The Ex Talk

“Look,” Kent says, finally closing the lid of his laptop. “I just need a moment to explain.”

I wave my arm. “The floor is yours. Start talking.”

As though weighing exactly how to explain his betrayal, he tugs on his tie, which today is patterned with tiny microphones, each of them mocking me. Ruthie is cross-legged on the other bed, holding tight to her messenger bag.

“The show’s been doing well,” Kent says. “You and Dominic are great, and listeners clearly love you.”

I don’t bother telling him all of that should be in the past tense.

“The board has had some concerns for a while. It took some sweet-talking to get them interested in the show at first, but I was able to manage it. They were finally excited about getting something new on our airwaves, especially something that had appeal beyond our own little station.” He sighs, pulling at his tie again. “But lately, the board has started to feel as though the show verges on a bit . . . suggestive for the station, for public radio in general. That it’s much better suited as a podcast. We can’t risk an FCC violation.”

“Then fine,” I say. “Why not just cut the live show and make us podcast only?” I have a hard time believing the board isn’t made up of primarily old cishet white men.

He shakes his head. “They didn’t want that, either. In their minds, the only option was to completely dissociate The Ex Talk name from Pacific Public Radio.”

Ruthie speaks up. “But why—” She glances over at me, her eyes uncertain behind her clear-framed glasses. “I can’t get past the fact that Shay and Dominic were okay with the lie from the beginning. That you all brought me onto this show without telling me.”

“Ruthie, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I know there’s no excuse, but—I wanted to tell you. So many times.”

“We were friends,” she says, and it hurts more than anything Kent’s said.

And yet something isn’t quite adding up. “Why sabotage us, though? Why not just take us off the air? Let Dominic go back to being a reporter?” His name is sour on my tongue.

“There was . . . interest. From some big podcast distributors. I knew they’d be coming for you both and offering the kind of money we wouldn’t be able to match.” He runs a hand over his lined, weather-worn face. “I can see now this was a terrible mistake, but I didn’t want the station to lose either of you. Whatever you’re doing at the station, Shay, whether you’re producing or hosting, you’re an exceptional employee. We don’t have anyone else like you.”

Funny, he’s never mentioned this to me before, not when I asked about my grief show or back when Puget Sounds was on the chopping block. How convenient that it’s coming up now.

I wonder if exceptional really means obedient.

“And you wanted to keep Dominic.”

A guilty smile. “Well—of course.”

“So you sabotaged us, right before the biggest show of our careers. You made it so if PPR couldn’t have us, then no one could? That wasn’t your decision to make!” I’ve leapt to my feet, anger pulsing through my veins. I’ve never known rage like this. “How are you that vindictive?”

“I didn’t know it would happen like this,” he insists. He has the gall to look sheepish. “Shay, I really am sorry. I didn’t think the audience would react the way they did.”

I don’t believe him. I think he planned for it to happen exactly like this. I’ve always viewed him as well-meaning—a little pushy, but ultimately a good guy. A good guy who wanted the best for his station and the best from his staff. And yet here he is, capable of destroying my career with a single click.

A single click after months of lying that I barely questioned.

“You don’t know how rough it is to keep this station afloat,” Kent says. “You think every media outlet is as noble as Dominic wants them to be? You think everyone in this field is motivated by doing good? All people want are clicks. No one wants content anymore. This is how we stay alive, Shay.”

I stalk toward him, wishing I had at least a few inches of Dominic’s height. “No. Not everyone. I refuse to believe that. That’s not what journalism is.”

“You agreed to this. If you still have some lofty idea of what journalism is, you’re selling a lie to yourself just like you did to your audience. It’s brutal out there, and all of us are just trying to fucking survive.”

The show took that integrity away from Dominic, too. And maybe he was complicit, maybe he was backed into a corner, but he went along with it. We both did.

“What do we do now?” Ruthie asks quietly. I’d almost forgotten she was still here, and I hate myself for it.

Kent pulls out a chair and sits down as calmly as he can beneath a serene watercolor landscape. If I could redecorate this room, I’d drape it in reds and oranges, take a knife to the fluffy pillows. Tear everything apart. “This is where it gets trickier, and believe me, I hate to do this, but it’s coming from the board. I’m just the messenger here.” Another transparent fucking lie. “I can’t keep all three of you on payroll. Not with the show gone. I could find a way to use Dominic as a researcher, at least until all of this blows over, then get him back on the air as a reporter. But I could probably only use one of you as a part-time producer . . .” His eyes flick expectantly between us.

I want to burn shit down. Apparently I’m not “exceptional” enough.

“Sure, you have space for Dominic,” I spit. “Are you serious? You’re saying Ruthie and I can choose who gets your special part-time producer job? I gave ten fucking years to this station, and you’re content to give me a consolation prize, while Dominic gets this cushy job that hundreds of people would kill for? Did you ever think that maybe the station is suffering because of you, Kent, and the way you manage it?”

“I know you’re a little fragile right now,” Kent says in a level voice, like he’s trying to reason with a toddler throwing a tantrum. “We’re all feeling emotional—”