We have not.
“How’d you get into radio?” I ask, suddenly curious.
“Oh, is it story time?” Ruthie crosses one leg primly over the other. “Okay. I went to school for marketing, and I was working on the sales side at KZYO for a few months. Then they had this summer that all their producers took a vacation at the same time, and it was kind of all hands on deck, so I pitched in and helped out. And I was good at it. More important, I loved it. I liked pulling the strings and putting the show together, you know? So the next job that opened up, I was able to switch over. There were always a lot of job openings there—the benefit of commercial radio.”
“I had no idea,” I say.
“And I really lucked out with this job. Kent liked that I had commercial radio experience, and I was dying to work somewhere I wouldn’t be nonstop tortured by jingles for auto repair shops and pickle companies.” She shudders. “I can never eat a Nalley pickle.”
“That jingle is the worst. Crispy crunchy yummy—”
“Nalley Pickles!” we both cry out, before bursting into laughter.
“But aside from that,” she says when we recover, “the commercial station covered a lot of semi-sensational stuff. Someone getting into a car accident was big news, and it was always so upsetting. Public radio is much better at deep dives and talking about the issues in a more nuanced way.
“I know a lot of people go into public radio thinking they’ll bide their time as producers until they get promoted to being a reporter or a host, but I love being a producer. I’m happy here. I get to make cool radio every day, and I’m doing what I love with people I love. Maybe one day I’ll wanna do something else, but for now, I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s honestly really refreshing,” I say. “When I started working as Paloma’s assistant producer, my senior producer told me we had to do whatever Paloma wanted, make sure she had her kombucha and her chia seeds, that the studio wasn’t too hot or too cold, and I was just like . . . seriously? We’re colleagues. Not servants. I know Paloma respected me, but that was what I turned into.”
“You never make me feel like that. In case you’re worried.”
“Good. If I ever tell you I need kombucha at exactly forty-four degrees, please tell me to shut the fuck up.”
Ruthie tips her drink to me. “Duly noted.”
We continue to talk about work before the conversations become more personal. Ruthie tells me she’s been on a few dates with a guy named Marco, and that she might be ready to make it official. I tell her about my mom and the upcoming wedding.
The whole time, the truth rattles around inside me.
She deserves to know.
And yet, my desire for self-preservation wins out.
“Why don’t we do this more?” she asks when we realize we’ve been sitting here for two hours without glancing at our phones.
“We should,” I say, trying to ignore the sour guilt climbing up my throat. “We will.”
The Ex Talk, Episode 5: Ghosting Whisperer
Transcript
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: This week’s episode is brought to you by Archetype. If you’re anything like me, you have trouble finding shoes that fit just right. The whole size is too big, but the half size is too small, and uncomfortable shoes can make the workday feel far too long.
DOMINIC YUN: That’s where Archetype comes in. All you have to do is measure your feet using their patented molding system, send it in, and they’ll create a custom memory foam arch support perfectly contoured to your foot that you can use in all your shoes.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I slipped them into some size sevens, and I couldn’t believe the difference.
DOMINIC YUN: I did the same with my size thirteens.
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And you know what they say about guys with big feet . . .
DOMINIC YUN: That they should try Archetype!
SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And right now, Archetype is offering a special discount for our listeners! For fifteen percent off at checkout, go to archetypesupport.us and enter offer code EX TALK. That’s E-X-T-A-L-K at checkout for fifteen percent off.
18
I’m entering the elevator the next morning for our early meeting with Kent when Dominic calls for me to hold the door. He’s jogging out of the parking lot with his Pacific Public Radio thermos, clad in khakis and his sky blue shirt.
It takes all my willpower not to smack the DOOR CLOSE button.
“Thanks,” he says when the elevator traps us inside.
I manage a weak smile and inch away from him as inconspicuously as I can. Distance and professionalism. It’s the only way to eliminate this inconvenient attraction I’ve developed. His hair is shower-damp, and he smells fresh and clean with a hint of spice. His aftershave, maybe?
“Did you and Ruthie have fun last night?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Mm-hmm,” I say to the floor. I don’t need to watch the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
“How late did you guys stay?”
“Eightish.”
He lifts his eyebrows at me. Every time I dart my gaze away, he captures it again.
“Are you avoiding me?”
“No.”
“Something’s wrong,” he says, crossing the invisible line I drew down the center of the elevator. Instinctively, I press my back harder against the padded wall. He mercifully stops about a foot in front of me, leaning down to scrutinize my face with his deep, dark eyes. In my traitorous imagination, he pins me to the wall, smashes the emergency stop button. Bends to drop his mouth to my neck. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“If this is about Monday—” He breaks off, blushing, putting a little more space between us.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him blush, and it makes me want to cover my own face.
