The Ex Talk

“I think I’ll show her my childhood bedroom,” Dominic says. “Just so she can get in a few more laughs at my expense.”

* * *

—

“This is a lot of Beanie Babies.”

I gaze up at them: shelves upon shelves, each of them with their own personal bubble of space, some of them in collector’s boxes. Bears and birds and monkeys and lions and lizards in every color, all with their trademark red tags still intact. And these shelves—they look lik

e they were built for the express purpose of Beanie Baby storage.

“It’s a sickness,” Dominic says, hanging his head.

“How did this happen? How does one acquire this many Beanie Babies?”

“Three hundred and twenty, to be exact. Some of our relatives in Korea gave them to my sister Kristina as gifts when they visited us.” He points to a blue bear with the Korean flag printed all over it. “They were really excited about this one. But Kristina wasn’t into them, so she gave them to me, and for some reason, I loved them. I was one of those people who thought they’d be worth a lot someday. And I was one hundred percent wrong.”

“Were they even still popular when you were a kid?”

“Barely. You can see, now, why I didn’t lose my virginity until I was in college.”

“I’m just . . .” I break off, shaking my head. It’s hilarious but endearing, imagining a young Dominic painstakingly arranging them on these shelves. “I don’t know if I can keep sleeping with someone who owns three hundred and twenty Beanie Babies.”

“Alas. I knew it would come to this. Well, it was good while it—”

I interrupt him by pressing my mouth on his, kicking the door shut behind us. He draws me close, his hands on my hips. The warmth of his tongue, the woodsy scent of the soap I told him is much better than his cologne. I’m always waiting for the next moment we can be alone like this, and while we haven’t had any more sleepovers, we’ve been together nearly every night since Orcas.

We’re familiar enough with each other now to know exactly the ways we like to be touched, and when he goes for the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, I let out a soft moan that I also happen to know he loves the sound of. He’s already hard against me, and it’s always a bit of a rush, knowing he wants me.

A clang from the kitchen makes us spring apart.

He drops his fingers from my belt loops and takes a step back. The skin on my neck burns white-hot.

“Probably for the best,” he says with a sheepish grin, pointing back up at the Beanies. “You’d have nightmares for days.”

As I catch my breath, I examine the rest of his room. There’s a collage of photos next to his desk, one that likely hasn’t been updated in years. “Aww, was this your senior photo? You were cute in high school. I definitely would have had a crush on you.” I flop down on his bed. “I can’t believe I was out of college when you were still in high school. Way to make me feel ancient.”

He sits down next to me. “Did you have dial-up? And CDs? What was your CD collection like?”

“Hmm . . . a lot of NSYNC, Mandy Moore, Blink-182, and a handful of Now That’s What I Call Musics. And I will not apologize for any of it.”

“Mandy Moore, like, from This Is Us?”

“Oh my god, don’t even talk to me until you listen to ‘Candy.’”

My room at home hasn’t been nearly as preserved as his, but maybe that was more of a personal decision than a profound commentary on the passage of time. Also pinned to that corkboard is an old plane ticket to Seoul. A photo of him in front of a gorgeous green-and-red palace.

“So your mom was born in Korea, and your dad was born here?”

He nods. “She grew up in Yeoju, which is a smaller city outside of Seoul. Actually, it wasn’t even a city when she was growing up there, just a county. I’ve only been there a few times—shockingly, it’s pricey to do a lot of international travel with five kids. Especially if you’re number five. But they’re both only children, and they wanted a big family.”

“It seems they’re doing well now,” I say. “Your house really is stunning.”

“I know my mom appreciated that. And yeah, they are, but it took a while to get there.”

The next time we kiss, it’s not hard and fast, the way our kisses often are. It’s a soft kiss, a reverent one, and it happens so slowly I’m convinced time stops, too. Then he brushes some of my hair out of the way so he can press a kiss to the shell of my ear. And another. It makes me shiver, the gentleness of his lips on my skin, the brush of his thumb along my jaw. My cheekbone. Like maybe he is memorizing me or even just . . . appreciating.

It terrifies me. All of this does—his parents and his bedroom and the parts of himself he doesn’t share with anyone else. It makes me wonder if he’s not that wrong for me after all. If he keeps touching me like this, like I am something precious, something delicate, I could really fall for him.