake Union. “And I use the word ‘qualified’ loosely. But I guess they’ll put anyone on the radio these days if it means getting more clicks.”
“Say what you will about me,” Dominic says, sitting up straighter in his chair, his brows in a hard line, “but Shay’s been at this station for ten years. I’ve never met someone more devoted to public radio or more knowledgeable about it. Puget Sounds wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did without her. She’s earned this, one hundred percent.”
His words pin me to my chair. They’re too forceful not to be genuine. He’s staring straight into the other studio, which is probably a good thing. I’m not sure my heart would be able to handle the eye contact.
It’s the nicest thing someone’s said about me in a long time.
“Well, I did a little research, and I think your devoted listeners might be interested to know that not only do neither of you appear on each other’s social media, but you became Facebook friends about a month ago. I find that fascinating.”
“I’m very private on social media,” Dominic says.
Recovering from his compliments, I add, “And we wanted to keep our relationship separate from work.”
“Then what about the tweet Shay sent out in January about swiping left on a guy sitting on the toilet?”
“I—uh,” I say, fumbling. Because I did tweet about that. Shit. I thought I’d combed my social media for anything that would indicate Dominic and I weren’t together this winter, but I must have missed something. Shit, shit, shit. I steal a glance at Dominic, who still won’t meet my gaze.
We were prepared for this possibility. We talked about what we’d do if it ever happened.
I just never thought it would happen on the air.
“Look, John,” Dominic says. “You can find any piece of someone’s social media history and use it to prove whatever agenda you have. We’ve seen it happen plenty of times to people with much more at stake than Shay and me. We’re not here to convince you if you’ve already made up your mind about us. I can tell you I didn’t go to journalism school to tell lies on the radio.”
And just like that, he hits the button that ends the call.
I can’t read his expression. While I’m utterly grateful for him, I wish I’d known what to say.
“We have to wrap up today’s show,” Dominic says. He continues our sign-off, giving out our social media handles, telling the audience we’ll be back next week.
Then Jason Burns with the weather, and then an NPR newsbreak, and I’m still frozen in my chair.
Dominic takes off his headphones. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
I nod, but my hands are shaking. Finally, I find my voice. “I think so. What you said about me. That was—you didn’t have to do that. But thank you.”
“You’re my cohost,” he says, as though it’s that simple. As though that’s the only connection we have.
I’m actually interested in someone.
And maybe it is.
17
“To handling assholes with grace and dignity,” Ruthie says, and the three of us clink our glasses.
Desperate to recover from our nightmare of a show, we decided to grab drinks after work. It’s not something I’m used to doing; Paloma and her wife had long ago settled into their routines that didn’t include three-dollar cocktails at dive bars. I didn’t think I was the team bonding type, but so far, I like this a lot.
“That guy,” Dominic says, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ve never before wished I could reach into a phone and punch someone.”
The top button of his shirt is undone, and he looks thoroughly wiped. And yet still hot, especially with his hair end-of-the-workday mussed. It’s unfair, really, for someone that attractive to have that great a radio voice. Too often, I’ve googled my NPR crushes only to learn their faces didn’t quite match up with their voices. Also unfair: the way my gaze keeps dropping to his mouth when he talks.
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
“Ah, you haven’t been in radio long enough,” I say. “Ruthie, do you remember the—”
“The heavy breather?” Ruthie finishes. “Oh my god. Yes. I’ll be haunted by that until I die.”
It must have been sometime last spring on Puget Sounds: a call from a guy who claimed to want advice on our semi-regular gardening segment, then proceeded to ask Paloma and her guest elaborate questions about rutabagas, punctuated by long, deep breaths.
“I swear I heard the sound of a zipper,” I say.
“I’m not about to kink-shame anyone, but honestly . . . ,” Ruthie says. “I really hope he was just, like, taking a shit.”
We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes with a text from Kent.
Can you and Dom come in early tomorrow?
I frown down at it. Dom. The nickname he doesn’t like but won’t say anything to Kent about. I don’t love that Kent asked only me, as though I’m responsible for Dominic. As though I’m still just a producer and not someone with the same responsibilities as Dominic.
Just a producer. I need to stop saying that, or I’m as bad as everyone else who buys into the nonsense public radio hierarchy that puts hosts on a pedestal above everyone else. Ruthie isn’t just a producer. She’s . . . well, Ruthie.
I show them the text. “Kent wants to talk to us tomorrow.”
“About that caller?” Dominic says.
“Probably.” And since Ruthie doesn’t have any reason to believe we’d be panicked about someone discovering the truth, I add, “He must just want to make sure we’re not too rattled or anything.”
Dominic’s eyes briefly meet mine over the top of Ruthie’s head. It’s strange to be on the same side as him, the same team. We both want this to be okay. We both want to not have fucked up the show.
“I should get home,” he says. “I’m having dinner with my parents tonight.”
I want to scrutinize his tone of voice, figure out what exactly his relationship with his parents is like. But he says it casually, and his face doesn’t give anything away, either. We swap goodbyes and he pays his tab, and I watch him slink out of the bar, messenger bag swaying at his hip.
“Kind of fucked up that Kent texted you and not Dominic,” Ruthie says.
“Right?” I say, grateful to tear my eyes from Dominic. When he’s gone, I can breathe easy again.
Ruthie gets it. Of course she does. “It’s almost like Dominic has a penis and you don’t. I mean—sorry. I shouldn’t say that.”
“You’re not wrong. Kent seems to play favorites
sometimes, and a lot of his favorites are dudes,” I say with a shrug, though it’s validating someone else has noticed it.
“It’s going okay, though? The show? Aside from John in South Lake Union?”
If I ignore my cohost, yes. “It’s going surprisingly well. I love being on the air. Once I got over the voice stuff, it felt natural. It sounds strange to say that I love talking, because it’s probably not that apparent if you just randomly met me, but . . .” I pause, trying to figure out how to put it into words. “I like being in control of the conversation and making connections with listeners, hearing their stories. There’s something incredible about being able to do that. Plus, this month’s master’s jar is getting close to fifty dollars, and I can’t say I don’t love draining Dominic’s bank account.” I pause, wondering if I’m ready to tell her this next part. “I also had this idea. For a show about grief.”
I explain it to Ruthie. My mother and I talked about it on the phone last night, and she agreed to go on the radio as long as I’d be there next to her. I told her there was nowhere else I’d rather be to hear that story.
“Yes,” Ruthie says automatically. “I’m into it. We should clear it with Kent, since it’s a bit different from what we’ve been doing, but it’s already breaking my heart and putting it back together.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite producer?”
“Not nearly enough,” she says. “I sort of can’t believe I’m producing my own show, to be honest. I didn’t think I’d be doing this at twenty-five.” She reaches across the small table and covers my hand with hers. “Seriously, Shay. Thank you. Kent could have cut me loose, and I know you fought for me.”
“It wasn’t a fight,” I say. “There was no question about it. I was only doing the show if I had you.”
“Stop, I really am gonna cry!” She takes another sip of her drink and gestures to the bartender for another.
Meanwhile, I’m racking my brain, trying to remember if Ruthie and I have ever spent time together just the two of us.
The Ex Talk Page 15