The Ex Talk

“I might have felt that way at first,” he admits, “but I loved doing the show. I loved doing the show with you.”

“Even if that’s true, the show was a bad decision from the beginning.” Another shove of my suitcase. Come on, come on, just fucking zip. You have one job. “All of it was a lie. Including us.”

“You can’t mean that. That we weren’t real. Here, let me help—”

“I’ve got it,” I say through gritted teeth, heaving all my weight on the suitcase to force the zipper closed, my breath rushing out of me once it’s done.

I want so badly to tell him that of course I meant everything I said to him. Of course I want to climb back in bed and let him hold me until I no longer feel so utterly, hopelessly lost. Of course we were real.

But frankly, I’m not sure anymore.

“Let’s go back to Seattle and give it some time,” he says. “Can we talk about it when we’re both calm?”

“I’m calm.” I haul my suitcase to the floor with a thump. “And I’m done talking. So I guess the next time I hear you will be when you’re back on PPR.”

The tears start falling as soon as I slam the door behind me.

33

I don’t remember the ride to the airport, the earlier flight I manage to catch, or the drive home. I’m numb as I pick up my suitcase from baggage claim, numb as I collect Steve from doggie daycare, numb as I refresh social media again and again until finally I have to disable my accounts because it’s all too goddamn much.

My name is a hashtag.

I am a joke.

The laughingstock of public radio.

Dominic has the nerve to text me.

Shay, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.

I want to make it up to you.

Can we talk?

Delete, delete, delete.

When I flip on the lights in my house, sponsorship products glare back at me from every surface. Those corn shoes, which by the way smell terrible. The custom arch support that felt great for a day but then fucked up my feet. And if I have to look at one more fruit-and-nut bar, I’ll scream.

I crawl into bed—onto my free and actually somewhat life-changing memory foam mattress—and bury my face in Steve’s fur. He seems to get that I’m feeling down because he’s a muted version of his typically energetic self. I will throw my pity party alone and without shame. No one can judge me if no one knows about it.

“That includes you, Steve,” I mutter when I catch him giving me a particularly savage side-eye.

I zombie through the next few days. I ignore texts and calls from my mother and Ameena and TJ and Ruthie, ignore more texts from Dominic. The wedding is next week, and I know I’ll have to see Ameena and explain to everyone how big of a liar I am. But I’m not ready. Not yet.

I don’t let any of my podcasts update, and I don’t turn on the radio. I know our—their—pledge drive is soon, and I can’t bear to listen to them asking for money. If you call now and pledge a minimum of twenty dollars per month, you’ll get a KPPR T-shirt . . . I used to look forward to each year’s T-shirt design. They’re all in my drawer, from least to most recent, varying levels of softness as a result of countless wash-and-dry cycles. I love those shirts. I’m going to miss them.

Oh god. How many of those Ex Talk T-shirts will wind up at a Goodwill or in a Dumpster?

I devoted my twenties to public radio, and it feels wrong for it to have turned on me like this. And yet, the wild thing is . . . when I think about not having to go back to PPR, I feel something a little like relief. Sure, it’s buried beneath the heartbreak and the humiliation, but it’s there. The show is over. My public radio career might be, too, but not having to carry that lie makes me feel like I can stand up a bit straighter. I’ve been working myself to the bone, nights and weekends for years. Zero breaks. Maybe now I’ll have the time to decide what I really want.

Maybe once the social media backlash fades, once I’m no longer going through a bottle of wine a day, I’ll be able to see that this is actually a good thing.

After all, it saved me from the biggest relationship mistake of my life.

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