It’s not real.
But I wonder, if it isn’t, why we fall asleep with his face tucked against the back of my neck, his hand at my hip.
FROM: Yun, Dominic
TO: Goldstein, Shay
DATE: May 14, 3:52 p.m.
SUBJECT: Booth C
Hi Shay,
You’ll see on our shared calendar that I reserved Booth C from 4 to 4:15 p.m. There’s something I want you to listen to. I think you’ll enjoy it quite a bit.
Regards,
Dominic
FROM: Goldstein, Shay
TO: Yun, Dominic
DATE: May 14, 4:19 p.m.
SUBJECT: RE: Booth C
Dear Dominic,
You were right. That was an especially satisfying piece of audio.
All the best,
Shay
27
“I want to say we’ve heard so much about you,” Margot Yun says after taking my coat in the foyer of Dominic’s childhood home. “But frankly, we’ve heard almost nothing at all.”
I paste a smile on my face as I step out of the corn shoes a sponsor sent us a couple weeks ago. “My mom feels the same,” I tell her. “Dominic and I are both just . . . private people.”
“I think it’s commendable.” Dominic’s father, Morris, stands about five inches shorter than his wife. It’s clear which side of the family Dominic’s height came from. “There’s no need to post everything all over social media. There’s not enough that people keep to themselves these days. Although I did just manage to figure out Snapchat. Tell them, Margot.”
“He’s been very proud of himself,” Margot says. “He sends me photos from the shop when we’re not working together, but I can’t understand why they go away after only a few seconds. I can never seem to get them back.”
“I tried to tell you, that’s the whole point!”
“I don’t have the heart to tell him no one uses Snapchat anymore,” Dominic stage-whispers to me.
It’s been a long week, and I haven’t been entirely sure how to feel about meeting Dominic’s parents. While I’m sure they’re lovely people, my reluctance is tightly wrapped around my feelings for Dominic. The rest of my life isn’t any easier to manage. Ameena and I haven’t spoken since that night, though TJ has acted as an intermediary, letting me know they flew out to Virginia this morning to look at apartments. As much as I want things to go back to normal between us, I can’t forget what she said. Though I know it’s not my fault she didn’t take that job all those years ago, her words sank their claws into me, stirring up an uncertainty that I come back to whenever work is slow.
We follow his parents into the living room. They’re a little older than I expected, which I probably should have guessed, given that he’s the youngest of five. Morris Yun is bald, with firm lines around his mouth and a slope to his shoulders that makes him appear even shorter. In contrast, Margot is willowy and regal, her gray hair chopped at her chin, and her clothes expertly tailored.
If I didn’t already know they owned an antique shop, their house would give it away. It’s a spacious two-story in Bellevue, a wealthy suburb of Seattle that becomes more and more yuppie by the day. Tapestries hang from the walls next to paintings in ornate frames, and every surface is decorated with small statues, vases, mirrors, clocks, and even an old gramophone in one corner. Still, it doesn’t look cluttered. It gives off this museum vibe, but a museum you’d want to live in.
On the ride over, Dominic talked to me about growing up on the Eastside. “I remember going into Seattle was this exciting thing,” he said. “I’d look forward to it for weeks.”
“That is so cute,” I said. As a born-and-raised city kid, I couldn’t help teasing him. “Baby Dominic in the big city.”
Now I sit next to him on the stunning Victorian couch, which looks like something out of a movie from the 1950s, wanting desperately for his parents to like me but not entirely sure why.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, and they both look pleased.
“We’re proud of it,” Margot says from a matching love seat. “It’s sort of a living thing—we tend to change it up every so often when the mood strikes us, or when we find something we can’t bear to give to the store quite yet. Dominic practically grew up there. I suppose you know all of that, even if we don’t know anything about you.”
“Mom,” Dominic says under his breath, and it sounds like a warning.
I yearn for the alternate reality in which Margot isn’t immediately on the defensive.
“You never used to be this private,” Margot continues, smoothing the hem of her gauzy skirt. “He used to post all these updates on Facebook, and he’d get mad when I was the first like. He even called me up in college to ask me politely to stop doing it, since all his friends could see.”
I have never seen Dominic’s face this red.
“I don’t do it anymore,” Dominic says. “I can’t remember the last time I went on Facebook.”
“At least we have the chance to get to know you now,” Margot says. “What does your mother do, Shay?”
I appreciate that Dominic must have warned them about my dad. “She’s a violinist in the Seattle Symphony.”
Her faces lights up, and I feel a burst of pride, grateful this has won me some points. “Is she really? We were there last week, for Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony. Incredible. You must go all the time.”
“Not as much as I used to,” I admit. “But it was interesting, growing up with someone who’s as much of a music snob as my mother. She took it as a personal attack when I started listening to the Backstreet Boys.”
Dominic cracks a smile at this, and I don’t love what it does to my heart.
“I could get you comp tickets, actually,” I add.
“I wouldn’t want to put anyone out.”
