Tethered. The word lands as harshly across TJ’s face as it does on my heart.
“You felt tethered to me?”
“No no no. Terrible word choice. Not tethered, I just—”
I don’t let her finish. “I didn’t just have you,” I fire back. The tech bros at the next table are watching us, apparently more interested in this than their Tesla. “I had my mom. I had my job.” I hope by the time the words leave my lips that they’ll sound less pathetic, less plastic, but nope. They do not.
“Right, your job. The one that consumes you, that makes you late for everything, that’s become your whole freaking personality.”
“Ameena,” TJ starts, as though sensing she’s going too far. But her expression is intense in a way I haven’t seen before, brows drawn, jaw set. Ameena and I don’t yell. We don’t fight.
Maybe we’ve been saving up for this one.
“No, she needs to hear this. It’s for her own good.” Her features soften, but her words remain sharp. “I love you. I do. But have you ever thought that maybe your dad is holding you back? That you’re still at PPR to live out some dream your dad wanted, but you’ve never stopped to think about whether you still want it? You’re lying to yourself, Shay,” she continues. “You’re lying to your listeners about Dominic, and you’re lying to yourself. You’re telling yourself whatever’s happening with him isn’t real so nothing has to change.”
But I want things to change. I think it, but I can’t bring myself to say it. That was why I took this hosting job, wasn’t it?
“As much as I’d like to continue publicly fighting in this hipster bar that represents everything wrong with Seattle,” I say, grabbing my bag, “I’m going to go.”
“Shay, wait,” TJ says, but it’s no use. I’m already halfway to the door.
Fortunately, I make it outside before the tears start to fall, and I swipe them away as fast as I can, not wanting to be the woman crying in public.
And even though I’m not supposed to, even though it probably defies the definition of casual, I text Dominic on my way back to my car.
Can you come over? I really need to talk to someone.
It’s a relief when his reply appears a few moments later.
I’ll be right there.
26
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I say when Dominic arrives, weekend casual in a black T-shirt and faded jeans, holding a plastic takeout bag. My stomach growls, reminding me I left Ameena’s dinner without eating anything.
He puts on a grimace. “Shit, this is awkward. It’s not for you.”
I pull him inside, and Steve paws at his ankles until Dominic bends down to scratch behind his ears.
“I didn’t know if you’d eaten dinner,” he says, passing me the bag, “but I figured at the very least, you could have the leftovers tomorrow morning. Or afternoon, if you’re someone who doesn’t think leftovers taste better cold at ten a.m. on a Sunday.”
“Wait. You are?”
“Yeah, because I’m not a monster who wants to obliterate the flavor of restaurant food with a microwave.”
“Cold pizza, sure. But you’re telling me you would willingly eat, like, cold lasagna? Or a cold plate of enchiladas?”
“I would, and I have.”
I open up the bag. “Is this Thai? From Bangkok Bistro? All is forgiven.”
“You mentioned a couple weeks ago that it was your favorite takeout,” he says with a shrug, like it isn’t a big deal.
He brought food for me. For us. It’s sweet, maybe too sweet for whatever this fuck buddies situation is. Then again, maybe my desperate text already blurred that line. Right now, I’m too hungry and emotional to care.
We head into the kitchen, and I get us plates and silverware while he unpacks chicken pad thai and green curry and tom yum soup.
“I could bathe in this soup,” I say. “Thank you for doing this. I’m starving.”