The Ex Talk(73)

“If you find the right fit, sure.” He stares at me hard. “I’ll be your ex as long as you want me to be. I know we said six months, but I’m fully in this with you. I hope you know that.”

“I—I didn’t,” I say. The relief is warm and immediate. “But thank you. I guess I just thought I’d have everything figured out by now. I’m almost thirty, and I don’t know if I feel any closer than when I was twenty-one or even twenty-five. There’s so much pressure to have all of this shit figured out, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I wanted the kind of marriage my parents had, and I maybe wanted a family, but that’s not something I can even wrap my mind around yet. I can only cook, like, two things competently. Most of what I eat comes from meal kits. I have a gym membership, but I never go to the gym. I work most weekends. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing at being an adult, like I’m constantly looking around, waiting for a real adult to tell me what to do if my garbage disposal starts making a weird sound or if I should be putting more money in my Roth IRA. I am just . . . I feel like a complete mess.” I laugh in spite of myself, even as tears sting behind my eyes.

I shove up my glasses and wipe at my face, trying not to let him see. Crying in front of the guy you’re casually dating—probably also not allowed. But of course he sees, and when he pulls me close on the couch, I let him.

“I think you’re incredible,” he says. “You’ve intimidated me ever since I started at PPR.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious.” His fingers weave through my hair, and I realize with a tightening of my heart that he’s softly untangling it. “You were so sure of yourself, spoke the language of radio so fluently, made it seem like I was an idiot for not getting it.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, cringing.

“I was an idiot, though,” he says. “There was plenty I didn’t know, and yet I came in with an ego just because I had some advanced degree. And besides, you’re keeping a ten-pound dog alive. I’d say that’s some measure of success. I barely remember to water my plants, and they only need to be watered once a week.”

“Seven pounds. He has big dog energy, though.”

He just laughs and holds me tighter, his fingers massaging my scalp. It’s cruel how good it feels—because of course it’s fleeting. I don’t know our expiration date, but sometime soon, he will no longer be mine. He’s barely mine now.

“I thought I had things figured out, too,” he says. “Grad school, the long-term girlfriend. I thought we’d move somewhere together, that she’d be in med school and I’d be doing some noble reporting, bringing down an evil corporation, and I’d propose and we’d have the big expensive wedding.”

“Do you wish you had that?” I ask.

He hesitates only a moment before responding. “No. I don’t. For the first few months afterward, yes, absolutely. But it shaped me. I don’t know if I’d have finished growing up without it, without knowing that kind of heartbreak. And now it’s just something I carry with me, the same way you carry your dad.”

I reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. The stubble is back—I missed it. He doesn’t have all the answers because no one could, but at least he makes everything feel lighter.

I was convinced casual would be safe because he’s so unlike anyone I dated in the past, guys who seemed to have their lives figured out. It’s absurd that this guy who is supposed to be my ex could have been a great boyfriend. I thought I liked the danger of being with him, this little secret we’ve been keeping from the office for two weeks, but I might like this more.

I need to stop thinking like that.

“I had lunch with an old friend today, this guy Eddie,” Dominic says suddenly. “We were the only two Korean kids in our sixth-grade class, and I thought that bonded us forever, but we lost touch after high school. He’s working at some ultra-hip startup and will probably be a millionaire as soon as they get bought. He just broke up with his girlfriend, and he needed to talk to someone, too. And it was great. We might even do it again.”

“You beat me. I’ve been meaning to ask Ruthie if she wants to grab drinks after work sometime, but I guess I’ve had . . . other things on my mind.”

He nods, then kisses me, and I manage to yawn right in the middle of it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth. “I promise, making out with you isn’t boring.” I check the time on my phone—almost midnight. I didn’t realize we’d been talking for that long.

He gestures toward the door. “Should I . . . ?”

“No,” I say, aware I’d be breaking the rules of our arrangement but not caring. “I’d hate for you to drive back this late. Maybe you could . . . stay the night?”

“You’re sure?” The weight of his gaze pins me to the couch.

“You may have to fight Steve for a spot on the bed, but yes. If you want to.”

“I’d like that,” he says. Apparently he doesn’t care, either, that we said no sleepovers.

I have Orcas flashbacks as I hand him a spare toothbrush. Nothing I own will fit his broad frame, so he folds his clothes neatly before placing them on top of my dresser and gets in bed next to me in just his boxers.