The Ex Talk(18)
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.