The Ex Talk(94)

Our food arrives, and we’re quiet for a few minutes as we dig in.

Finally, I find the words to tell her about my own insecurities. “I felt some of that hierarchy when I was working with you,” I admit.

“You did? Because of me?”

And she looks so stunned that I want to take it all back, but I push forward. “It’s this strange dynamic between producers and hosts, I think. You’re the ‘talent,’ and our jobs rely on making it easy for you to do your job.”

I realize I say our like I’m still a producer, like I didn’t just host a successful but doomed show. Maybe at my core, I still am.

“I’m sorry,” Paloma says after a beat of silence. Then she a cracks a smile. “If it helps, I get my own chia seeds now. I’ve been humbled.”

“Was it hard to leave public radio?”

“It was hard getting pushed out,” she says. “I’m sure Kent had been looking for a reason to get rid of me for years. But I think it was time for me to move on, even if I was reluctant to do it at first. I definitely don’t miss the pledge drives.”

“Wait, you don’t like begging strangers for money?” I say, and she laughs.

“Public radio doesn’t have to be your identity,” she says. “Ahem, speaking as someone for whom it was their whole identity. You’re still at the beginning of your career, and people have short attention spans. If you want to go back to radio, you can. This doesn’t have to take it away from you. I’d be happy to write you a recommendation, if you think that might help you out. But if you’re not sure, and if you have the ability to do so . . . there’s no harm in taking time to figure out your next step.”

“I’ve just been doing radio for so long that I don’t know what else I’m good at.”

She gives me this strange look. “Shay Goldstein,” she says, “if that’s what you think about yourself, then you’re not the person I thought you were.”





36




I slide the WWAMWMD bracelet up and down my wrist. Ameena’s been sending me photos of her new apartment, and yep, it’s much bigger and cheaper than anything in Seattle. We’ve tentatively planned for me to visit in November, once she’s more settled.

Ruthie’s girlfriend Tatum works at a vegan café in North Seattle, and she supplies us with free food while Ruthie and I send out résumés and commiserate about unemployment. The free food helps. Free alcohol helps even more, but honestly, I should cut down on the day drinking.

My weekends don’t feel as empty as I thought they might, though maybe it’s because my weekdays are still a bit empty, too. I had a job interview earlier today as a copywriter at a marketing agency, which I was unsure I wanted—they just happened to be the first place that called me. In the middle of the interview, someone knocked on the door and asked to talk to the HR manager, and when she came back in, she was decidedly chillier than she’d been before.

“You could always come back to commercial radio with me,” Ruthie says, swiping a sweet potato fry through sriracha aioli. “KZYO offered me my old job, but I’m not sure yet if I’m going to take it. I’m trying to see what my options are.”

I take a sip of my rosé. “Truthfully, I’m not sure I could handle the commercials.”

“They’re not that bad.”

She launches into a familiar jingle and Tatum shouts from behind the counter, “Is she singing the pickle song again? Because she’s not allowed to do it within fifteen feet of me, it’s a relationship rule.”

Ruthie holds a finger to her lips. “It pays really we-ell,” she singsongs.

“I’ll think about it,” I promise.

We return to our laptops, the clacking of our keys mixing with the surfer girl pop punk playing through the café’s speakers. The café isn’t busy—in fact, we’re the only two people here, plus Tatum and a cook in the kitchen.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, you’ll let me know, right?” I ask Ruthie after a couple minutes. It’s still strange, sitting across from her after spending five months lying to her.

Ruthie’s hands pause on her keyboard, her rings glittering in the afternoon light. “I’ve already told you a hundred times that I forgive you,” she says. “I have a feeling whatever you’re putting yourself through is enough. I don’t need to add to it.”

“You’re too good for this world.”

“I know,” she says. “I almost don’t wanna ask, but . . . any word from Dominic?”

I shake my head. “He was texting for a while, but then he stopped. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly responding.” I let out a sigh. “I can’t talk to him if he’s still working there.”

“I get it,” Ruthie says. “I’m so sorry. I really was rooting for you two.”

Suddenly, Tatum gasps from behind the counter. “Oh my god,” she says, racing over to our table, her long dark ponytail bouncing. She shoves her phone at Ruthie.

“Tweeting on the job?” Ruthie says, shaking her head and making a tsking sound. But her eyes grow wide as she sees what’s on the screen. “Oh my god,” Ruthie echoes. She wrenches the phone from Tatum’s grasp and scrolls down the page.