The Ex Talk(90)

I want so badly to tell him that of course I meant everything I said to him. Of course I want to climb back in bed and let him hold me until I no longer feel so utterly, hopelessly lost. Of course we were real.

But frankly, I’m not sure anymore.

“Let’s go back to Seattle and give it some time,” he says. “Can we talk about it when we’re both calm?”

“I’m calm.” I haul my suitcase to the floor with a thump. “And I’m done talking. So I guess the next time I hear you will be when you’re back on PPR.”

The tears start falling as soon as I slam the door behind me.





33




I don’t remember the ride to the airport, the earlier flight I manage to catch, or the drive home. I’m numb as I pick up my suitcase from baggage claim, numb as I collect Steve from doggie daycare, numb as I refresh social media again and again until finally I have to disable my accounts because it’s all too goddamn much.

My name is a hashtag.

I am a joke.

The laughingstock of public radio.

Dominic has the nerve to text me.


Shay, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.


I want to make it up to you.


Can we talk?



Delete, delete, delete.

When I flip on the lights in my house, sponsorship products glare back at me from every surface. Those corn shoes, which by the way smell terrible. The custom arch support that felt great for a day but then fucked up my feet. And if I have to look at one more fruit-and-nut bar, I’ll scream.

I crawl into bed—onto my free and actually somewhat life-changing memory foam mattress—and bury my face in Steve’s fur. He seems to get that I’m feeling down because he’s a muted version of his typically energetic self. I will throw my pity party alone and without shame. No one can judge me if no one knows about it.

“That includes you, Steve,” I mutter when I catch him giving me a particularly savage side-eye.

I zombie through the next few days. I ignore texts and calls from my mother and Ameena and TJ and Ruthie, ignore more texts from Dominic. The wedding is next week, and I know I’ll have to see Ameena and explain to everyone how big of a liar I am. But I’m not ready. Not yet.

I don’t let any of my podcasts update, and I don’t turn on the radio. I know our—their—pledge drive is soon, and I can’t bear to listen to them asking for money. If you call now and pledge a minimum of twenty dollars per month, you’ll get a KPPR T-shirt . . . I used to look forward to each year’s T-shirt design. They’re all in my drawer, from least to most recent, varying levels of softness as a result of countless wash-and-dry cycles. I love those shirts. I’m going to miss them.

Oh god. How many of those Ex Talk T-shirts will wind up at a Goodwill or in a Dumpster?

I devoted my twenties to public radio, and it feels wrong for it to have turned on me like this. And yet, the wild thing is . . . when I think about not having to go back to PPR, I feel something a little like relief. Sure, it’s buried beneath the heartbreak and the humiliation, but it’s there. The show is over. My public radio career might be, too, but not having to carry that lie makes me feel like I can stand up a bit straighter. I’ve been working myself to the bone, nights and weekends for years. Zero breaks. Maybe now I’ll have the time to decide what I really want.

Maybe once the social media backlash fades, once I’m no longer going through a bottle of wine a day, I’ll be able to see that this is actually a good thing.

After all, it saved me from the biggest relationship mistake of my life.



* * *



—

Day four post-PodCon, I finally turn on my laptop. I drag it over to the couch, push aside a takeout container to make room for another half bottle of wine. Instead of going straight to social media or the work email account I’m sure has been deleted, I open up a file I haven’t touched in forever.

My dad had all kinds of recording devices, some from this century and plenty that weren’t. We argued about analog versus digital in between recording our many “radio shows.” Eventually, I uploaded everything to my computer, tucked away in a folder simply labeled with his initials, DG. Like only two letters would make it somehow easier to look at.

The thing about losing someone is that it doesn’t happen just once. It happens every time you do something great you wish they could see, every time you’re stuck and you need advice. Every time you fail. It erodes your sense of normal, and what grows back is decidedly not normal, and yet you still have to figure out how to trudge forward.

Ten years, and I am still losing him every day.

At first it’s really fucking hard to hear his voice through my laptop speakers. Our recording equipment was too good—there’s no static, nothing that makes it sound like the audio has aged even remotely.

“This is Dan and Shay Do the News,” he says in that perfect voice, and I suck down more wine.

I hear my eleven-year-old self giggle. “No, no, you’re supposed to say my name first.”

“Whoops, sorry, I forgot. Let’s try that again. This is Dan and Shay Do the—”

“Daaad, you did it again!”

“Oh shoot, did I? One more time—”

He was doing it on purpose, of course. I can hear it now.