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The Ex Talk

Page 6

by Rachel Lynn Solomon


  I have to convince Dominic to do this show with me. And in order to convince him, I’d have to know him, which I do not. Luckily, being a producer has made me great at social media stalking research.

  His Facebook profile is public. Bless this generation and our lack of boundaries. Only—shit, am I in a different generation from Dominic? There’s no birth year on his profile, but he went directly from undergrad to grad school. That puts him at twenty-three or twenty-four. I’m solidly a millennial, but he falls in two generations: mine and Gen Z.

  Strangely, we don’t have any mutual friends, which means he must not have added anyone at the station yet. I click through his photos. Here he is, my potential ex-boyfriend, with unfortunate haircuts and teenage acne and posing for awkward family photos. His face looks softer here, though there’s that sharp cut of his jaw. I’ve been so focused on being annoyed by him that I haven’t really registered that he is cute. Especially once he passed the unfortunate-haircut stage. Somewhere, a barber should be fired.

  I could have dated a guy like this, I muse, lingering on a photo of him giving a presentation in front of a class, his arms stretched out in some kind of emphatic gesture. The photo was uploaded by someone else, with the caption Typical Dominic Yun presentation: please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle. I smile at that. Must be an inside joke.

  I’ve never dated a younger guy; all my boyfriends have been my age or slightly older. And even though we wouldn’t actually be dating, I can’t deny there’s a bit of a thrill there, buried beneath the generational angst.

  I keep scrolling, landing on a series of photos—a lot of photos—of Dominic with a redheaded girl, some of them as recent as this past June, at his Northwestern graduation. Mia Dabrowski says the photo tag. She’s extremely cute, a spray of freckles across her nose, a penchant for bright colors. I watch them age backward. There’s the two of them at a party, at the beach, on someone’s boat. Most of the time, they’re surrounded by a group of friends, but sometimes they’re on their own, pressing their cheeks together and mugging for the camera. Then they’re at their undergrad graduation in matching gowns. They’re adorable together. I click on her, but her profile is private.

  His relationship status is single, so it must have been a somewhat recent breakup, I deduce. I wonder if it has anything to do with Dominic’s reluctance to do the show or with his move to Seattle. I really do know next to nothing about this guy, and I’m overcome with an unfamiliar pang: I want to know him. I want to know this guy who had a full life back in Illinois, who not just smiled but beamed in all his photos, and yet hasn’t Facebook-friended any of his coworkers.

  Does he have friends at PPR? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him grab drinks with anyone after work. Jason had lunch with him once in his first couple weeks, but then he was put on afternoons. I’ve only ever seen Dominic leave the station in one way: alone.

  I’m scrolling back to the beginning of his photos when tragedy strikes.

  My hand slips on my laptop, and I accidentally hit the like button. On a really old photo of him and his ex-girlfriend.

  The only rational solution is to set myself and my laptop on fire.

  “Shit,” I say out loud, tossing the laptop onto the couch cushion. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  I leap to my feet and shake out my traitorous hands. He’s going to know that I was stalking him. And it might bring up weird feelings about this ex, and then he’ll never want to cohost with me, and fuck, fuck, how could I have been so fucking stupid?

  Deep breaths. I’ll just unlike it. He’ll never even get a notification. I pick up my laptop, realizing that in my panic, I closed out of the window. So I have to find his page again and scroll through his photos, only I can’t remember how far back this particular photo was, and—

  A new notification pops up:

  1 new friend request: Dominic Yun

  6

  Over the next week, desks empty out. Arts reporter Jess Jorgensen, who was hired right before Dominic, leaves on Thursday, followed by weekend announcer Bryan Finch. Kent breaks the news to Paloma, Ruthie, and Griffin on Monday, and I pretend I’m hearing it for the first time.

  The newsroom is typically a chatty place, but the layoffs have turned us quiet. No one knows how many people are being let go, and we’re all on edge. I’ve never seen the station like this. I don’t like it.

  Kent’s deadline looms closer. Whenever I try to catch Dominic, he’s on his way into a sound booth or out to meet a source, a recording gear bag slanted across his body. I’m even more aware now that he’s always, always alone when he leaves work. He doesn’t grab lunch with anyone. No after-work happy hours. Despite the praise his fellow reporters heaped on him, he is a lone wolf, and I’m not sure whether it’s by choice. The station is a slightly older crowd, and I was the youngest for so long that my only choice was to make friends with people who had kids close to my age. Then Ruthie started, and I couldn’t believe I was older than she was.

  By Wednesday, I’m stress-eating chia seeds by the handful, and those things are not cheap. I can’t lose this job. Not when I’m so close to being on the air.

  I manage to finally corner him after that day’s show, during which Paloma interviewed a university professor about dream psychology. It’s another popular segment, with listeners calling in to get their dreams analyzed. Though apparently it’s not popular enough to keep us on the air. It’s a testament to Paloma’s professionalism that she’s able to remain composed, though she made the announcement to our listeners early in the week that we’d be off the air soon. I expected an outpouring of support from the community, emails upon emails begging us not to go.

