The Ex Talk(21)

“That’s just Kent. He knows what he wants. And he clearly loves you.” I hope he doesn’t catch the jealousy in my voice. “This is different from anything public radio has ever done. Sure, the national desk has done stories, sometimes series, about dating and relationships, and same with member stations. But there’s never really been an entire show dedicated to them. Isn’t it exciting, to think you could be part of that?” He shrugs, so I keep going. “I’ve been behind the scenes for so long that I want to see, I guess, if I can be more than that.”

My confession sits heavy between us.

“I had no idea you felt that way,” he says quietly.

“It’s not something I tend to broadcast very often.” I start ripping apart napkin number two. “But if you don’t think you can do it . . .”

He leans forward across the table, his eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t name. “Oh, I could definitely do it.”

I force myself to match the intensity of his gaze. It feels like a challenge, and I don’t want him to think I’m backing down. I hope I don’t have lipstick on my chin. I hope he doesn’t think I’m too old for him, at least in the hypothetical sense. I hope he realizes exactly how much I want this.

And that means wanting him, too.

“Three months,” he says finally.

“Six.”

“Shay—”

I hold up a hand, trying to ignore how much I like the way he said my name. It rumbled in his throat, sending an electric spark from my toes to some places that haven’t gotten much attention lately. I wonder if it’s how he says a woman’s name in bed. A growl. A plea.

Jesus Christ, I’m thinking about Dominic in bed with someone. I am not well. If I’m turned on simply by the sound of his voice, we’re going to have serious problems.

“Three months isn’t long enough to build a devoted audience,” I say. “Six months, enough for me to get the hosting experience I need, enough to elevate your name to the point where you can move on to something else when we’re done.”

“And if we’re caught?”

“I’m not snitching. Are you?”

His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s thinking. “Fine,” he says, and though that word makes my heart soar, what I really want is for him to say my name again.

“Thank you!” I leap up from the table, and it’s only when I’m standing that I realize I’m not sure what I was going to do. Did I think I was going to hug him? “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t regret this. I promise. This show is going to be fucking amazing.”

He’s watching me with an expression of clear amusement. Instead of going in for a hug, I stick out my hand.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” His hand is large, slender fingers fitting between mine and warming my skin. “It was a pleasure breaking up with you.”





7




“His name is Steve,” says the Seattle Humane Society volunteer when we stop in front of the last cage at the end of the row. “But I don’t know if he’d be a great fit for you.”

“Why not?” A tan Chihuahua mix sits in the far corner on a gray fleece blanket, watching me with big brown eyes. He has giant ears and a small black nose and an underbite. He is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Initially, I hadn’t given it much thought when Ameena suggested getting a dog. But my house has felt eerier than usual lately, and having a little animal waiting for me at the end of the day might be exactly what I need. Aside from a pair of guinea pigs Ameena and I had right out of college, I’ve never had a pet of my own. We had a dog named Prince when I was a kid, though I don’t remember him much. My parents had him before I was born, and I was nine when he passed away. Still, I am a perpetual asker of “Can I pet your dog?”

Flora, the volunteer, hmms under her breath. “He . . . has a lot going on. We think he’s about four years old, but we’re not sure. He was found on the streets in Northern California, and he was brought up here to have a better chance of getting adopted. He was actually adopted at the end of the year, but he wasn’t a good fit for the family. They had three young kids, and he’s not aggressive, per se, but he can get a little territorial.”

“Aren’t we all?” I ask, forcing a laugh.

Flora doesn’t return it. “We’ve had him here almost three months now, and we’ve had a lot of trouble placing him. We think he’d be better off as the only pet with an experienced owner. No kids.”

Three months. Three months of this constant yapping and no human to cuddle up with. Three months of loneliness. I can’t even imagine what it’s like at night here, after all the volunteers go home.

“I don’t have any pets or kids,” I say.

“But you’ve never had a dog, right?”

I did mention that when I walked in. But after walking up and down the rows, I can’t imagine going home with any of these dogs— except Steve.

“I had one growing up,” I say, standing taller and trying my best to appear like a responsible dog owner, someone who can handle a supposedly “difficult” dog like Steve. He can’t weigh more than ten pounds. “And I have a friend who’s a trainer.” Sort of. Mary Beth Barkley was sad to hear about Puget Sounds ending, and I promised I’d do my best to get her booked on another show.