“If we’re going to go onstage at PodCon in a few weeks, I’d like to at least be on speaking terms,” he says. “Please hear me out this one time, and if you don’t want to talk after that, then I promise I won’t bring it up again.”
That’s tough to say no to—so I don’t.
It’s approaching seventy-five degrees, a Seattle heat wave, so we pack up and head to Green Lake. Everyone else in Seattle seems to have had the same idea, given how many dog walkers, rollerbladers, and stroller-joggers we pass on our way to a bench facing the lake.
“Everyone’s so polite today,” Dominic says, sliding onto the bench next to me. “It gets above seventy degrees, and suddenly everyone’s smiling. I’ve always liked that.”
He’s right—the nice weather changes people. Gloomy introversion is so built into our DNA as Seattleites that any bit of vitamin D turns us into strangely social creatures.
“You’re stalling,” I say lightly.
“Is it stalling if I tell you I really loved doing that episode with your mom? She seems pretty great.”
“She is. Thank you. And yes.”
His leg is jiggling up and down, the way it tends to do when he’s nervous. “I’ve been such a mess lately,” he says after about a minute of silence while we watch a flock of ducks swim farther out into the murky blue water. “I’ve gone over that night at my parents’ house so many times, trying to figure out what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I’m not entirely sure what he wants here—if he wants to convince me we should do the casual thing again or if we should just forget all of it ever happened, wipe the slate clean. He can’t miss the sex that much, can he? I’m not about to give my bedroom skills quite that much credit.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he says. “When I told you that sex was a big deal to me . . . it wasn’t just sex. It’s the whole concept of a relationship.”
“I—I figured that.” It makes sense, but it doesn’t exactly explain why we’re having this conversation.
“And not just romantically. You know I don’t have a ton of friends here. I mean, thank god for Eddie, who’s even more awesome as an adult than he was when we were kids. I’m just—the idea of getting that close to someone again . . . it’s terrifying.”
“Wasn’t that the whole point of being casual?” I cross one leg over the other, as though if I look appropriately casual, I’ll be able to talk about it like it isn’t a big deal. “Look, if you brought me out here to tell me that you miss getting off regularly with someone, do me a favor and tell me now, so we don’t have to drag this out.”
His expression morphs to horror. “Wait. What? That’s what you thought this was?”
“Well . . . yeah. Kind of.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss that,” he says, lips curving into a grin that sends a shock of satisfaction through me, “but no. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“Then I don’t get it!” I throw my hands up, my frustration mounting. “You said you wanted something casual. So I don’t see the problem with going from casual back to nothing. Why can’t we just be nothing, Dominic?”
Even as I say it, it sounds wrong. My voice cracks and my heart stutters, and the word nothing bangs around in my head. I’m lying now, too. I haven’t wanted nothing in a long time.
Dominic presses his lips together before letting a sigh slip past. “What I’m trying to tell you is that when we started this . . . it didn’t feel casual to me.”
And of course that starts the slow-motion replay behind my eyelids. The adrenaline rush of those new touches, the incontrovertible fact that I have never had an orgasm as good as any with Dominic.
The incontrovertible fact that I have never talked so honestly with any man but Dominic.
“I only suggested it because you kept pushing to talk about it, and I figured it was because you didn’t want me to get the wrong idea. And I knew how important the show was to you—is to you,” he continues. “I didn’t want to risk ruining the show if I didn’t think you were on the same page.”
“What same page?”
“That it’s never felt casual to me.” His fingers dance along the edge of the bench, a couple inches from my thigh. “Not back on the island, and not here. It’s torture, sitting next to you right now and not being able to touch you. You’re whip-smart and sexy and fun, and spending time with you just . . . makes everything else a little less difficult.”
Now my pulse is roaring in my ears. I’m grasping for any bit of logic, all my defenses up. I want so badly to believe him. “But that time on the show, with that caller—you said you were interested in someone.”
He rolls his eyes like I am the densest human on earth, and maybe I am. “Yeah. You.”
A dam inside me breaks. Everything I’ve been holding in crashes out in one big emotional flood. I have been so tired—of making excuses, of lying, of trying to convince myself I can ignore these feelings for him.
“Oh,” I say, feeling like a complete idiot. “Wow, you are really hard to read.”
That makes him laugh, but it’s a nervous laugh. His fingers make their way to my knee, thumb rubbing a slow circle.
“I brought you to meet my family,” he continues. “You’re the first person I’ve been with since Mia. The only person other than Mia. I’ve been giving you sign after sign.”
“I told you how I tend to get too attached. And I’m older than you, and I didn’t know if you wanted something serious. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, I guess. I told myself that if we were just casual, then it wouldn’t hurt to hear that you didn’t want to be together for real.”
“Shay. I showed you my fucking Beanie Babies.”
I can’t help laughing at that. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It would really help if you told me you like me, too.”
