The Ex Talk(19)

“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.