“No no no.” I tighten my grip on my bag. “It’s not. We were drunk. We were just—”
“Really drunk,” he finishes with a swift nod of his head. “I normally don’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”
“You don’t have to explain,” I say, though all I want is a detailed explanation with an accompanying PowerPoint presentation. I reach out to graze his wrist with a fingertip—a gesture of reassurance—realizing when I make contact that it was a terribly unwise decision. I am out of control and must be stopped. I should have known better, but the guy is a fucking magnet. That brush of skin against skin is enough to bring heat to my cheeks and to a couple other locations. Moth, meet flame. Give flame the middle finger.
“Good.” He visibly exhales, his shoulders dipping at least an inch. Now he can pursue the someone he mentioned on the air, guilt-free. “Then if it’s not that—”
“Dominic. I’m fine. I’m spectacular,” I say. “Nothing to investigate.”
“I’ve never heard you use the word ‘spectacular.’”
“Better take me to the hospital. It sounds serious.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m going to figure it out,” he says.
A ding indicates we’ve reached the fifth floor. I’ve got to talk to maintenance about how slow the elevator’s been lately. There might be something wrong with it.
* * *
—
“I always feel like I’m in the principal’s office,” Dominic whispers as we wait for Kent to make his tea. It’s some complicated five-step process. He explained it to me once, and I promptly forgot it.
I refocus on the meeting itself. What’s at stake is far worse than the equivalent of detention.
Kent walks inside with his mug, smiling as always, but it’s a little tight. “Well. I’m sure you two know why you’re here.”
“We tried to get him off the air as quickly as we could,” Dominic says, and it’s strange he says we when I was mostly silent. “We were near the
end of the show, and I didn’t know how else to fill for time, so . . .” He trails off with a sheepish shrug. “Couldn’t we cut it from the podcast?”
“The fact remains that it’s out there,” Kent says. “If we cut it, it’s going to look like we’re hiding something. We have to take this seriously, do some hard-core damage control. People heard it, and now they’re going to be scrutinizing you more than ever before.”
Dominic runs a hand over his face. “Well . . . fuck,” he says, and I’d laugh at him uttering the word in front of our boss in such a serious meeting if I weren’t so worried about what’s going to happen.
“Fuck is right.” Kent blows over the top of his tea mug. “If more people latch onto this, if they call the show’s premise into question, then we are deeply, deeply fucked.” He sighs, and then: “I’ve heard murmurs. Nothing is a guarantee, but we could have some big things on the horizon.”
I scoot to the edge of my chair. “Big how?”
“Big like PodCon,” Kent says, and I have to fight to keep a straight face. “And there’s been interest from some exciting sponsors. Again, nothing certain yet, but do you realize how huge that could be for the station?”
I’m dying to know more about PodCon, about those potential sponsors, but the show’s integrity—or lack thereof—is the more pressing issue. “We could . . . stage some photos from the relationship?” I wince even as I suggest it. More lying. It reminds me that anything good I feel about the show is accompanied by this disappointed voice that sometimes sounds like Ameena and sometimes like my dad.
It’s a bit of a relief when Kent shakes his head. “It’s not a matter of creating evidence,” he says. “It’s in the way you two talk to each other. It’s almost too scripted. Too staged. I can hear it sometimes, too. And I know part of this is on me. I’m the one who encouraged this, and neither of you had solid on-air experience yet. But we looked through some listener feedback, and it turns out some of them also feel the show was a little too carefully choreographed, which makes me worry it seems as though you two don’t know each other well enough. Which, again, to be fair, you don’t. We didn’t give the two of you much time to get acquainted with each other, on top of creating both your relationship and your breakup.”
Dominic and I are quiet for a few seconds. Kent’s admonishing us, but not blaming us?
“I don’t understand what you’re asking of us, then,” Dominic says, once again proving he has more courage than I do when it comes to our boss. He makes no attempt to curb his frustration, while I’m always eager to please Kent any way I can. Is it because he’s been Kent’s favorite since the beginning? Why, then, did Kent text me about this meeting and not both of us?
“This is what we’re gonna do,” Kent says. He gestures to the two of us, though we’re the only two in the room. “You two are going to spend the night together.”
I practically leap out of the chair. “Excuse me?”
“The weekend together, actually. Clear your schedules. This is urgent. We rented an Airbnb for you on Orcas Island, all on the station’s dime. You’re going to spend the weekend together, and you’re going to figure this shit out. You’re going to make me believe you spent three blissful months as a couple. I want you to know how the other person brushes their teeth. When they replace the toilet paper, if it’s hanging over or under. If they snore. What they look like when they first wake up in the morning. I want you to know every fucking thing about each other so we don’t get into another mess like this.”
His words render me speechless. My jaw doesn’t just drop to the floor—it hits the basement parking garage. Kent returns to his tea, deadly serious. He’s always been a take-no-prisoners kind of boss, but one with a considerable amount of empathy. This . . . this is something different entirely.
I’m afraid to even look at Dominic, let alone spend a whole weekend with him.
“I assume all expenses will be covered?” Dominic asks.
“Within reason,” Kent says. “You’ll both have your company cards.”
“Good. Because I tend to get really hungry on weekends. Thirsty, too.” He stares Kent down. They look like two lions about to fight over a gazelle, though I’m not sure what exactly the gazelle is in this scenario.