“Really, it’s no problem at all. My mom always has a ton.”
“Well—thank you. That’s too kind,” she says, softening. “And you’ve been at the radio station for a while?”
“Since college.” Not a sore subject. Nope. “How often is it just Dominic here?”
Morris slides his teal glasses higher up on his nose. “We usually see Kristina and Hugo at Christmas, since they’re out of state. And then Monica and Janet usually every other month. But Dominic just can’t seem to get enough of us.”
“I’m not saying I’m their best kid because I come home more than the others, but . . .”
His mother winks at him, and seriously, what is happening to my heart? That wink makes me want so badly to be part of this—not as a friend or cohost or a fake anything, but as a girlfriend.
“Even if it’s under strange circumstances,” Morris says, “it’s good to meet you. You and Dominic have clearly created something special, and even if it’s not exactly something I’d listen to otherwise, a lot of people seem to be connecting with it. And it’s great that the two of you have been able to stay friends.” He gets to his feet. “We’ll be finishing up dinner, if you feel like giving Shay a tour of the house.”
“Can we help with anything?” I ask.
Margot waves a hand. “It’s nearly ready.” She grins as she adds, “And, well, we don’t hate showing off our house.”
“I think I’ll show her my childhood bedroom,” Dominic says. “Just so she can get in a few more laughs at my expense.”
* * *
—
“This is a lot of Beanie Babies.”
I gaze up at them: shelves upon shelves, each of them with their own personal bubble of space, some of them in collector’s boxes. Bears and birds and monkeys and lions and lizards in every color, all with their trademark red tags still intact. And these shelves—they look lik
e they were built for the express purpose of Beanie Baby storage.
“It’s a sickness,” Dominic says, hanging his head.
“How did this happen? How does one acquire this many Beanie Babies?”
“Three hundred and twenty, to be exact. Some of our relatives in Korea gave them to my sister Kristina as gifts when they visited us.” He points to a blue bear with the Korean flag printed all over it. “They were really excited about this one. But Kristina wasn’t into them, so she gave them to me, and for some reason, I loved them. I was one of those people who thought they’d be worth a lot someday. And I was one hundred percent wrong.”
“Were they even still popular when you were a kid?”
“Barely. You can see, now, why I didn’t lose my virginity until I was in college.”
“I’m just . . .” I break off, shaking my head. It’s hilarious but endearing, imagining a young Dominic painstakingly arranging them on these shelves. “I don’t know if I can keep sleeping with someone who owns three hundred and twenty Beanie Babies.”
“Alas. I knew it would come to this. Well, it was good while it—”
I interrupt him by pressing my mouth on his, kicking the door shut behind us. He draws me close, his hands on my hips. The warmth of his tongue, the woodsy scent of the soap I told him is much better than his cologne. I’m always waiting for the next moment we can be alone like this, and while we haven’t had any more sleepovers, we’ve been together nearly every night since Orcas.
We’re familiar enough with each other now to know exactly the ways we like to be touched, and when he goes for the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, I let out a soft moan that I also happen to know he loves the sound of. He’s already hard against me, and it’s always a bit of a rush, knowing he wants me.
A clang from the kitchen makes us spring apart.
He drops his fingers from my belt loops and takes a step back. The skin on my neck burns white-hot.
“Probably for the best,” he says with a sheepish grin, pointing back up at the Beanies. “You’d have nightmares for days.”
As I catch my breath, I examine the rest of his room. There’s a collage of photos next to his desk, one that likely hasn’t been updated in years. “Aww, was this your senior photo? You were cute in high school. I definitely would have had a crush on you.” I flop down on his bed. “I can’t believe I was out of college when you were still in high school. Way to make me feel ancient.”
He sits down next to me. “Did you have dial-up? And CDs? What was your CD collection like?”
“Hmm . . . a lot of NSYNC, Mandy Moore, Blink-182, and a handful of Now That’s What I Call Musics. And I will not apologize for any of it.”
“Mandy Moore, like, from This Is Us?”
“Oh my god, don’t even talk to me until you listen to ‘Candy.’”
My room at home hasn’t been nearly as preserved as his, but maybe that was more of a personal decision than a profound commentary on the passage of time. Also pinned to that corkboard is an old plane ticket to Seoul. A photo of him in front of a gorgeous green-and-red palace.
“So your mom was born in Korea, and your dad was born here?”
He nods. “She grew up in Yeoju, which is a smaller city outside of Seoul. Actually, it wasn’t even a city when she was growing up there, just a county. I’ve only been there a few times—shockingly, it’s pricey to do a lot of international travel with five kids. Especially if you’re number five. But they’re both only children, and they wanted a big family.”
“It seems they’re doing well now,” I say. “Your house really is stunning.”
“I know my mom appreciated that. And yeah, they are, but it took a while to get there.”
