The Ex Talk

She told me ten minutes ago. I’m still processing.

The wine helps, but it’s also led me down a few questionable paths lately, so I’m not about to trust it completely. I’ve amended my vow: I am not drinking only if Dominic is nearby, since I can’t be trusted to make good choices.

So far this week, we’ve stuck to our plan to pretend Monday night never happened. We’ve been polite, probably too polite as we dance around each other in a finely tuned choreography of avoidance. Our conversations are about work and work only. No late nights at the office, no more tidbits about our personal lives. His face is as stoic as it’s ever been. For the first time, I’m dreading tomorrow’s show, and painting with Ameena isn’t as much of a distraction as I’d hoped it would be.

Part of me is relieved we’ve been able to put it behind us, but another part—a part that’s growing larger each day—can’t stop thinking about the kiss. Can’t get his stupid nice face out of my head. That brush of lips was so brief that sometimes I’m convinced I imagined it. I haven’t even told Ameena.

And it’s not just the kiss. It’s what we talked about, our shared loneliness, and how I felt we might be turning a corner in our relationship. Because if the kiss didn’t happen, then none of that did, either. We’re not friends? Dominic had asked. No. I suppose we’re not.

“Do you want help with the interview?” I ask Ameena, banishing Dominic to the darkest corner of my brain and tying him to a chair. No. Wait. That’s worse.

She shakes her head. “TJ’s been really great about it.” Then, without looking up from her painting, she says, “He said last night that he’d move with me if I get the job.”

“Oh . . . oh wow.” I let this sink in. At least if TJ were here, Ameena would have more of a reason to visit. I don’t want to admit my biggest fear: that I am not enough of a reason on my own. “That’s good, yeah?”

“Yes and no,” she says. “It would make my decision easier if they offer me the job, but it’s still going to be a tough one.”

“I’d come see you. We could do Virginian things, like . . .”

“You don’t know anything about Virginia, do you?”

“It’s for lovers?”

“Supposedly.” She sips her wine. “And are you still pretending your cohost isn’t cute?”

My face heats up. You’re cute. That was what he said Monday night. Then he said he liked my hair down—liked it a lot. In related news, I’ve worn ponytails the past two days.

“I can admit he’s cute. But even if I liked him, and even if he liked me, which he doesn’t, this wouldn’t be able to be a thing.” If he had any nonprofessional feelings for me, he wouldn’t have been so eager to forget the kiss. Simple as that.

“Why not?”

I glance around, then lower my voice. “The whole point of the show is that we used to date, and that our breakup was amicable enough for us to host it together.

“So maybe you got back together.”

Lies on top of lies. “It wouldn’t work,” I say. “You know how I get in relationships. How much of a nightmare would it be if I somehow fell for him, and he didn’t feel the same way, and we were stuck still hosting the show together?”

“Okay, okay. You’re right,” she says, but in this way that sounds like she knows I won’t listen to anyone but myself about this. And she’s not wrong, but I’m not wrong, either. Dating Dominic Yun would be a catastrophe. Even the hypothetical is enough to turn my stomach inside out.

Ameena’s staring at my painting. “Can you at least turn that thing away from me?”

* * *

—

I decide to wear my hair down the next day. Show day.

I wake up early, by which I mean I had a Dominic nightmare around three a.m. and couldn’t fall back asleep. I have plenty of time to shower, let my hair air-dry, and straighten my bangs.

And it doesn’t look bad at all.

Even though I want to drag my chair away from his before we start recording, I sit down next to him the way I do every Thursday, fold my hands primly on the table in front of me. If he notices the lack of ponytail, he’s not giving anything away. I shouldn’t be disappointed.

For this episode, our fifth, it was Ruthie’s idea for Dominic to quiz me on dating slang.

“Breadcrumbing,” he says, glancing up from his notes and lifting his eyebrows at me. A challenge. It’s the most personality he’s shown me all week, and I try to ignore the shiver it sends down my spine.

“That one’s obvious,” I say. “It’s when you’re dating a cannibal who lives in the woods. In a gingerbread house.”