“As I said, the station will cover it within reason.” Kent stands. “Emma will give you all the information. I have a meeting with the board. I trust we’re done here for now?”
“Actually,” I say, because some part of me thinks that if I give in, if I make this weekend mess easier, then maybe he’ll give me something I want in return. “Hey, Kent, while I have you.” I feel the weight of his gaze and Dominic’s, and I try to power through my anxiety. “I wanted to talk to you about this Ex Talk idea I had about, um, about grief and loss. Ruthie wanted me to run it by you, since it’s sort of a heavier topic for the show—”
“This really isn’t the time, Shay.”
A swift kick to my chest. It’s the first time Kent has outright dismissed me. I’ve always assumed he liked me, or at least respected me.
It makes me wonder what he would have said if Dominic had suggested it.
“I—okay,” I say, wishing Dominic hadn’t heard me get shut down. “I guess we’ll just go to work, then.”
Kent smiles. “Good plan. And enjoy the weekend, really. You should probably head out this afternoon if you want to beat traffic.”
My legs stop working as soon as we leave Kent’s office.
“I was going to go to a cake tasting with my mom this weekend,” I say, crumbling against the wall. “And—and I’d have to take Steve, but he’s never been on that long of a car trip with me, and I’m not ready to leave him with someone else yet. I—” I suck in a deep breath. My lungs are tight. Panic mode. Shit, shit, I don’t want him to see me like this.
“Shay.” He stands in front of me, placing strong hands on my shoulders. I don’t like what my name in his mouth does to me, and I like even less the way his palms settle so naturally into the fabric of my blazer. “This sucks, I know. I’m just as pissed as you are. But it’s one weekend. We can do it. We do this, and maybe we can take some short days next week, and you can be with your mom. It’s for the show, right? Neither of us wants to see this show go down.”
We’re not supposed to touch like this, and we’re not supposed to take elevators together or long car rides or spend an entire weekend on an island together. Distance. Professionalism. That was supposed to be my strategy.
“Besides,” he says with a half smile, “I want to meet your dog. Also, how many cases of beer do you think is ‘within reason’?”
I roll my eyes, but his reassurance makes me feel a little better.
Except it’s not going to be easy to avoid him while trapped in a house together all weekend.
I pray to my radio gods, the ones who act cool and collected in even the most hostile of interviews. If Terry Gross survived her nightmare interview with Gene Simmons, then I can do this.
Terry Gross, Rachel Martin, Audie Cornish—give me strength.
19
Three hours in Friday rush-hour traffic. One and a half hours on a ferry. Eleven minutes waiting for Dominic to pick the right snacks at the island mini-mart. Another half hour in the car. Twenty minutes arguing over the Google Maps directions telling us to swim across a body of water that would have taken us into Canadian territory.
That’s how long it takes for Dominic and me to get to the Airbnb house the station rented for us on the northern tip of Orcas Island, a little horseshoe-shaped piece of land in the northwest corner of the state.
This is also when it starts raining.
“Gotta love the Pacific Northwest,” Dominic mutters as we shut the car doors and make a run for the house with our luggage.
Steve pulls to the end of his leash, looking for the perfect tree to pee on. “This is Steve Rogers,” I told Dominic when I pi
cked him up. “The furriest Avenger?” he asked. It was the only moment of levity on our entire trip. Shortly thereafter, I learned that Dominic has horrendous taste in music. Even though I was driving, he kept insisting we listen to his favorite radio station from his teen years, which used to play alternative but now plays whatever the hell “adult contemporary” is. I am an adult, and adult contemporary is garbage. Finally, we agreed to turn my Spotify to random.
Inside, Dominic drops our bags in the entryway before manspreading across the couch in the living room.
“I guess this is where we bond,” I say.
“Right,” he says, an edge to his voice. “Because Kent assumes we can conjure a relationship from thin air.”
That stings a little. Like we don’t have any kind of relationship at all when the past couple of months, we’ve gained at least a modicum of closeness.
Though, to be fair, that drunken kiss might have obliterated it.
The house is cute and quaint, mahogany furniture with blue accents and a real wood fireplace. Hanging plants, sprawling landscapes by Orcas Island artists. Exactly the kind of place two people might enjoy spending time together if they enjoyed spending time with each other.
“So should I take notes on all the weird things you do?” I say, making my way over to the armchair opposite him. “Take photos of you in your sleep to use as blackmail?”
“I look adorable while I’m sleeping, thank you very much.”
I roll my eyes at this. “Now I know you’re someone who takes their shoes off as soon as they get inside.”
He glances down at his socked feet. “Habit. My parents had these pristine white carpets, and they lost their minds if we tracked a speck of dirt onto them.”
It’s just past eight o’clock, and while it’s not so late that I’m ready to turn in, after being in the car all day, I have no desire to leave this place. The rain is coming down even harder, pummeling the house like it has a score to settle. Thunder roars in the not-so-distance, and Steve races around the house, barking like mad.
The Ex Talk Page 16