The next time we kiss, it’s not hard and fast, the way our kisses often are. It’s a soft kiss, a reverent one, and it happens so slowly I’m convinced time stops, too. Then he brushes some of my hair out of the way so he can press a kiss to the shell of my ear. And another. It makes me shiver, the gentleness of his lips on my skin, the brush of his thumb along my jaw. My cheekbone. Like maybe he is memorizing me or even just . . . appreciating.
It terrifies me. All of this does—his parents and his bedroom and the parts of himself he doesn’t share with anyone else. It makes me wonder if he’s not that wrong for me after all. If he keeps touching me like this, like I am something precious, something delicate, I could really fall for him.
I might be halfway there already.
“Come over after dinner?” he says. His voice is honey sweet, tinged with a roughness that leaves no doubt as to what he’s imagining us doing after dinner.
“I’m not sure if I can.” I try to ignore the bitter sting of regret. “I have some plans with my mom early tomorrow. Wedding stuff.” It’s not a lie, at least.
His face falls, and the hand that stroked my face so tenderly drops to his lap. “Sure. That’s fine.”
It’s for the best, I try to convince myself. Space. That’s what we need.
* * *
—
Except . . . I don’t get much space during dinner. Not when Dominic’s foot nudges mine beneath the table, not when his mother admits, “I know you’re not in a relationship, but you really do look cute together,” and not when his parents ask for details about the “dates” we went on back in the fall, eager to know more about this part of their son’s life he kept from them. It’s a perfectly pleasant dinner, but if they knew the truth, I wouldn’t be welcome here. I’m sure of it.
The low-key panic I’ve been nursing all evening turns into a full-fledged anxiety spiral, and by the time Dominic and I wave goodbye and head to his car, I’m stumbling over nonexistent cracks in the driveway.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say. “Your parents are great. Your dad cracks me up.”
“He’s a character.” Dominic swings his keys around his index finger. “You’re sure you can’t come over?” he asks, and there’s so much control in his words that I’m convinced he’s trying not to sound like he’s begging. It kills me. “Just for a little?”
“I said I can’t.” The edge in my voice is too hard.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”
I need some space away from him to sort out my feelings. My work life and personal life are already muddied, now that I’m texting him about my problems and meeting his parents, and I can’t have him in both. Casual has to end now if we have any hope of long-term success for the show.
When he drops me off after a silent drive, I don’t lean over and kiss him. I don’t look him in the eye. I’m not sure what’s going to come out of my mouth when I open it, only that I’m probably going to regret it, but—
“I’m not sure if I can do casual anymore.”
He pulls the parking brake. “What?”
God, don’t make me repeat it. But I do, and when I feel his hand on my shoulder, I shrink against the seat. I hate how right it feels.
And that’s the reason I have to end it, prevent something seemingly casual from warping my sense of reality when I fear it already has.
“Because . . . of my parents?” The confusion in his tone is evident.
“No. Not that. Well, kind of, but . . . no.”
I like you too much to keep pretending I don’t. I like you too much not to get attached because I’m already far more attached than I ever thought I’d be, and anything else is going to kill me.
“That makes a lot of sense.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I—I want to be able to explain it, but I’m not sure I can. With the show, it’s just . . . too complicated.” There. That can be my excuse.
He looks like I’ve just told him I’m breaking up with him—which, in a way, I am. His face is a mix of confusion and hurt, his brows knit together, his eyes wide. If I look at him a moment longer, I might try to take it all back.
&nb
sp; “Shay,” he says, “let’s talk about this. Please.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just—can’t.” And before he can say anything, I swing open the car door and head for my house.
I have to force myself not to look back.
28
Dominic has been a distraction.
By the end of the weekend, I’ve fully convinced myself of this. Ameena was wrong—it’s not that I’ve outgrown public radio. It’s that I’ve become complacent, letting Dominic and Kent speak for me when I have a microphone, too. I didn’t even stand up for my own idea. That was all Dominic. I was grateful at the time, but it should have been me.
Now it will be.
After a soul-replenishing cake tasting, which my mother rescheduled after the unexpected Orcas trip, I dig back into work in a way I haven’t in months. I camp out at a coffee shop, order a soup-bowl-size mug of chai, and clamp on my headphones.
We had a huge publicity push at the beginning, which I’ll begrudgingly admit was thanks to Kent. Then there was Dominic’s Saffron Shaw connection. I participated in all of that promo, sure. But it’s almost like I was so used to being behind the scenes that once I wasn’t, I didn’t know what to do. We have some loyal listeners, but our early buzz has definitely dipped. Nothing lasts, Kent said. I’ll prove him wrong. I’ll find our momentum.
He said we had a chance at PodCon—I’m determined to make that happen. The full lineup hasn’t been announced yet, and we sent over a handful of sample episodes last month. I’m going to make us impossible to ignore.
My social media following has scared me a little; even the blue checkmark by my name is something I’m not used to seeing. Still, I open Twitter and search our hashtag. People are still talking about us, discovering us every day. Our subscriber numbers have continued to climb.
The Ex Talk Page 23
