“You could always come back to commercial radio with me,” Ruthie says, swiping a sweet potato fry through sriracha aioli. “KZYO offered me my old job, but I’m not sure yet if I’m going to take it. I’m trying to see what my options are.”
I take a sip of my rosé. “Truthfully, I’m not sure I could handle the commercials.”
“They’re not that bad.”
She launches into a familiar jingle and Tatum shouts from behind the counter, “Is she singing the pickle song again? Because she’s not allowed to do it within fifteen feet of me, it’s a relationship rule.”
Ruthie holds a finger to her lips. “It pays really we-ell,” she singsongs.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise.
We return to our laptops, the clacking of our keys mixing with the surfer girl pop punk playing through the café’s speakers. The café isn’t busy—in fact, we’re the only two people here, plus Tatum and a cook in the kitchen.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, you’ll let me know, right?” I ask Ruthie after a couple minutes. It’s still strange, sitting across from her after spending five months lying to her.
Ruthie’s hands pause on her keyboard, her rings glittering in the afternoon light. “I’ve already told you a hundred times that I forgive you,” she says. “I have a feeling whatever you’re putting yourself through is enough. I don’t need to add to it.”
“You’re too good for this world.”
“I know,” she says. “I almost don’t wanna ask, but . . . any word from Dominic?”
I shake my head. “He was texting for a while, but then he stopped. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly responding.” I let out a sigh. “I can’t talk to him if he’s still working there.”
“I get it,” Ruthie says. “I’m so sorry. I really was rooting for you two.”
Suddenly, Tatum gasps from behind the counter. “Oh my god,” she says, racing over to our table, her long dark ponytail bouncing. She shoves her phone at Ruthie.
“Tweeting on the job?” Ruthie says, shaking her head and making a tsking sound. But her eyes grow wide as she sees what’s on the screen. “Oh my god,” Ruthie echoes. She wrenches the phone from Tatum’s grasp and scrolls down the page.
I lean forward in my seat, trying to see what they’re looking at. “What is it?” Working in a newsroom, you get used to these kinds of reactions when something terrible happens somewhere in the world: people crouched over a phone, hands over mouths. But the two of them seem shocked rather than upset.
“Turn on Pacific Public Radio,” Ruthie says, patting my laptop. “My battery’s dying.”
I spit out a laugh. “No thanks. I’ll just check Twit—”
“Shay. Turn on the fucking radio,” Ruthie repeats, with so much vigor in her voice that I don’t dare disobey her.
Begrudgingly, I navigate over to the PPR homepage and click the little microphone icon to start the livestream. Tatum turns down the café’s sound, and we all lean in to listen to . . . An NPR newsbreak, featuring a story about an alligator in Florida that was finally caught after escaping from a zoo earlier this week.
“Are we . . . into alligators now?” I ask.
Ruthie rolls her eyes. “Just wait until the end of the newsbreak.”
Tatum slides into the booth next to Ruthie, and we wait. When PPR comes back on the air, it immediately becomes clear they’re in the middle of a pledge drive, which sparks an odd twinge in my chest. I didn’t even register that it was happening this week.
“And we’re back, talking about how you can support great local journalism,” says a familiar voice. “Which also happens to be hour number two of my apology tour. If you’re just tuning in, here’s what happened.”
I can’t breathe.
“There was this girl,” Dominic says, and I think my heart might actually stop. “That’s the way these stories always tend to start, right? So. There was this girl, and she’s the smartest, most interesting girl I’ve ever met. We worked together at this very station. She’d been at Pacific Public Radio for ten years, and she’s fantastic at her job. She’s basically an NPR encyclopedia. We even got lucky enough to host a show together . . . but that didn’t exactly go as planned. The show was built on a lie—the notion that the two of us had dated in the past and were now teaming up to dole out relationship advice and hear tales of other dating misadventures. But it gets really, really complicated when you start falling for a girl all your listeners think you’ve already dated and moved on from. Especially when your desk is right next to hers.”
“Shay,” Ruthie says, grabbing my arm. “Shay.”
“I—oh my god.” The café disappears around me. I have tunnel vision, and it’s definitely not just the rosé. All I see is the microphone icon on my screen, and all I hear is Dominic’s voice. He sounds so natural on the air now, more than he ever has.
“But I messed up,” Dominic continues, and then breaks off with a half laugh that jolts my heart, gets it beating again. “I’ve always had a little stage fright, and unfortunately, I froze up when she needed me most. I wasn’t there for her, even after we’d promised to be a team. I’m here today to tell all of you that I’m so deeply sorry for the lie The Ex Talk was based on, but more than that, I’m sorry, Shay. I’m so incredibly sorry, and all I want is to talk to you again.”
This is really happening. Dominic, apologizing on the radio.
“It’s all over Twitter,” Ruthie says, holding her phone to my face, but I can’t process any of the text on it. “Apparently he was saying something about Beanie Babies earlier?”
“This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Tatum says. “Or heard, I guess.”