  We got one. And they spelled Paloma’s name wrong.

  “We need to talk,” I say to Dominic, who’s in the break room microwaving a Hot Pocket. Collegiate eating habits die hard, I guess.

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “Ha, ha,” I say. “How do you feel about that Korean place down the street?” I saw him and Kent go there for lunch last month. At the time, I’d been jealous. It had taken me years to get a one-on-one lunch invite. Fine, I’m still jealous.

  The microwave beeps, and he pops it open. “I recommend it. I hope you enjoy.”

  “Have dinner with me?” I plead, aware it sounds like I’m asking him out. “My treat. Please. You don’t have to commit to anything right now. I just want to have a conversation.”

  As much as it pains me to beg him for something, I’d get down on my knees in front of him if I had to. But Kent wasn’t wrong: The two of us on the air could be really great radio. With my producing background and his reporting background, plus Ruthie behind the scenes, this show could be much better than Puget Sounds ever was.

  It could be mine.

  A few different emotions seem to pass over his face, as though he’s fighting a mental battle. “Six fifteen. Right after work,” he says at last.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I say, relieved I don’t have to quite resort to groveling. I hold my hands out in a prayer position anyway. “Thank you.”

  He gives me a brusque nod, then slides the Hot Pocket onto a plate before making a move to leave the break room. For once, I’m blocking his way, even though I only come up to his collarbone. He could mow me down if he wanted to, knock me out of the way with his hips. Or maybe he’d push me to the side. Flatten me against the wall.

  I inhale, and there’s that ocean-sage scent again.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’m going to take this back to my desk and finish my story. It might be my last one here.”

  * * *

  —

  Dominic gets there before I do, only because I linger in the bathroom on our floor, not wanting to increase the awkwardness by riding the elevator down together. I reapply lipstick and run my fingers through my thick bangs. I wore my favorite outfit on purpose: tan ankle boots,
black jeans, vintage houndstooth blazer. I don’t usually go for a bold red lip, but desperate times and all that.

  With the exception of the holiday party, I’ve never seen him outside of work. They called it a holiday party even though it was essentially a Christmas party, complete with red-and-green decorations and a tree and a Secret Santa. I drew my own name, didn’t tell anyone, and bought myself an electric menorah. Dominic had looked slightly less stiff than usual, in black pants and a hunter-green sweater. I only remember what he wore because when we were in line for the buffet, I had the strangest urge to reach out and touch his sweater, to see how soft it was.

  He’s wearing the same sweater today over a checkered button-down, and it still looks soft.

  The restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall in the basement of an old house. When I’m trying to find it, I walk past the entrance twice by accident.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he says when I sit down across from him. “Make your case.”

  “Jesus, can we at least order first?” I open the menu. “What’s good here?

  “Everything.”

  The place is small, and there’s only one other table occupied by two businessmen chatting with the waitress in Korean. The kitchen is a few feet away and smells incredible.

  “I’ve never had Korean food,” I admit.

  “And you’ve lived in Seattle for how many years?”

  “My whole life.”

  He lifts his eyebrows expectantly, as though waiting for me to elaborate on how many years “my whole life” has spanned.

  “I’m twenty-nine,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “We should probably know each other’s ages if we’re going to think about doing this.”

  “We’re not doing anything.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The free dinner, he could say. But he doesn’t. He’s quiet for a moment, and then: “Twenty-four.”

  A tiny victory.

  He opens his menu, too. “Bulgogi. Korean barbecue beef,” he says, pointing to a row of menu items. “White people usually love it. No offense.”

  “Why would I be offended? I’m white.”

  “Some white people get weird when you point out they are, in fact, white. Like even talking about their own race makes them uncomfortable.”

  “I guess most of us don’t really think about being white?”

  He gives me a wry smile. “That’s exactly it.”

  Oh. “Well. I don’t feel weird about getting the white people thing, if that’s what you recommend.”

  In the end, that’s what I do, and he says I can try his bibimbap. It’s strange, this offer, and even stranger is the reality that I am having dinner with Dominic Yun. This is the longest conversation we’ve had about something other than radio. I’m not sure what it says about us that it’s easier to talk about race than about the jobs we supposedly love so much.

  When the waitress leaves, we fall into silence, and I begin shredding a napkin. It’s unnerving to be this close to him without any screens or microphones nearby. He is, like I confessed to Ameena, not bad-looking. Obviously I’ve been in the presence of attractive men at work before.

  But Dominic Yun’s level of attractiveness is a little intimidating. Under different circumstances, I’d have swiped right on him, and then probably fallen too hard before he unceremoniously dumped me. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to argue with him. I didn’t have to worry about wanting him to like me; I already knew he didn’t.

  Thank god his forearms are covered.

  “I realize,” I start, tearing off a particularly satisfying piece of napkin, “that you’re under the impression that it’s the news or nothing. But come on. You have to find some enjoyment in radio beyond the cold hard facts. You have to listen to podcasts, right? There are only about five million of them.”

