The Ex Talk

We hold each other for a long time afterward, as though waiting for aftershocks. It smells like sweat and sex and some kind of pleasant hotel room air freshener, but no part of me wants a shower.

“That was—” I start, unsure how to verbalize it. I need to know he felt the same intensity I did. That it felt different to him, too.

He cups my head to his chest. “I know.”

Eventually, we head into the bathroom to shower together, which takes significantly longer than any shower should and is, on a related note, the best shower of my life. We slip on plush white hotel robes and order room service, then climb into bed and find a bad movie on TV.

“Tomorrow,” he says, squeezing my hand.

“It’s only a day away, as they say. Are you nervous?”

“A bit of stage fright,” he admits. “But as long as I know what I’m doing, and we’ve been planning this for weeks, then I’ll be fine. And I know the show. I feel good about it. You’re not having second thoughts, are you? About telling everyone?”

I shake my head. “No. This, between us . . . it’s right.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges, and he says, “I was so mad about hosting this with you at first. Not just because we weren’t being completely truthful, but because you are so fucking cute, and I knew I’d be flustered around you.”

“Stop,” I say, pounding at his chest. “You did not!”

“I swear!” He crosses his heart. “You were the cute Puget Sounds producer, and I was this obnoxious reporter who only cared about the news, and you hated me.”

“Reporter with a master’s degree,” I correct. Then I admit, “Fine, fine, I thought you were cute, too. But definitely still obnoxious, which made it annoying that you also happened to be cute. As soon as you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt, I was done. Toast.” I run my hands along his arms. “Forearms are like . . . unspeakably sexy to me.”

“Ah,” he says. “If only I’d known sooner. I would have worn short-sleeved shirts to every Ex Talk taping to woo you.”

“Psh,” I scoff. “I’m not that easy.”

“No,” he agrees, “but so worth it.”

We finish the movie and the two slices of red velvet cake room service delivers before shucking off our robes and slipping back into bed.

“We should go on vacation together somewhere.” Dominic’s fingers play through my hair, lingering on my neck, tracing my spine. “Not for work. Just for us.”

It suddenly sounds so, so nice, and hearing him suggest it tugs at my heart. “We should,” I say wistfully. “Where would you want to go?”

“Greece,” he says without hesitation. “Maybe it’s cliché, but I’ve been obsessed with the mythology since elementary school. I went as Hermes three Halloweens in a row.”

“I’d be down for Greece. Or Spain. Or Australia.”

“A whole world tour.” He presses his lips to the top of my head. “It’ll be perfect. No email, no internet . . . just you and me, exploring ancient ruins and eating excellent food.”

“Perfect.”

The weight of that desire feels heavy, especially with what we have to do tomorrow. I want to stay in this dreamworld as long as we can, this place where we can talk fearlessly about the future and know we fit into each other’s visions of it. This is real. I have to keep reminding myself because otherwise I’m not sure I’d believe it.

He drifts off to sleep first, his fingers going still in my hair. I lie there quietly for a while, burrowing closer, listening to his breaths. I’m still half unsure how we got here but mesmerized by it nonetheless.

That love I thought I felt earlier—I’m certain of it now.

31

It doesn’t take long for me to fall in love with PodCon, too. Our live taping is in one of the smaller auditoriums, since our fan base doesn’t come close to matching some of the bigger podcasts’. Still, I’ve never seen anything quite like it, even the year it was in Seattle. Dominic and I wandered the exhibition area with Ruthie earlier this morning, playing with audio gear and other swag the festival sponsors had on display. We met producers and hosts of podcasts I’ve been listening to for years, and all of it was wildly surreal. It’s one thing to scroll through our mentions on Twitter. It’s another to see real live people waiting in line for us.

All of these people connected by something most of us do completely alone, with headphones on, blocking out the rest of the world—it’s kind of magical.

“They’re just about ready for us,” Ruthie says, joining us backstage in the greenroom.

Dominic’s doing some breathing exercises in a corner, and I’m on the couch, reviewing our show notes. Last night, I googled tips to combat stage fright and insisted he eat a banana before coming here, since they can soothe nausea. I also made sure we arrived an hour early. Of course I want the show to go well, but more than that, I want him to be comfortable up there. “I can’t imagine not feeling comfortable with you onstage with me,” he said this morning, and it made me want to tug him back into bed.