The Ex Talk(96)

The number is practically part of my DNA at this point, though I’ve never actually called it. Still, I’m so rattled that I miss a digit the first time.

“Pacific Public Radio call-in line, what’s your comment?” Isabel Fernandez asks, and it’s such a rush of emotion to hear her voice.

During pledge drives, they often have listeners call in to share a story about the station and why they support it. I can’t believe I got through right away.

“Isabel, it’s Shay. Shay Goldstein.”

If I could hear someone’s eyes bulge on the phone, it would probably sound the way Isabel’s stunned silence does.

“Shay? Hold on, let me put you through. This is going to be amazing!”

“No, wait—” I say, but it’s too late.

It’s odd, hearing the radio streaming from my laptop and then listening through my phone as I wait to be live on the air. And the whole time, I can’t believe I’m doing this, I’m really fucking doing this.

“It seems like we have a caller on the line,” Dominic says in my ear now.

“Dominic.” My voice is shaky.

Ruthie and Tatum are leaning across the booth to listen, Ruthie gripping my arm and Tatum gripping Ruthie.

Silence on the line. I want to admonish him, tell him dead air is deadly.

“Shay?” His voice shakes, too. “I didn’t think you’d hear. I mean—I hoped you would, but I figured you’d been avoiding the radio, and . . . wow. Wow.” I try to imagine him there in the studio, pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

I feel my face split into a grin. His voice isn’t enough. I have to see him, and I have to see him now. “Stay there,” I say. “I’m coming down.”

“Wait,” he says. “Wait—Shay—”

Ruthie and Tatum are gaping at me. “What is happening,” Ruthie says.

“Hopefully the most romantic moment of my life.”



* * *



—

I’m too jumbled to drive, so Tatum leaves the cook in charge of the café so she and Ruthie can drive me.

Ruthie’s car is parked around the corner. I take the messy back seat, filled with receipts and canvas bags and two shoes that do not match and a handful of CDs.

“You have CDs?” I ask, moving my foot so I don’t step on Hall and Oates’s greatest hits.

“Old car,” Ruthie says. “That’s all it can handle.”

“Besides, then she can act all hashtag retro,” Tatum says.

“I hate that CDs are retro,” I say as Ruthie speeds toward the freeway. It’ll take us probably twenty minutes to get downtown. Twenty minutes of panicking in the back seat.

“Sorry it’s so messy,” Ruthie says. “But if you find a piece of gum back there, let me know.”

“Let the girl breathe,” Tatum says. “She just received a public declaration of love.” She turns to me. “Do you want the radio on?”

“I don’t know.” It feels so personal that everyone’s hearing this. But that’s what we were doing with the show, weren’t we? “If someone could convince me I won’t manage to fuck this up, that would be awesome.”

And, bless them, they try. By the time we pull up to the familiar building and Ruthie circles the block, unable to find a parking spot, my heart is in my throat.

“You’ve got this,” Ruthie says firmly. “We’ll be right down here if you need us. Partly because we can’t find a parking spot, but mainly because I think you need to go up alone.”

“Good luck,” Tatum says. “We’ll be listening.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you. Thank you both so much.”

On wobbly legs, I make my way to the security door, realizing I don’t even know if they’ll let me in if I buzz up. I give the door a pathetic swipe of my key card, but of course, it’s been deactivated. So with a shaky sigh, I hit the buzzer.

“Pacific Public Radio,” chirps Emma McCormick’s staticky voice.

“Hey—Emma,” I say, holding down the button. “It’s me, um, Shay Goldstein. I wanted to come up to talk to Dominic. He’s on the air—”

“Shay, oh my god!” Emma squeals. “I can’t get over it. I wish someone would do something like this for me. You are so lucky. The phone lines have been bananas, and we’ve already crushed our goals for the entire pledge drive. It’s really—”

There’s a scuffle in the background, and then another familiar voice. “Shay? It’s Marlene Harrison-Yates. I’m letting you up.”

“Oh—thank you,” I say as the door clicks. Nothing makes sense today.

Then I am in the hall and the slowest of slow elevators, taking out my ponytail and then putting it back up, wiping the lenses of my glasses on my shirt, trying to make myself look less nightmarish. But Dominic has seen me at my worst, he’s seen me panicked and without makeup and with tears streaming down my face, and he loves me.

He loves me.

When I get to the fifth floor, Marlene is holding open the station door. “I’m a sucker for true love,” she says with a shrug. “And Emma wasn’t getting you up here fast enough.”