The Ex Talk(70)

I exhale with relief. “And no spending the night, I assume?”

“Oh. Okay,” he says with another strange expression.

“Good,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear how tentative I sound.

“Good,” he agrees, squeezing my hand. “I’m glad we figured that out.”

But I’m wondering why casual was his first instinct. If it didn’t cross his mind that this should be anything other than casual, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t cross mine, either. It’s safer, really, to hook up with someone so clearly wrong for me. It’ll have to prevent me from getting attached.

The way we were on the island, those late-night conversations—that was friendship. It wasn’t a prelude to a relationship. There isn’t anything I can realistically have with him that isn’t casual.

If this is the only way I can have him, then I have to be okay with it.





The Ex Talk, Episode 7: Love Me Tinder


   Transcript


    SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Here’s a good one. Someone in a bright blue skin suit with a bio that just says, “Are you brave enough to find out what’s underneath?”

DOMINIC YUN: How about this? “I’m spontaneous and impulsive. I have my ex’s lip print tattooed somewhere on my body. I’ll only show you on our third date.”

SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And then a winking emoji?

DOMINIC YUN: There’s always a winking emoji.

SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Unless there’s a smirking emoji.

DOMINIC YUN: Is this a bad time to mention the tattoo of your name on my lower back? It’s very tasteful.





25




Casual turns out to be more fun than I expected.

Later that week, Dominic sits next to me during a meeting, placing his hand on my thigh underneath the table. Every so often, his thumb brushes the bare skin beneath my skirt.

The following week, when we find ourselves alone in that wonderfully slow-moving elevator, I drop to my knees and see how close I can get him before we hit the bottom floor.

When we get out of the elevator like nothing happened, Dominic surreptitiously buckling his belt, I trail his car to his apartment, and we try three and a half of his aforementioned twenty positions.

It’s for the best that I don’t have to worry about whether this thing with Dominic is anything other than casual because Ameena gets the job offer Friday afternoon. By the time she calls to tell me about it, she’s already accepted. Ameena is stellar at what she does, so I’m not surprised that she got the offer. Nor am I surprised that she accepted, given that this is her dream job.

What does surprise me: that when I get to her Capitol Hill apartment on Saturday evening before we head out for a celebratory dinner, there are already boxes everywhere.

“I might have been a little overeager,” she says. “They want me to start next month, which is soon, I know, so we’re flying out next weekend to look at apartments. Maybe even a house—the cost of living is much lower than it is here.”

“It’s not that bad here,” I say feebly, even though it is. But some part of me is wounded that she’s had the job for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already dumping on the city we both grew up in.

She lifts a penciled eyebrow. As kids, we used to stare at ourselves in the mirror, practicing trying to raise one eyebrow and then the other. I could never pull it off, but Ameena mastered it. “Our rent is nearly three thousand a month.”

It’s midsixties and breezy, typical for May in Seattle, so Ameena grabs a cardigan before she and TJ follow me out the door of their early twentieth-century building. It was a steal when they signed the lease a couple years ago. They live within walking distance of numerous bars, restaurants, music venues, and cute boutiques. Things that seem important in your early twenties but maybe not as crucial in your late twenties, even less so when you’re past thirty, I imagine. The only thing within walking distance of my house is a gas station. And, you know, other houses.

TJ slings an arm around her shoulder as we pass groups of Capitol Hill hipsters vaping outside bars. I try not to think about how if Dominic were my boyfriend, I’d be bringing him to this dinner instead of going alone, awkwardly clomping along behind them since the sidewalk isn’t wide enough for three people.

“God, it’s loud in here,” Ameena says when we settle into a booth at a tapas bar we’ve been to a few times. “I’ve never realize how loud it is in Seattle.”

“Pretty sure they have bars in Virginia, too,” I say under my breath, not trying to sound like a dick, but doesn’t she realize that I’m still going to be living here in this loud, expensive place? Without her?

We order drinks and a handful of small plates to start. At the booth next to us, a trio of tech bros are talking about a Tesla one of them bought. He has the nerve to say he can’t believe he had to wait so long for it to be delivered.

“Imagine complaining about your Tesla,” TJ says, taking a sip of an overpriced purple drink.

“Add that to my list of things I won’t miss,” Ameena says.

This hits a nerve. “Okay, seriously?” I say.

Her eyebrow leaps up in that practiced way again. “What?” she asks, voice threaded with frustration.

“You. Shitting on Seattle all of a sudden. I’m thrilled for you, I really am, and I know we’re supposed to be celebrating. But do you know how hard it is to sit next to you while you talk about how happy you are to be getting out of this place?”