The Ex Talk(14)

Storytelling. Lying. There’s a blurry line between them.

“Picture it: an hour-long weekly show. A podcast. A hashtag. Branded swag, even. We could make this big.” Kent has become a salesman. “How incredible would it be to have a show with national appeal attached to the KPPR name? WHYY has Fresh Air, WBEZ has This American Life . . . we could have whatever this show is.”

For a moment, I do allow myself to picture it: sitting in the big studio, a microphone in front of me, callers waiting on the line.

“The Ex Talk,” I say quietly.

“What was that?” Kent says.

I repeat it, a little more conviction in my voice.

“The Ex Talk . . . yes. Yes. I like that a lot.”

The way he talks about it, this show that was only an idea a few hours ago, feels almost real, like something I could reach out and touch. He’s clearly spent the day figuring out the best way to spin this. Maybe that’s how a program director’s mind works, or maybe he really is that desperate for something new.

Kent wants me to lie.

Kent wants me to host a show.

“My voice,” I say. The two men turn to me, as though they know exactly what’s wrong with my voice, but they’re unwilling to acknowledge it unless I explain it. As though it’s okay to insult someone if they insult themselves first. “What? You both know what I sound like. Me on the air would be a disaster.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Kent says. “Public radio loves unique voices. Sarah Vowell, Starlee Kine. Shocking, but there are even people who don’t like Ira Glass. And you want to be on the air.” He says it like he knows the way I gaze longingly at Paloma during Puget Sounds.

“Well . . . yes,” I say. “But this isn’t about what I want.” Is it? I’m no longer sure.

This can’t be a real conversation. We’re not really talking about me on the air—with Dominic of all people, hosting a show based on a relationship we never had. I must have tumbled into an alternate reality yesterday: Ameena’s job interview she’s positive won’t lead to a job, my mother’s engagement, my fake relationship and fake breakup with Pacific Public Radio’s newest star reporter. Any moment, Carl Kasell will come back to life and record a message for my voice mail.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Dominic says, and he looks so upset, so perplexed that I actually feel a little sympathy for him. It’s about the size of one of Paloma’s chia seeds. “The mayor resigned. We had this massive story, and now—now you want to pull me off news to do a fluff show?

“And you did an incredible job with that piece.” Kent sips his tea. “But it was also only one piece, and one piece does not a career make. Being a reporter, that’s a lot of pressure. Those investigations are exhausting. You think you can turn out piece after piece like that?”

Dominic plants his elbows on his knees and stares at the floor, a blush creeping onto his cheeks, and there’s another new emotion: embarrassment. He wants Kent to believe in him, the way he’s grown accustomed to since he started. I’m reminded in that moment just how young he is. His master’s program was only a year—he could be as young as twenty-three.

Kent offers up a sympathetic smile. “People loved you yesterday, Dominic,” he says, and this is what makes Kent a good manager: He knows exactly how to butter us up when he wants something, even if it means poking at our insecurities first. “And people would love you, too, Shay. They just have to get to know you. I didn’t want to say this to the whole staff, not yet, but . . .” He lets out a slow, measured breath. “There are going to be layoffs. It kills me to say that, it really does.”

Layoffs. The force of that word pins me to my chair. He’s talking about new programming when they’ve already planned on layoffs?

“Shit,” Dominic says, and I narrow my eyes at Kent.

“So that meeting was, what, a way for us to fight for our jobs?” I say. “Without even realizing it?”

“Lucky for you, you may have landed on some job security.”

“Lucky,” Dominic says under his breath. “Right.”

“What about my show?” I ask. The meeting’s pie charts flash through my mind. I already know what he’s going to say, and it feels like he’s shoved his desk right into my chest. I didn’t realize this potential new show came at the cost of gutting Paloma’s.

“I’m so sorry, Shay. The numbers don’t lie. It’s the lowest-performing of all our shows, and we’re going to have to cancel it. I wish I didn’t have to do this. The board has been talking about this for months, and my hands are tied. I was planning to tell you and Paloma tomorrow.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“She’s being offered a very generous severance package,” Kent says. “I hate that we have to do this. I hate the layoffs. Absolutely hate it—it’s the worst part of my job. But it’s unavoidable.” His face brightens. “If you two agree to this, I want to do whatever I can to make you happy. You can pick your producer, in fact.”

“Ruthie,” I say immediately. “She’s the one who came up with the name.”

“Perfect. I wasn’t looking forward to letting her go—she’s a good one. You want Ruthie, she’s yours.”