The Ex Talk(59)

“You tired? I’ll let you go to sleep. I’ve always been kind of a night owl.”

And the thing is . . . I am tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to stay up talking like this. I’d love to learn his mouth for real, for him to roll his hips over mine and press me down into the mattress, but I also want to hear more secrets, to tell more secrets.

But I don’t know how to do any of that, so I switch off the lamp and plunge the two of us into darkness.

“Night, Shay,” he says, and it breaks my heart, just a little, that I’ll only get to hear those words from him one more time.



* * *



—

The first thing I feel when I wake up is warmth. Sunlight pours into the room, and there is a very tall, very stubbly guy next to me. He has one arm beneath his pillow, the other stretched out on the bed between us. And god, he looks cute. I’ve always been weak for morning-guy sleepiness. They’re so soft, so innocent in a way they rarely are in real life.

Steve is at the foot of the bed, softly whining for a walk, as though he doesn’t want to wake Dominic, either. The bed creaks when I lift myself off it, and Dominic stirs.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” I say.

“No, no,” he says, but his eyes are still closed.

I can’t help smiling at that. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I’m going to walk Steve and shower.”

“I’m getting up,” he says as he rolls over, face mashed into the pillow.

After I walk Steve, Dominic showers downstairs and I shower upstairs. I put on something much less dressy than my work outfits: black leggings, graphic tee, gray hoodie. He’s similarly athletic-casual in jeans, a Northwestern sweatshirt—seriously, how much college apparel can one person own?—and a Mariners cap.

Our weather apps predict morning drizzle and afternoon sun, so we decide to antique first, hike later. We spend the morning at a farmers’ market, grabbing pastries and fresh fruit. Maybe Kent was right about the two of us bonding because this really does feel like something I’d do with a boyfriend. We take Steve with us, who greets every stranger like he wants them to take him home.

“Steve, where is your loyalty?” I say, mock-offended.

Once we’re adequately carbo-loaded, we get in my car to map directions to Dominic’s antique shops.

“Here,” I say, passing him my phone while I secure Steve in his crate. “Look up where you want to go.”

When I get into the driver’s seat, he’s grinning down at my phone. “I see you’ve been listening to a certain judicial system podcast.”

I grab for my phone, but he holds it out of reach. “It was just—research. You know. Had to learn more about you.”

“Uh-huh.” He scrolls down, smirks. “Then why does it show you’ve listened to . . . all twelve of their most recent episodes?”

“Steve and I take a lot of long walks,” I insist, and he grins the rest of the drive.

I’m more interested in observing Dominic in an antique shop than the antiques themselves. It’s as though he immediately knows where to go, despite never having been there. I follow him to a section full of kitchen supplies.

He unearths a cast-iron skillet and inspects it. “A Griswold number seven. Nice.” Upon seeing my perplexed expression, he turns sheepish. “It’s an addiction. I probably have about twenty of these in my apartment.”

“And you cook with all of them?”

“I restore them first,” he says. “You have to remove all the rust with some steel wool before seasoning it.”

“Seasoning it? Like . . . adding oregano or rosemary or what?”

“Not that kind of seasoning. You rub it down with oil, then place it in a hot oven for an hour or so, and after that, it’s ready for cooking.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Ameena and I go to estate sales sometimes, but that’s mainly just for clothes.”

“Yeah?” A corner of his mouth quirks up as he sorts through the cookware. I kneel next to him, trying to help, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. “I like the way you dress.”

My face heats up hotter than that skillet probably could. “I thought you weren’t a fan of the taco shirt.”

“Oh, you should burn the taco shirt, don’t get me wrong. I meant what you wear to work.” He digs into another stack, obscuring his face.

“Oh. Um—thank you,” I say, and then, in attempt to change the subject: “Show me what we’re looking for?” And so begins my cast-iron education.

Dominic’s pretty pleased with his haul: that Griswold number seven and a Wagner number five. After a quick café lunch, we head off on our hike. It’s an easy one, fortunately, easy enough that we’re able to talk without getting too out of breath. Which is good, because that’s a sensation I tend to experience around Dominic regardless of physical activity. Steve trots along beside me like he’s just happy to be here.

“I haven’t hiked in forever,” Dominic says. His strides are much longer than mine, and I can tell he purposefully goes slower so I can keep up. It’s both sweet and infuriating. “I love having the time to just think.”

“My mom and I used to go hiking a lot in the years after my dad died.” Our therapist suggested it as a bonding activity. We never talked much on those hikes, but I think it helped.