I bite back a smile and scoot closer, leaning in to cup his face with my palm. “Dominic. I like you so much. I thought it was obvious. I like that the person you show me isn’t the same as the one everyone else sees. You probably already know that I’m ridiculously attracted to you. And you care so deeply about the things in your life that are important to you—work, your family, Steve Rogers Goldstein.”
“And Shay Goldstein,” he says, adding to the list, and I might never want to leave this bench.
“It felt too real, being there at your house.” I run my thumb along the stubble on his cheek. “That was why I had to end it. I didn’t want to be there and not be your girlfriend.”
One corner of his mouth quirks upward. I’ve missed his dimple. “You want to be my girlfriend.”
“More than I want Ira Glass to personally ask me if I’ll replace him on This American Life.”
He breaks into a real, full grin then. And we’re kissing, and it’s like I’ve lived my whole life without chocolate and only now, at age twenty-nine, am discovering its sweetness.
His hands come up to my hair, messing up my ponytail. “God, I missed you,” he says as I settle against his chest, pressing my ear to his strong, steady heartbeat.
30
Breaking news: Texas is hot. Texas in June deserves its own circle of hell. My poor Pacific Northwest body wasn’t made for this.
It’s been two weeks of keeping the kind of secret that makes me smile at random times: while spreading peanut butter onto a morning bagel, while brushing my teeth, while sitting in traffic on my way home.
Because most of the time, I am going home to him.
It’s an early flight, and we luck out that Ruthie and Kent are on a later one. While I downloaded plenty of extra podcasts, I must end up passing out as soon as we get up in the air. When my eyes flutter open, the pilot is letting us know we’ve landed in Austin, where the local time is 1:40 p.m. and the weather is an incomprehensible ninety-five degrees.
> “Were you watching me?” I ask Dominic as I return my seat to its upright position.
“You mumble in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“It’s cute,” he says with a guilty half smile.
“I’m sure it would be, but I don’t do it.”
Because our live taping isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, we check into our hotel, where the station booked two rooms for us, though of course we didn’t tell them we’d only need one. Then we spend the day exploring Austin, since neither of us has been here before. We try the city’s best barbecue, and then when we’re hungry again a few hours later, stop at another place that claims to have the best barbecue, until we’re certain we can’t look at another pork product for as long as we live.
We hold hands as we walk down Sixth Street, taking in the dive bars and historic buildings. Bands are setting up, music pouring out of live venues. I’m positive we’re not at risk of anyone recognizing us in such a big city, but we wear sunglasses just in case, and Dominic sports a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.
It feels like we’re a real couple.
We stop for a while at a bar with outdoor seating, which is much rarer—and possibly less exciting for the locals—here than in Seattle. Here, life can be less complicated. Here, I can stop thinking about not having reconciled with Ameena and her first week of work and TJ packing up their apartment. He’ll meet her in Virginia next week, and while they’ll both be back for my mother’s wedding, I’m not sure when I’ll see them again after that.
“I had this idea,” Dominic says when we’re on our second beer, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. “So the whole appeal of the show is that we’re exes. We can’t suddenly start dating.”
“Perish the thought.”
“So . . . what if we got back together?”
I pause with my glass halfway to my mouth. “Like, publicly?”
He nods. “Think about it. It would be a real testament to the power radio has to connect us. The listeners would love it.”
Of course it’s appealing. TJ suggested the same thing after I got back from Orcas.
“Shay,” Dominic says, poking my arm. “What do you think?”
“It’s a good idea. But there’s still a lie at the root of it. I know there isn’t a way around it, not at this point, but I still feel shitty about that.”
“I get it. But we wouldn’t have to keep sneaking around. I like this so much, being with you. We don’t know how long this show will realistically last, and I hate having to hide it, not being able to tell anyone. We’d still be exes. Exes who were brought back together by the power of radio and podcasting. And some shoes made from corn.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe it wouldn’t matter that we were exes before—just that we got back together.
I don’t want to have to choose between the job I never thought I’d have and the guy I might be starting to love.
“What happens if—if we break up?” The relationship still feels so new, so delicate. I’m certain we can weather a frank question like this, but I hate asking it.
He’s quiet for a few moments. “I know you’re trying to be rational, but . . . I don’t think we can possibly know that. I can’t keep thinking that far into the future. All I know is that you make me so fucking happy, and not telling anyone is killing me.”
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. I want to believe him so badly. I want there to be a way to have this day every day.
“What if we do it tomorrow? At the festival? At the live taping?”
Dominic smirks. “Do you think Kent would lose his shit?”
“All the more reason to do it.”
“Fair point.”
“I am going to tell all our thousands of listeners how much I love the mumbling you do in your sleep.”
“Then I’ll tell them about your Beanie Baby collection.”
“You wouldn’t dare. The Beanies are sacred.” He pushes up his sunglasses, his gaze both wild and full of longing. “Come here,” he says, and I’m in his lap an instant later, wrapping my arms around him, not caring who sees us.
