The Ex Talk

Once we’re adequately carbo-loaded, we get in my car to map directions to Dominic’s antique shops.

“Here,” I say, passing him my phone while I secure Steve in his crate. “Look up where you want to go.”

When I get into the driver’s seat, he’s grinning down at my phone. “I see you’ve been listening to a certain judicial system podcast.”

I grab for my phone, but he holds it out of reach. “It was just—research. You know. Had to learn more about you.”

“Uh-huh.” He scrolls down, smirks. “Then why does it show you’ve listened to . . . all twelve of their most recent episodes?”

“Steve and I take a lot of long walks,” I insist, and he grins the rest of the drive.

I’m more interested in observing Dominic in an antique shop than the antiques themselves. It’s as though he immediately knows where to go, despite never having been there. I follow him to a section full of kitchen supplies.

He unearths a cast-iron skillet and inspects it. “A Griswold number seven. Nice.” Upon seeing my perplexed expression, he turns sheepish. “It’s an addiction. I probably have about twenty of these in my apartment.”

“And you cook with all of them?”

“I restore them first,” he says. “You have to remove all the rust with some steel wool before seasoning it.”

“Seasoning it? Like . . . adding oregano or rosemary or what?”

“Not that kind of seasoning. You rub it down with oil, then place it in a hot oven for an hour or so, and after that, it’s ready for cooking.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Ameena and I go to estate sales sometimes, but that’s mainly just for clothes.”

“Yeah?” A corner of his mouth quirks up as he sorts through the cookware. I kneel next to him, trying to help, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. “I like the way you dress.”

My face heats up hotter than that skillet probably could. “I thought you weren’t a fan of the taco shirt.”

“Oh, you should burn the taco shirt, don’t get me wrong. I meant what you wear to work.” He digs into another stack, obscuring his face.

“Oh. Um—thank you,” I say, and then, in attempt to change the subject: “Show me what we’re looking for?” And so begins my cast-iron education.

Dominic’s pretty pleased with his haul: that Griswold number seven and a Wagner number five. After a quick café lunch, we head off on our hike. It’s an easy one, fortunately, easy enough that we’re able to talk without getting too out of breath. Which is good, because that’s a sensation I tend to experience around Dominic regardless of physical activity. Steve trots along beside me like he’s just happy to be here.

“I haven’t hiked in forever,” Dominic says. His strides are much longer than mine, and I can tell he purposefully goes slower so I can keep up. It’s both sweet and infuriating. “I love having the time to just think.”

“My mom and I used to go hiking a lot in the years after my dad died.” Our therapist suggested it as a bonding activity. We never talked much on those hikes, but I think it helped.

“Was your dad into hiking?”

I snort. “God no. He hated the outdoors. It was more that it was therapeutic for my mom and me. My dad actually had this joke—that it was wild he’d wound up in the Pacific Northwest because he and nature didn’t get along. I mean, sure, he could appreciate a sunset or a particularly nice tree, but he was super fair skinned, and he had to wear like SPF ninety, and he claimed mosquitoes loved his blood because he always wound up covered in bites.”

“Was he a redhead?”

“No, he was blond. But my mom is. Why?”

“Your hair”—he gestures—“it’s not all the way brown. In the right light, it has this reddish tint. Or are those highlights?”

“Oh.” I smooth my hands over my ponytail. “No. I’ve never dyed my hair. But I usually just call it brown. Not that exciting. The red is really subtle. Anyway,” I say, moving away from the topic of my hair. “I haven’t gone hiking in a while, either. Been busy. You know, dating you.”

When he smiles, it’s a genuine-looking one. “I did tend to monopolize your time. All the dinners out, all the dumb shit I made you watch on Netflix with me, all my insisting that we spend our weekends at antique shops. And then . . . then there were those weekend mornings where we’d stay in bed for hours.” At that, his smile turns crooked.

“Hours?” I say, my heart picking up speed as my shoes thud against the dirt path.

“Sometimes the whole weekend. We’d order takeout so we wouldn’t have to leave the bed.”

I’m not sure what, exactly, he’s trying to pull here. Surely he’s just messing with me. Again.