The Ex Talk(85)

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It doesn’t take long for me to fall in love with PodCon, too. Our live taping is in one of the smaller auditoriums, since our fan base doesn’t come close to matching some of the bigger podcasts’. Still, I’ve never seen anything quite like it, even the year it was in Seattle. Dominic and I wandered the exhibition area with Ruthie earlier this morning, playing with audio gear and other swag the festival sponsors had on display. We met producers and hosts of podcasts I’ve been listening to for years, and all of it was wildly surreal. It’s one thing to scroll through our mentions on Twitter. It’s another to see real live people waiting in line for us.

All of these people connected by something most of us do completely alone, with headphones on, blocking out the rest of the world—it’s kind of magical.

“They’re just about ready for us,” Ruthie says, joining us backstage in the greenroom.

Dominic’s doing some breathing exercises in a corner, and I’m on the couch, reviewing our show notes. Last night, I googled tips to combat stage fright and insisted he eat a banana before coming here, since they can soothe nausea. I also made sure we arrived an hour early. Of course I want the show to go well, but more than that, I want him to be comfortable up there. “I can’t imagine not feeling comfortable with you onstage with me,” he said this morning, and it made me want to tug him back into bed.

When he spots Ruthie, he heads over to the couch. And he really does look more relaxed.

“How’s the stage fright?” I ask him.

He gives me a cheesy thumbs-up. “I should be able to make it through without vomiting.”

“You both are going to be great,” Ruthie says. “I was going to wait to show you until afterward, but I’m too excited. We have buttons! And T-shirts!” At that, she pulls a stack of buttons and a neon-blue shirt from her bag with a flourish. The shirt boasts the name of the show, plus a line drawing of a man and a woman’s face, a microphone between them. The woman even has my swoopy bangs and glasses. The button has the same image, along with #publicradioturnsmeon, which Ruthie came up with a few weeks ago. “We’re gonna sell them after the show.”

Dominic points to illustrated Shay. “You look so cute,” he says with a grin, which slips off his face the moment he glances up at Ruthie.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “She knows.” It’s not the whole truth, but these days, what is? It’s close enough, though I should have told him earlier.

“Oh.” A wrinkle of his brows. “Well . . . good. That’s a relief.”

“I support this a hundred and ten percent,” Ruthie says.

“In that case,” I say, gaining more confidence. “We’re planning to tell the audience today. That we got back together.” If Ruthie’s on board, it has to be the right decision.

Ruthie’s hand flies to her mouth. Her nails are the same neon blue as the T-shirt. “I love it. Oh my god. This is going to be incredible. Where’s Kent? Does he know?”

“We, uh, haven’t told him,” Dominic says, a little sheepish.

“It’s our decision,” I say. “Not his.”

“Okay,” Ruthie says with a firm nod. “I’m with you, then.”

Dominic squeezes my shoulder, and I can’t help remembering last night. How we were open with each other in a way I’ve never been. How we fell asleep together and woke up together, and how suddenly the idea of waking up without him is too grim to imagine.

I’m in love with you, I think.

I might even be ready to tell him after the show.

The live show is going to revolve around storytelling. We scheduled a few local guests, and then we’re going to encourage audience members to come up to the mic and share their own dating and breakup stories. We’ll cut it up with ad breaks for the podcast later.

I’m not nervous—or at least, the nerves making my stomach sway are poised on the edge of relief. Once we let everyone know we’re “back together,” we can finally breathe. Finally have a normal relationship.

One of the festival volunteers knocks on the door. “Everyone ready?”

Kent’s still not here, though he told me he’d meet us in the greenroom. He must be somewhere in the audience, playing spectator.

“We are,” I say as Dominic smooths the collar of his shirt.

An Austin public radio host introduces us, and we wave as we walk out together. The audience isn’t as loud as they were for earlier podcast tapings, but I’m sure my perception up here is distorted. Though the lights are bright, and at first I have to squint, I can tell nearly every seat is filled.

The stage has two orange chairs in the middle, two microphones angled toward them. The PodCon logo is splashed on a banner behind us.

We sit down, and I adjust the mic so it’s at mouth level. “Hello, Austin!” I call out. I’ve waited so long for this, and I want to soak up every moment.

When the audience yells back, I’m convinced they’re not just quieter than other audiences but tentative, too. At least one person in every row is on their phone.

I flash Dominic a worried glance, but he gives me a small shrug in return. In the wings, Ruthie is staring at us with an odd expression on her face, one that makes my stomach tighten with dread. Ruthie, who is always calm and always levelheaded, who always knows exactly how to reassure us.