The Ex Talk(75)

If I didn’t already know they owned an antique shop, their house would give it away. It’s a spacious two-story in Bellevue, a wealthy suburb of Seattle that becomes more and more yuppie by the day. Tapestries hang from the walls next to paintings in ornate frames, and every surface is decorated with small statues, vases, mirrors, clocks, and even an old gramophone in one corner. Still, it doesn’t look cluttered. It gives off this museum vibe, but a museum you’d want to live in.

On the ride over, Dominic talked to me about growing up on the Eastside. “I remember going into Seattle was this exciting thing,” he said. “I’d look forward to it for weeks.”

“That is so cute,” I said. As a born-and-raised city kid, I couldn’t help teasing him. “Baby Dominic in the big city.”

Now I sit next to him on the stunning Victorian couch, which looks like something out of a movie from the 1950s, wanting desperately for his parents to like me but not entirely sure why.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say, and they both look pleased.

“We’re proud of it,” Margot says from a matching love seat. “It’s sort of a living thing—we tend to change it up every so often when the mood strikes us, or when we find something we can’t bear to give to the store quite yet. Dominic practically grew up there. I suppose you know all of that, even if we don’t know anything about you.”

“Mom,” Dominic says under his breath, and it sounds like a warning.

I yearn for the alternate reality in which Margot isn’t immediately on the defensive.

“You never used to be this private,” Margot continues, smoothing the hem of her gauzy skirt. “He used to post all these updates on Facebook, and he’d get mad when I was the first like. He even called me up in college to ask me politely to stop doing it, since all his friends could see.”

I have never seen Dominic’s face this red.

“I don’t do it anymore,” Dominic says. “I can’t remember the last time I went on Facebook.”

“At least we have the chance to get to know you now,” Margot says. “What does your mother do, Shay?”

I appreciate that Dominic must have warned them about my dad. “She’s a violinist in the Seattle Symphony.”

Her faces lights up, and I feel a burst of pride, grateful this has won me some points. “Is she really? We were there last week, for Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony. Incredible. You must go all the time.”

“Not as much as I used to,” I admit. “But it was interesting, growing up with someone who’s as much of a music snob as my mother. She took it as a personal attack when I started listening to the Backstreet Boys.”

Dominic cracks a smile at this, and I don’t love what it does to my heart.

“I could get you comp tickets, actually,” I add.

“I wouldn’t want to put anyone out.”

“Really, it’s no problem at all. My mom always has a ton.”

“Well—thank you. That’s too kind,” she says, softening. “And you’ve been at the radio station for a while?”

“Since college.” Not a sore subject. Nope. “How often is it just Dominic here?”

Morris slides his teal glasses higher up on his nose. “We usually see Kristina and Hugo at Christmas, since they’re out of state. And then Monica and Janet usually every other month. But Dominic just can’t seem to get enough of us.”

“I’m not saying I’m their best kid because I come home more than the others, but . . .”

His mother winks at him, and seriously, what is happening to my heart? That wink makes me want so badly to be part of this—not as a friend or cohost or a fake anything, but as a girlfriend.

“Even if it’s under strange circumstances,” Morris says, “it’s good to meet you. You and Dominic have clearly created something special, and even if it’s not exactly something I’d listen to otherwise, a lot of people seem to be connecting with it. And it’s great that the two of you have been able to stay friends.” He gets to his feet. “We’ll be finishing up dinner, if you feel like giving Shay a tour of the house.”

“Can we help with anything?” I ask.

Margot waves a hand. “It’s nearly ready.” She grins as she adds, “And, well, we don’t hate showing off our house.”

“I think I’ll show her my childhood bedroom,” Dominic says. “Just so she can get in a few more laughs at my expense.”



* * *



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    “This is a lot of Beanie Babies.”

I gaze up at them: shelves upon shelves, each of them with their own personal bubble of space, some of them in collector’s boxes. Bears and birds and monkeys and lions and lizards in every color, all with their trademark red tags still intact. And these shelves—they look like they were built for the express purpose of Beanie Baby storage.

“It’s a sickness,” Dominic says, hanging his head.

“How did this happen? How does one acquire this many Beanie Babies?”

“Three hundred and twenty, to be exact. Some of our relatives in Korea gave them to my sister Kristina as gifts when they visited us.” He points to a blue bear with the Korean flag printed all over it. “They were really excited about this one. But Kristina wasn’t into them, so she gave them to me, and for some reason, I loved them. I was one of those people who thought they’d be worth a lot someday. And I was one hundred percent wrong.”