  “You brought me here to educate me about podcasts?”

  “I’m sure you could find one that suits your interests. Life After Grad School, maybe? Or is there something for people whose idea of a well-balanced meal is a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket?”

  A corner of his mouth quirks up. The barest hint of a dimple. “You really don’t know much about me. I guess that would explain the Facebook stalking.”

  “That was—research,” I insist.

  “I listen to podcasts,” he says finally. “There’s a great one about the US judicial system that—”

  I groan. “Dominic. You are killing me.”

  He’s full-on grinning now. “You make it absurdly easy.” He stretches out his long legs beneath the table, and I wonder if he always has that problem: tables so small they can’t contain him.

  WWAMWMD, I think, summoning power from mediocre white men everywhere.

  “I want this,” I tell him. “Look, it’s not how I wanted it to happen, either. I’ve wanted to be on the radio for as long as I’ve known NPR existed. And The Ex Talk, maybe it’s not your ideal show. But it would open so many doors. We’d be breaking new ground in public radio, and trust me, public radio doesn’t break new ground every day. This is an incredible opportunity.”

  “How do I know you’re not just trying to save your job?”

  “Because you’re out of a job soon, too, same as me.”

  He crosses his arms. “Maybe I’ve gotten other offers.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Have you?”

  We stay locked like that for a moment, until he blows out a breath, giving in. “No. I moved here to work in public radio. Or moved back, I should say. I grew up here, over in Bellevue.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say. “So did I, but I was a city kid.”

  “I would have been high-key jealous of you,” he says. “I wasn’t allowed to drive on the freeway until I was eighteen.”

  I snort. “Poor little suburban boy.” But I’m surprised by how naturally our conversation is flowing.

  “Everyone else in my program, they were getting hired for digital journalism, or to run small-town newspapers that’ll fold in a few years,” Dominic continues. “I didn’t land here by accident. I went to grad school because, well—” He breaks off, scratches behind his neck like he’s embarrassed by what he’s about to say. “You’re going to think this is ridiculous, but you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

  “Jobs as a Hot Pockets spokesman might be scarce, but you shouldn’t let that hold you back.”

  He picks up one of my napkin scraps and flings it back at me. “I want to use journalism to fix shit. That’s why I want to be involved in investigations. I want to take down corporations that are fucking up people’s lives, and I want bigots out of power.”

  “That’s not ridiculous,” I say, serious. I don’t know why he’d be ashamed of something that noble.

  “It’s like saying you want to make the world a better place.”

  “Don’t we all? We just have different ways of getting there,” I say. “Why radio, though?”

  “I like the idea of being able to talk directly to people. There’s a real power to your words when they’re not backed up by visuals. It’s personal. You’re fully in control of how you sound, and it’s almost like you’re telling a story to just one person.”

  “Even if hundreds or thousands are listening,” I say quietly. “Yeah. I get that. I really do. I guess I assumed you got lucky with this job.”

  The dimple threatens to make a reappearance. “Well, I did. But I’m also fucking good at what I do.”

  I think about him on the radio with Paloma, about the narrative he wrote in college. About all the stories on our website that people really do seem to love.

  He is good.

  Maybe that’s what I’ve hated the most.

  “I didn’t realize you wanted to be on the radio,” he continues. “I assumed you were happy, you know. Producing. That’s what you’ve always done here
, right?”

  I nod. Time to get personal. I had a feeling this was coming, that I’d be spilling my radio history to him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t ever really get easier. “My dad and I listened to NPR all the time when I was growing up. We would pretend we were on the radio, and it was honestly the best part of my childhood. I loved how radio could tell such a complete, immersive story. But it’s competitive, and I was lucky enough to get an internship at PPR, which turned into a full-time job . . . and here I am.”

  “So you want your dad to hear you on the radio.”

  “Well—he can’t,” I say after a pause, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Oh.” He stares down at the table. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It was ten years ago,” I say, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t think about him every day, about how he sometimes personified the electronics he fixed, mostly to make me laugh as a kid, but even as I got older, I never got sick of it. It’s a risky surgery, he’d say about an ancient iPhone. She might not make it through the night.

  I’m grateful when our food arrives, sizzling and steaming and looking delicious. Dominic thanks the waitress in Korean, and she dips her head before walking away.

  “I asked her for another napkin,” he says, gesturing to the confetti remains of mine.

  “God, it’s good,” I say after the first bite.

  “Try some of this.” Dominic spoons some of his rice dish onto my plate.

  We eat in appreciative silence for a few minutes.

  “So. The Ex Talk,” I say, summoning the courage to talk about why we’re both here. “What’s holding you back? Is it . . . is it me? The idea of dating me?”

  His eyes widen, and he drops his spoon. “No. Not at all. Oh god—I’m not, like, insulted by the idea that you and I could have dated. Mildly shocked, yes, but not insulted. You’re . . .” At that, his eyes scan my face and travel down my torso. His cheeks redden. It gives me a bit of a rush, knowing he’s very obviously assessing me.

 

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