“I don’t know if she’s listening,” Dominic is saying, “but I can’t think of another way to tell her how badly I screwed everything up. If she gives me a second chance, even if it’s one I don’t deserve, I will do whatever I can to make things up to her. And more than that . . . I need her to know that I love her. I’ve been in love with her since the island, maybe even before that. And I’m dying to tell her in person.”
Another voice comes on the radio, one I recognize as Marlene Harrison-Yates’. “And if you’d like to call in with a donation to keep Dominic on the air, to keep us going, that number is 206-555-8803, or you can donate online at KPPR.org.”
“Oh my god,” I say again, unsure if I know any other words. My first instinct is to turn it off, shut him down, ignore it all. Insist that he can’t sweet-talk his way back into my life. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to latch onto reality. “He’s still at the station. He’s still working for them. All of this is . . . wow, but it doesn’t change the fact that he took that job after they practically kicked me out.”
“Don’t you think you owe it to him to hear him out?” Ruthie says.
Deep down, I know she’s right. If there’s any chance of fixing things between us, I have to talk to him. “He’s still on the air. What should I do?”
“Go down there and tell him you’re madly in love with him?” she suggests. “I mean, just an idea.”
“I can’t just go down there. I quit, remember? They practically fired me.” With trembling hands, I pick up my phone. “I’ll—I’ll call.” I have no idea what I’m going to say, but it’s the only option that seems to make sense to my soupy brain right now.
The number is practically part of my DNA at this point, though I’ve never actually called it. Still, I’m so rattled that I miss a digit the first time.
“Pacific Public Radio call-in line, what’s your comment?” Isabel Fernandez asks, and it’s such a rush of emotion to hear her voice.
During pledge drives, they often have listeners call in to share a story about the station and why they support it. I can’t believe I got through right away.
“Isabel, it’s Shay. Shay Goldstein.”
If I could
hear someone’s eyes bulge on the phone, it would probably sound the way Isabel’s stunned silence does.
“Shay? Hold on, let me put you through. This is going to be amazing!”
“No, wait—” I say, but it’s too late.
It’s odd, hearing the radio streaming from my laptop and then listening through my phone as I wait to be live on the air. And the whole time, I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m really fucking doing this.
“It seems like we have a caller on the line,” Dominic says in my ear now.
“Dominic.” My voice is shaky.
Ruthie and Tatum are leaning across the booth to listen, Ruthie gripping my arm and Tatum gripping Ruthie.
Silence on the line. I want to admonish him, tell him dead air is deadly.
“Shay?” His voice shakes, too. “I didn’t think you’d hear. I mean—I hoped you would, but I figured you’d been avoiding the radio, and . . . wow. Wow.” I try to imagine him there in the studio, pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”
I feel my face split into a grin. His voice isn’t enough. I have to see him, and I have to see him now. “Stay there,” I say. “I’m coming down.”
“Wait,” he says. “Wait—Shay—”
Ruthie and Tatum are gaping at me. “What is happening,” Ruthie says.
“Hopefully the most romantic moment of my life.”
* * *
—
I’m too jumbled to drive, so Tatum leaves the cook in charge of the café so she and Ruthie can drive me.
Ruthie’s car is parked around the corner. I take the messy back seat, filled with receipts and canvas bags and two shoes that do not match and a handful of CDs.
“You have CDs?” I ask, moving my foot so I don’t step on Hall and Oates’s greatest hits.
“Old car,” Ruthie says. “That’s all it can handle.”
“Besides, then she can act all hashtag retro,” Tatum says.
“I hate that CDs are retro,” I say as Ruthie speeds toward the freeway. It’ll take us probably twenty minutes to get downtown. Twenty minutes of panicking in the back seat.
“Sorry it’s so messy,” Ruthie says. “But if you find a piece of gum back there, let me know.”
“Let the girl breathe,” Tatum says. “She just received a public declaration of love.” She turns to me. “Do you want the radio on?”
“I don’t know.” It feels so personal that everyone’s hearing this. But that’s what we were doing with the show, weren’t we? “If someone could convince me I won’t manage to fuck this up, that would be awesome.”
And, bless them, they try. By the time we pull up to the familiar building and Ruthie circles the block, unable to find a parking spot, my heart is in my throat.
“You’ve got this,” Ruthie says firmly. “We’ll be right down here if you need us. Partly because we can’t find a parking spot, but mainly because I think you need to go up alone.”
“Good luck,” Tatum says. “We’ll be listening.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you. Thank you both so much.”
On wobbly legs, I make my way to the security door, realizing I don’t even know if they’ll let me in if I buzz up. I give the door a pathetic swipe of my key card, but of course, it’s been deactivated. So with a shaky sigh, I hit the buzzer.
“Pacific Public Radio,” chirps Emma McCormick’s staticky voice.
“Hey—Emma,” I say, holding down the button. “It’s me, um, Shay Goldstein. I wanted to come up to talk to Dominic. He’s on the air—”
“Shay, oh my god!” Emma squeals. “I can’t get over it. I wish someone would do something like this for me. You are so lucky. The phone lines have been bananas, and we’ve already crushed our goals for the entire pledge drive. It’s really—”
There’s a scuffle in the background, and then another familiar voice. “Shay? It’s Marlene Harrison-Yates. I’m letting you up.”
