The Ex Talk(24)

Dominic’s waiting in the hall, leaning in the doorway of the break room. My brain’s so weird that I can’t even appreciate his forearms today. He tips his thermos of coffee at me as I head back to my desk.

“Good show,” he says, and he must be ill because I think he means it.





8




It’s late the next Wednesday evening after work that Dominic and I craft both our relationship and our breakup.

In preparation for tonight, I printed a bunch of “how well do you know your significant other?” quizzes and borrowed a couple board games from Ameena and TJ. Everyone’s left for the day, with the exception of the evening announcer running NPR content with occasional breaks for the weather. (Partly cloudy. It is always partly cloudy.) The only lights in the newsroom are the few directly above our heads, and it’s already dark outside.

Dominic and I spent all of Monday and most of Tuesday in meetings with Kent and the station’s board of directors. All public radio stations have them to handle ethics and finances, and they own the station’s license. To them, our relationship was real— Kent’s the only one who knows the truth. Earlier today, Kent announced the show to the rest of the station. And exactly as he’d predicted, they ate it up.

“I thought there was something going on between them!” Marlene Harrison-Yates said. “They were always either nonstop bickering or going out of their way to avoid each other.”

“No wonder Dominic was so opposed to the show during that brainstorm,” Isabel Fernandez said with a knowing smile. I tried to smile back.

I haven’t finished mourning Puget Sounds, but I can’t let myself get stuck thinking about it. The Ex Talk launches at the end of March as a weekly Thursday show, giving us a few weeks to create content and solidify our backstory. Our lie isn’t hurting anyone. That’s what I keep telling myself.

“Let’s start with the basics,” I say, turning my desk chair to face him and flipping open a notepad. “How did we start dating?”

Dominic leans against the desk across from mine, tossing a rubber Koosh ball into the air. The newsroom has been shuffled around so that our desks are next to each other. Where mine is organized chaos, his desk is wiped clean, with the exception of a pair of headphones on one side. I’ve never seen a desk that spotless.

“You heard my irresistible radio voice,” he says drolly, catching the ball. After-Hours Dominic is only slightly less stiff than Eight-to-Five Dominic. His jeans are the darkest blue, his shirt a gray plaid with one and a half buttons undone. That second one is fighting with all its might to stay buttoned, but every time Dominic moves, it slips a little more.

“Are you going to do that all the time?” I ask, pointing at the Koosh.

He throws the ball and catches it again. “It relaxes me.”

“You’re not going to take notes?”

“I have an excellent memory.”

I give him a hard look. He rolls his eyes, but he drops the ball onto his desk, slides into his chair, and opens a Word document.

“Thank you.”

“I listened to your podcasts, by the way,” he says. “I liked Culture Clash.”

“Yeah?” Maybe I should give him more credit. I didn’t think he’d actually do it, but I guess he was committed to the research. “Which episode did you listen to?”

He levels me with a stare. “All of them.”

“You . . . what?” I wasn’t expecting that. “All of them? There must be more than fifty episodes!”

“Fifty-seven.” His expression turns sheepish. “I had some time.”

“Huh. Guess so.”

I scrutinize him as a strange feeling works its way through me. It’s not quite pride, though it’s validating that Dominic agrees Culture Clash is good. I think I might be touched.

Dominic gestures to his computer screen. “Can we at least acknowledge how ridiculous this whole thing is?”

“Acknowledged. So I think what we have to do is establish that we were—ugh, I know this is horrifying—flirting pretty early on when you started working here, and that our relationship was solidified by your second or third week, though obviously we kept it secret from everyone at the station. New city, new job, and a new relationship all at once. You think you can handle that?”

“Guess I have to,” he says. “What did this flirting look like?”

“I—I don’t know,” I say, caught a bit off guard by the question. “How . . . do you usually flirt with someone?”

He balances his index and middle fingers on his chin. “Hmm. I guess it’s not always a conscious thing, is it? If it were someone at work, I’d find excuses to walk by their desk, to talk to them. I’d joke around, try to make them laugh. Maybe I’d touch them, just a little, but only if I was positive they’d be into it, and if they weren’t, I’d stop immediately.”

I let myself picture this. Dominic not just leering down at someone, but brushing her arm with the back of his hand, passing it off as an accident with a shy smile. Dominic placing a palm on someone’s shoulder, telling her how much he loved her show or her story. Dominic trying to make someone laugh. I’m half tempted to ask him to tell me a joke.

The Dominic Yun who flirts with a hypothetical coworker is not the Dominic Yun I’ve known since October.