The Ex Talk

The whisper of a sting goes away in an instant, but the aftershocks are vicious. I swallow hard. I’d wear elastics up and down my arms if it meant he’d do that again.

When he speaks, his voice is low. “I like your hair down,” he says, and it makes me grab at my hair on instinct. I was in such a rush that I didn’t think to put it up. “I know you wear it up all the time, and I like it up, but this . . . I like this a lot.”

“It’s really coarse,” I say quietly, awed that I’m able to make any sounds at all. “It can never decide if it’s curly or straight. That’s why I usually wear it up.”

His hand travels to my hair, sliding into it, and oh. I sway closer to him as his fingers get lost in my curly-straight mess, grazing my scalp. I inhale his earthy, heady scent. God, it’s been so long since someone touched me this way, even if it probably doesn’t count, given he’s my cohost slash fake ex slash possible friend. And drunk. Sober Dominic may be fun, according to him, but he would never do this.

“It feels pretty soft to me,” he says, and that is when I perish.

He uses that hand in my hair to guide me closer to him. Then he leans down, and before I can process what’s happening, his mouth is on mine.

And I’m kissing him back.

The press of his lips is firm but curious, a burst of warmth on a cold spring night. I can’t figure out what to do with my hands, not yet, not when this is already sensory overload. The lovely scrape of his stubble against my chin. The way his fingers grasp at strands of my hair. The rumble of a groan in his throat.

We shouldn’t do this, my brain screams at me.

Maybe he’s the only one who hears because he suddenly pulls away, leaving me desperate for air, gasping into the dark downtown. The kiss must have lasted less than three seconds. Three seconds that stole my bones and left me weightless.

The look on his face is abject horror. “Shit. Shit. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t

have—”

“No, it’s—” I break off, unsure what I was about to say. That it was fine? Because it’s definitely not. Because now I’m wondering what a sober kiss would feel like, what might have happened if I’d opened my mouth. If he’d pushed me up against his front door. “I mean, I’m still pretty tipsy too, so . . .”

“Fuck, this is embarrassing,” he says, shaking his head, scrubbing a hand down his face. Mistake is written all over it. “I’m clearly still a lot drunker than I thought. Let’s just—”

“Forget that happened?” I let out a sound that might be a laugh, but it’s much higher pitched than I’m used to hearing. I bring my fingertips to my mouth, as though grasping for the memory of his lips there.

His shoulders sag. Relief—that’s what it is. “Please. I really am so sorry.”

“Me too,” I say, because didn’t he realize I was kissing him back? Maybe he couldn’t tell. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I should quit The Ex Talk. It sounds about as rational as any of the other thoughts racing through my mind. “Then I should . . .” I nod toward the street, making this supremely dorky gesture with my thumbs.

“Right. Yeah. Thank you. Again. Let me know how much I owe you for the drinks, and the Lyft, and—”

“It’s no problem.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” He scratches at his elbow, unable to meet my eyes. A minute ago, that hand was in my hair. “Do you want me to, uh, wait out here until your ride comes?”

“Nope!” I chirp back. I am a Disney character. An animated mouse. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Well—okay,” he says, fumbling with his keys before fitting them in the lock. “See you tomorrow?”

If I haven’t flung myself into Puget Sound by then. “See you,” I echo, and when his door shuts, I sink to the ground and vow to never drink again.

16

It’s a relief to see Ameena on Wednesday, even if it means subjecting my poor ego to another wine-and-paint night. Tonight’s Blush ’n Brush subject is a bowl of artfully arranged trinkets: a locket, a mirror, a doll with a sad haircut and a single eyeball. She has definitely seen some shit.

“Where did they get that fucking doll?” I hiss to Ameena.

Ameena frowns at her canvas, where she’s captured the essence of the doll in a way few people could. “I don’t know, but I swear her one eye is following me.” She peers over at my rendering of it. “What the hell, Shay, you made it worse!”

“I’m sorry!” I lob more paint onto the canvas. “My mind is in about a hundred places.”

“I get it. I’ve barely been able to focus on work this week with all the interview prep the conservancy sent over.”

A thing that is happening: Ameena flying to Virginia for a final interview.