“Oh—thank you,” I say as the door clicks. Nothing makes sense today.
Then I am in the hall and the slowest of slow elevators, taking out my ponytail and then putting it back up, wiping the lenses of my glasses on my shirt, trying to make myself look less nightmarish. But Dominic has seen me at my worst, he’s seen me panicked and without makeup and with tears streaming down my face, and he loves me.
He loves me.
When I get to the fifth floor, Marlene is holding open the station door. “I’m a sucker for true love,” she says with a shrug. “And Emma wasn’t getting you up here fast enough.”
Emma offers an apologetic but still peppy shrug.
I barely have a chance to take in the station foyer with its warm hominess and vinyl-record-covered walls before Kent sprints toward me.
“Shay!” he says, so falsely cheery that it churns my stomach. “We were wondering if you’d show up. I know it’s a little unconventional, but social media is blowing up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s really big of you to put all of this behind you and—”
“I’m not here for you.” God, it feels incredible to interrupt him. I gesture to the hall. “And as much as I used to love this place, I’m not here for the station. I’m here for Dominic, and that’s it. Then I’m gone.”
Kent’s mouth tightens, and he gives me a curt nod. Marlene’s long skirts flutter as she steps in front of him, and when our eyes meet, a brief understanding passes over her face. “Go,” she urges me, and I dip my head in gratitude.
My former coworkers seem to have realized what’s happening, and they join us in the hall, staring, openmouthed, as I make my way to the place I used to feel most myself. Deep breaths. One foot in front of the other. I can do this.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, there he is, standing in the middle of the studio like he’s delivering a filibuster. His clothes are crisp but his hair is rumpled, just like I imagined it. Dark scruff along his jaw, studio headphones clamped over his ears. Beautiful and sexy and sweet and kind. The guy I was scared of falling too hard for.
When his eyes lock on me, his face completely changes. A smile spreads from one corner of his mouth to the other, drawing out his dimple, and then he’s full-on grinning. His dark eyes brighten, and his posture seems to dip with relief. That shift is incredible to watch.
He heads for the door, and he must forget that he’s wearing headphones because the cord tugs him back toward the table. It’s adorable, watching him fiddle with it, trying to untangle himself.
“Get her mic’d up,” someone is saying. I don’t even know who.
And then I am being shoved into the studio with the man who just poured his heart out to me on live radio. Headphones are plugged in and wrangled onto my ears, and did they always feel this heavy?
“We’re on a newsbreak,” Jason Burns says in our ears. “You have four minutes before you go live again.”
“Hi,” Dominic says. The word is a breathy exhale.
“Hi.”
I thought I’d run toward him, that he’d scoop me into his arms, kiss me passionately. That the outside world would fall away, fade out, end credits.
Except none of that happens. My feet turn to concrete. We stare each other down, as though we’re both unsure what to do now.
“You look—you look great,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. I should have brought lozenges.
“Thanks,” I say, self-consciously running a hand through my hair again. “You—um. You do, too.”
We still have so much to say, but now that I’m here with him, I don’t know where to begin. Sure, I dreamed of us reconciling, but I never imagined it happening quite like this, with Dominic standing here like he has no idea what to do with his hands.
“You’ve been . . . okay?” I say. “Since the show went off the air?”
He nods, but then grimaces. “Work has been . . . you know. Fine. But I have to be honest. I’ve been fucking miserable.”
And that makes me crack a smile—not because he was miserable, but because I’ve felt the same.
“Me too,” I say in a small voice.
“Thirty-second warning,” someone says.
“I have to go back on the air,” he says.
Shit. Shit. We’ve barely even had a conversation.
“Are you—” He swallows. “You want to come on the air with me?”
We started this on the air. I want to finish it—whatever that conclusion is—on the air, too. “Yes,” I say quietly.
The rest of PPR has gathered outside the studio, and Kent is scrolling through a tablet. I have to focus anywhere but on him.
“I’m back with Shay Goldstein,” Dominic says when the RECORDING sign goes on, and woof, the nostalgia hits me with such force that I have to slide into a chair.
“Hi.” I wave, though I know no one can see me.
Dominic sits down next to me. “So I’ve kind of been spilling my feelings here for the past two and a half hours.”
“I’ve heard.” I force a laugh. “I don’t know why I’m laughing, actually.”
“It’s kind of funny,” he concedes. “We were able to lie that we were exes because we argued so much. Then we fell for each other. And then we hid it from ourselves for a while, and when we finally admitted it to each other, we had to hide it from the audience. But then everything blew up, and now . . . now I don’t know what we are.”
“When you went silent onstage in Austin, and then when you disappeared afterward . . .” I shake my head, still unable to block out that humiliation. “I’d never felt like that before. ‘Embarrassed’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’ve spent the past month trying to figure out if I’m supposed to work in radio, but being back here . . . I might be done with the station, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped fucking loving it.”
The Ex Talk Page 29