There’s this moment, one where my heart is beating so in sync with his that I love you almost slips from my mouth.
But every other time it’s happened in the past, that’s when it’s gotten messy. I don’t want to risk not hearing it back if he’s not there yet.
I go with three different words.
“Let’s do it,” I tell him, aware that once we do, we can’t take it back.
* * *
—
We make it back to the hotel before eight o’clock, and in the elevator up to our floor, I make a joke about being old and having an early bedtime. Except when Dominic shuts the hotel room door behind us, he presses me against it and kisses me for a long, long time, these lazy swipes of his tongue that turn me to melted chocolate.
Every time I reach for his belt, he bats my hand away. I forgot how much he likes to tease and be teased.
“Slowly,” he warns.
My lips are swollen and I got too much sun today, and I’m altogether too dizzy and shimmery to protest.
He runs a hand up my thigh, beneath my short skirt. A moan escapes my lips as he drags a finger along my damp underwear. I cup the stiff front of his jeans, rubbing back and forth, but he wraps his fingers around my wrist to get me to stop. I let out a frustrated sound and he laughs.
“I want to ask you something.” Now he’s not laughing. His gaze pins me to the door, his eyes molten black. “Did you ever get yourself off, thinking about me?”
“Yes,” I say, not even embarrassed.
“Could you—could you show me?” he asks, his voice low. “It’s kind of been . . . a fantasy of mine.”
Somehow, I’m already breathless. “I could do that.”
A beat passes between us, and he withdraws his hand from my skirt. I swallow hard, leading him over to the bed with its perfectly made hotel sheets. With trembling hands, I take off my sandals and skirt, slide my underwear down my legs. I’ve never done this in front of someone else. Something about it has always felt so intimate—more intimate than sex.
He sits next to me on the bed, fully clothed.
“You have to give me something,” I insist, tugging at the hem of his shirt, and he obliges.
I lie down with my head on a pillow, my heart hammering. At first I’m not sure I can actually make myself come in front of him, or if he wants me to go that far. But the intensity in his gaze, the anticipation there, propels me forward. I have never been so open with my body with someone else, but with him, I want to be.
The entire time, I’m aware of his eyes on me, the way his jaw clenches, as though he’s forcing himself not to react. That somehow makes it hotter, knowing he’s holding himself back. It’s what makes me stop holding myself back.
“God, yes,” he says, wrapping a hand around my ankle as I quicken my rhythm. “You are so unbelievably sexy.”
I let out a soft moan at that. I stretch my hand toward his mouth, and he sucks on my fingers before I plant them back between my thighs. The orgasm takes me by surprise, the pleasure cascading up my spine in a hard, fast burst. I’m still riding the waves of it when his mouth crashes into mine.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, and knowing it turned him on makes me greedy for more. “I need you to see how beautiful you are when you come.” Then he’s pulling me off the bed and over to the full-length mirror, undoing his jeans and stepping out of his boxer briefs.
He stands behind me, cupping my breasts, pushing kisses into my neck. My skin is flushed and my hair is already wild.
“We look good together,” I say as his hand drifts down between my legs, and just like that, I’m ready again.
I watch in the mirror as he slides a finger along my slickness before dragg
ing it up across my abdomen, leaving a wet streak there. The teasing is torture, and I fucking love it.
“You make me wild,” he says. “I lose my mind when I’m with you like this.”
When the pressure starts building, building, building, he draws back again. I let out something like a growl. Still, he doesn’t enter me, continuing to use his fingers until I come again, my breath fogging up the mirror.
“You have amazing self-control.”
A strangled-sounding laugh. “No. I don’t. I’m dying. I just wanted to see you come at least a few times before I buried myself inside you for the rest of the night.”
At this point, my legs are gelatinous, so I’m happy to collapse back onto the bed, even happier when he rolls me on top of him. I will never not love how he feels inside me, the heat and the pressure and the silk of him. We go slow for a while, languid movements that stretch me inch by inch, his eyes never leaving mine. Deeper. Despite his fondness for teasing, we never go slow like this, not when we’re connected this way—we’re usually too hungry for each other by that point. This new rhythm we find, it’s torturous.
“Come with me, baby,” he says, and maybe it’s the command or the term of endearment or both that sends me over the edge with him.
We hold each other for a long time afterward, as though waiting for aftershocks. It smells like sweat and sex and some kind of pleasant hotel room air freshener, but no part of me wants a shower.
“That was—” I start, unsure how to verbalize it. I need to know he felt the same intensity I did. That it felt different to him, too.
He cups my head to his chest. “I know.”
Eventually, we head into the bathroom to shower together, which takes significantly longer than any shower should and is, on a related note, the best shower of my life. We slip on plush white hotel robes and order room service, then climb into bed and find a bad movie on TV.
The Ex Talk Page 25