The Ex Talk

I close my eyes, trying to fight off the worst of the memories. The days I cried until I lost my voice, the night I lost my virginity to someone who didn’t know it was my first time. Hoping it would help me feel something again when all it did was make me feel worse.

I try to focus on something happier: the radio shows my dad and I hosted in the kitchen, how excited he’d be to show me a new recorder or microphone. It’s how I used to feel all the time, every day coming into work.

When did I lose that?

“I don’t even know what to say,” he says after a while. “I’m so sorry, but an apology doesn’t feel like nearly enough. I guess I’ll say thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

“Goldstein Gadgets is a vape shop now. Isn’t that depressing?”

“Incredibly.” And then he apologizes again: “I’m sorry, Shay.”

My name sounds light as gossamer.

“I’ve spent most of my twenties chasing this idea of domestic bliss I grew up with. And I’m not even sure what that means anymore . . . just that I want that constancy and comfort so badly sometimes that it scares me.”

His fingers are back on my arm, a gentle stroke. Back and forth and back and forth and then they’re gone. “Being an adult sucks,” he says, and the bluntness of it makes me laugh, in spite of everything.

“It really does,” I agree. The ghost of his touch lingers on my skin. “What should we do tomorrow? Fewer soul-searching conversations? We could explore more of the island. If the rain stops, we could go hiking.”

“I’d be down for a hike,” he says. “There’s supposed to be some great antiquing on the island, too.”

“Antiquing?”

“Ah, maybe I never told you. My parents own an antiques shop. I have an incurable fondness for old kitchen gadgets. Cast-iron cookware, specifically.”

“Then it’s settled,” I say around a yawn. Just when I think I’m figuring him out, Dominic reveals another layer. “We’ll go antiquing, and then we’ll go hiking.” I rol

l over to check the time. “How is it one thirty?”

“You tired? I’ll let you go to sleep. I’ve always been kind of a night owl.”

And the thing is . . . I am tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to stay up talking like this. I’d love to learn his mouth for real, for him to roll his hips over mine and press me down into the mattress, but I also want to hear more secrets, to tell more secrets.

But I don’t know how to do any of that, so I switch off the lamp and plunge the two of us into darkness.

“Night, Shay,” he says, and it breaks my heart, just a little, that I’ll only get to hear those words from him one more time.

* * *

—

The first thing I feel when I wake up is warmth. Sunlight pours into the room, and there is a very tall, very stubbly guy next to me. He has one arm beneath his pillow, the other stretched out on the bed between us. And god, he looks cute. I’ve always been weak for morning-guy sleepiness. They’re so soft, so innocent in a way they rarely are in real life.

Steve is at the foot of the bed, softly whining for a walk, as though he doesn’t want to wake Dominic, either. The bed creaks when I lift myself off it, and Dominic stirs.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” I say.

“No, no,” he says, but his eyes are still closed.

I can’t help smiling at that. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I’m going to walk Steve and shower.”

“I’m getting up,” he says as he rolls over, face mashed into the pillow.

After I walk Steve, Dominic showers downstairs and I shower upstairs. I put on something much less dressy than my work outfits: black leggings, graphic tee, gray hoodie. He’s similarly athletic-casual in jeans, a Northwestern sweatshirt—seriously, how much college apparel can one person own?—and a Mariners cap.

Our weather apps predict morning drizzle and afternoon sun, so we decide to antique first, hike later. We spend the morning at a farmers’ market, grabbing pastries and fresh fruit. Maybe Kent was right about the two of us bonding because this really does feel like something I’d do with a boyfriend. We take Steve with us, who greets every stranger like he wants them to take him home.

“Steve, where is your loyalty?” I say, mock-offended.