The Ex Talk

* * *

—

Dominic Yun and I are drunk at work and playing catch.

He walks backward toward the bank of windows looking out onto a darkened Seattle street, laughing when he stumbles against someone’s desk. He recovers, tosses the Koosh to me. Twin pairs of empty beer bottles sit on our desks. I don’t know where my hair tie is—probably somewhere on the other side of the newsroom after I tried flinging it at him but overshot by a significant amount. His second shirt button lost the battle a while ago, and his hair is rumpled. He’s wearing only one shoe, revealing a polka-dotted sock on his other foot. This is a version of Dominic I never thought I’d see, and I don’t hate it.

Alcohol was a very good idea.

“What we really need,” I say, fumbling with the ball, “is a catchphrase.”

“A catchphrase? Like what . . . WHAAA-ZOOOOM?” He says it in his best AM radio talk show host voice.

I snort, beer coming up my throat and burning a little. “No no no. Not a catchphrase. A whatchamacallit. An intro. Like”—I put on a 1950s White Man Radio Voice—“‘Hi, I’m Shay and this is Dominic, and we definitely used to date.’ But you know. Catchier.”

“I don’t know, I really like ‘wha-zoom.’”

I hurl the ball at him as hard as I can, and he somehow catches it. I fold my legs up onto my chair, having kicked off my boots a while ago. I have tights on underneath my skirt, so hopefully I’m not too indecent, sitting like this.

A bit of scruff has grown in along his jaw—an eleven-o’clock shadow—and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hand over it. If it would be rough like sandpaper. He’s usually so clean-shaven. I can’t decide which look I like best, and sure, while it’s concerning to mentally debate whether Dominic is more attractive with stubble or without, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that he’s an aesthetically pleasing human being.

I am perfectly capable of having a fake relationship—a fake breakup—with an attractive coworker. I am a professional.

He walks back over to our desks and drops into his chair. “I’m sorry about Puget Sounds,” he says, stretching out his long legs until they touch the base of my chair. He nudges his foot against it, spinning my chair a couple of inches in one direction. “Your last show really was good.”

“Thanks. It’s been . . . kind of hard to let it go.”

“I get that. You’ve only worked on that show,” he says, and I nod. “Look. I know why you don’t like me.”

“What? I don’t—I don’t not like you,” I say, getting stuck on the double negative.

“Shay, Shay, Shay,” he says, slurring my name. “Come on. I took a class on nonverbal communication in grad school, and even if I hadn’t, I’m not an idiot. It drives you wild that you’re not the young hotshot anymore, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The intern who worked her way up to senior staff faster than anyone else in the station’s history. You were the overachiever, and now you’re . . .”

“Old?”

His eyes go wide, and his feet land hard on the floor. “No! Shit, no, I didn’t mean that.”

“We’re only five years apart. You’re technically a millennial, too.” A very young one.

“I know. I know. I’m trying to figure out how to say this. It’s hard when you feel like you can’t impress the people you want to.”

“And what would you know about that?” Despite the relationship we’ve crafted tonight, I have to remind myself he doesn’t really know me, even if this conversation indicates otherwise.

“I’m the youngest of five kids,” he says. “Everything I did, one of my siblings had already done, and usually better than I had.”

And although he’s still tight-lipped about why he and Mia Dabrowski broke up, this feels much more real than anything he’s said all night. Shortly after he started drinking, he told me it was the distance. He was leaving Illinois, and she wanted to stay. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story.

“I’ve been . . . not the nicest person to you. And I’m sorry. It’s possible I’ve also been a little bit jealous.” I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“More like—” He reaches for my hand and pushes my fingers farther apart. The brush of skin on skin is gentle, despite how much larger his hand is. “But I probably haven’t been the easiest to get along with, either. You’re good at what you do. I’ve thought so since I started.”

That compliment warps my boozy brain, drawing out another one of my fears.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I ask quietly.