The Ex Talk(15)

Dominic stands, stretching up to his full height. “The board isn’t going to sign off on this.”

“You let me take care of that,” Kent says. “Next Friday. That’s when I need an answer, or I’ll give you both glowing recommendations and you can start working on your résumés.” He gazes settles on Dominic. “Because we have to cut some reporters, too.”

Dominic lets out a sharp breath, as though he’s been punched. I want to feel sorry for him. I want to feel sorry for Paloma, for everyone who’s going to lose their job. And I do, I swear, but—

People would love you, Shay, Kent said.

They would listen.

To me.

“Forget it,” Dominic says, his shoulders rigid as he heads to the door. “I’m not doing it.”





5




I drag a paintbrush across a canvas, squinting at the photo of an apple orchard and then at my rendition of it. A few red blobs, a few green blobs. Not exactly a masterpiece.

“And then he basically insinuated you’d lose your jobs if don’t do the show?” Ameena asks, dipping her brush in forest green.

“Yep. Brutal, right?”

She lets out a low whistle. “More like borderline illegal. I should talk to some of my friends in HR.”

We’re at Blush ’n Brush, a monthly paint night at a local wine bar. We’ve been going after work for a while now as a way to relieve stress, though Ameena is much more talented than I am. It may actually be increasing my stress. As a result, I have a handful of mediocre paintings of trees taking up space in my guest room. Who’s visiting? Why do I have a guest room? Everyone I know lives in Seattle, but I didn’t know what else to do with my house’s third bedroom.

“It’s not like that,” I insist. “He just really cares about the station. But none of it matters, since Dominic said he won’t do it.” Which means unless he has a change of heart in the next ten days, we’re both jobless.

“Shit. I am so sorry.”

The reality of the layoffs hasn’t sunk in yet. It’s only been a couple hours since our meeting with Kent, and I must be clinging to The Ex Talk like a life raft. My chance to be on the air, to explore something fresh and exciting and different, is in the hands of someone who has made it clear I’m not his favorite person. And sure, he’s never been mine, but I imagine I could tolerate him if it meant hosting my own show.

“I know you,” Ameena continues. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“I really, really do.” I let out a sigh and dip my brush into water before swishing it into light blue paint. A sky—surely I can manage not to fuck that up too badly. It’s only when I swipe it across the canvas that I realize it’s the same shade as the shirt Dominic wore today. “It’s stupid, I know. I’ve already come up with individual show ideas, and then I started brainstorming a logo on my drive here . . . but it’s pointless.”

“Hey. It’s not stupid.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “But speaking hypothetically, you’d be lying, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that a little . . . anti-journalism?”

I use Kent’s rationale: “It’s storytelling. We’d be acting, in a sense. Most hosts put on a different personality. No one’s exactly the way they are on the radio—so much of that is for show. You create this personality specifically for people to connect with.”

“Makes sense when you put it that way, I guess,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “So. Dominic. You’re at least going to try to persuade him, right?”

“No idea how, but yes.”

“What is it about him that you dislike so much?”

I groan, both at her question and at how I’ve somehow turned the sky in my painting into a muddy brown mess. “He thinks he knows everything about radio, he waves his master’s degree around like it makes him some authority on journalism, and the idea of cohosting with him, being on equal footing . . . well, at least it’s better than him thinking I’m beneath him.”

“Is he cute?”

“What?” I choke on my pinot. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Ameena shrugs and glances away, feigning disinterest. “Nothing, really. I’m just curious.”

“I mean—objectively—he’s not bad-looking,” I manage to get out, trying not to think about his forearms or his height but instead about the way it feels when he has to crane his neck to look down at me. Could I really deal with that five days a week?

A slight smile curves her lips as she sips her glass of rosé.

“Shut up,” I tell her.

“I didn’t say a word.”

The instructor walks by our row and gushes over Ameena’s painting.

“Beautiful work as usual, Ameena,” she says. She turns to me and her smile tightens. “It’s coming along. You’re really improving.”

Ameena beams. I roll my eyes.

“Here’s the weirdest part to me,” Ameena says. “Are you sure you’d be okay with the idea of talking about your past relationships on the radio? Airing all that dirty laundry?”

I consider this. “I guess I’d have to be. My laundry isn’t that dirty, is it? There hasn’t been anyone serious since Trent.”