The Ex Talk(71)

“Shay—I wasn’t—I mean,” she says, trying to backtrack. “Shit. I’m sorry. I . . . went a little too far. You know I’ve hated corporate recruiting. And I’ve been sick of Seattle for a while.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Ameena stares down at her drink, fiddling with the straw. “Look. Maybe you’re happy here, doing the same thing you’ve always done. Working the same place you’ve worked since college. But I always wanted to get out. Right after college—” She breaks off, as though realizing she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“Ameena,” TJ says quietly, covering his hand with hers. “Are you sure you—”

She gives him a half smile, as though reassuring him that she’ll be okay after she drops whatever bomb she’s about to drop, which puts me on edge. “I’m sure.” She turns back to me. “Right out of college, I had a job offer from an environmental group in New York.”

This is news to me. “You . . . what?”

“Yeah.” She grimaces, maybe already regretting spilling this. “But I turned it down. You were still struggling with—with everything, and I felt awful about the idea of leaving you.”

Her words drop like bricks to the floor of the bar.

“I—I didn’t make you stay,” I say, unable to process what she’s saying. “I had no idea. If you’d told me, I would have encouraged you to take it!”

The fact that she talked about this with TJ, that the two of them decided it was wise to keep this from me, at least until now—that rattles me. And of course he knows. TJ’s her number one. That’s what happens when you find that person. They’re moving to Virginia together, leaving me behind. And this time, she doesn’t have to worry about me holding her back.

“Maybe you would have, but I’m still not sure I’d have taken it.”

The alcohol burns going down my throat. “I’m sorry you pitied me so much that I kept you from your dream job.”

My dad had been gone for four years at that point. I wasn’t still a mess. I wasn’t. I’d just started at Pacific Public Radio. That had made me happy.

Hadn’t it?

“You only had me,” Ameena says. “You only had me, and I felt . . . I don’t know, tethered to you.”

Tethered. The word lands as harshly across TJ’s face as it does on my heart.

“You felt tethered to me?”

“No no no. Terrible word choice. Not tethered, I just—”

I don’t let her finish. “I didn’t just have you,” I fire back. The tech bros at the next table are watching us, apparently more interested in this than their Tesla. “I had my mom. I had my job.” I hope by the time the words leave my lips that they’ll sound less pathetic, less plastic, but nope. They do not.

“Right, your job. The one that consumes you, that makes you late for everything, that’s become your whole freaking personality.”

“Ameena,” TJ starts, as though sensing she’s going too far. But her expression is intense in a way I haven’t seen before, brows drawn, jaw set. Ameena and I don’t yell. We don’t fight.

Maybe we’ve been saving up for this one.

“No, she needs to hear this. It’s for her own good.” Her features soften, but her words remain sharp. “I love you. I do. But have you ever thought that maybe your dad is holding you back? That you’re still at PPR to live out some dream your dad wanted, but you’ve never stopped to think about whether you still want it? You’re lying to yourself, Shay,” she continues. “You’re lying to your listeners about Dominic, and you’re lying to yourself. You’re telling yourself whatever’s happening with him isn’t real so nothing has to change.”

But I want things to change. I think it, but I can’t bring myself to say it. That was why I took this hosting job, wasn’t it?

“As much as I’d like to continue publicly fighting in this hipster bar that represents everything wrong with Seattle,” I say, grabbing my bag, “I’m going to go.”

“Shay, wait,” TJ says, but it’s no use. I’m already halfway to the door.

Fortunately, I make it outside before the tears start to fall, and I swipe them away as fast as I can, not wanting to be the woman crying in public.

And even though I’m not supposed to, even though it probably defies the definition of casual, I text Dominic on my way back to my car.


Can you come over? I really need to talk to someone.



It’s a relief when his reply appears a few moments later.


I’ll be right there.





26




“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I say when Dominic arrives, weekend casual in a black T-shirt and faded jeans, holding a plastic takeout bag. My stomach growls, reminding me I left Ameena’s dinner without eating anything.

He puts on a grimace. “Shit, this is awkward. It’s not for you.”

I pull him inside, and Steve paws at his ankles until Dominic bends down to scratch behind his ears.

“I didn’t know if you’d eaten dinner,” he says, passing me the bag, “but I figured at the very least, you could have the leftovers tomorrow morning. Or afternoon, if you’re someone who doesn’t think leftovers taste better cold at ten a.m. on a Sunday.”