The Ex Talk

“Hopefully the most romantic moment of my life.”

* * *

—

I’m too jumbled to drive, so Tatum leaves the cook in charge of the café so she and Ruthie can drive me.

Ruthie’s car is parked around the corner. I take the messy back seat, filled with receipts and canvas bags and two shoes that do not match and a handful of CDs.

“You have CDs?” I ask, moving my foot so I don’t step on Hall and Oates’s greatest hits.

“Old car,” Ruthie says. “That’s all it can handle.”

“Besides, then she can act all hashtag retro,” Tatum says.

“I hate that CDs are retro,” I say as Ruthie speeds toward the freeway. It’ll take us probably twenty minutes to get downtown. Twenty minutes of panicking in the back seat.

“Sorry it’s so messy,” Ruthie says. “But if you find a piece of gum back there, let me know.”

“Let the girl breathe,” Tatum says. “She just received a public declaration of love.” She turns to me. “Do you want the radio on?”

“I don’t know.” It feels so personal that everyone’s hearing this. But that’s what we were doing with the show, weren’t we? “If someone could convince me I won’t manage to fuck this up, that would be awesome.”

And, bless them, they try. By the time we pull up to the familiar building and Ruthie circles the block, unable to find a parking spot, my heart is in my throat.

“You’ve got this,” Ruthie says firmly. “We’ll be right down here if you need us. Partly because we can’t find a parking spot, but mainly because I think you need to go up alone.”

“Good luck,” Tatum says. “We’ll be listening.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you. Thank you both so much.”

On wobbly legs, I make my way to the security door, realizing I don’t even know if they’ll let me in if I buzz up. I give the door a pathetic swipe of my key card, but of course, it’s been deactivated. So with a shaky sigh, I hit the buzzer.

“Pacific Public Radio,” chirps Emma McCormick’s staticky voice.

“Hey—Emma,” I say, holding down the button. “It’s me, um, Shay Goldstein. I wanted to come up to talk to Dominic. He’s on the air—”

“Shay, oh my god!” Emma squeals. “I can’t get over it. I wish someone would do something like this for me. You are so lucky. The phone lines have been bananas, and we’ve already crushed our goals for the entire pledge drive. It’s really—”

There’s a scuffle in the background, and then another familiar voice. “Shay? It’s Marlene Harrison-Yates. I’m letting you up.”

“Oh—thank you,” I say as the door clicks. Nothing makes sense today.

Then I am in the hall and the slowest of slow elevators, taking out my ponytail and then putting it back up, wiping the lenses of my glasses on my shirt, trying to make myself look less nightmarish. But Dominic has seen me at my worst, he’s seen me panicked and without makeup and with tears streaming down my face, and he loves me.

He loves me.

When I get to the fifth floor, Marlene is holding open the station door. “I’m a sucker for true love,” she says with a shrug. “And Emma wasn’t getting you up here fast enough.”

Emma offers an apologetic but still peppy shrug.

I barely have a chance to take in the station foyer with its warm hominess and vinyl-record-covered walls before Kent sprints toward me.

“Shay!” he says, so falsely cheery that it churns my stomach. “We were wondering if you’d show up. I know it’s a little unconventional, but social media is blowing up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s really big of you to put all of this behind you and—”

“I’m not here for you.” God, it feels incredible to interrupt him. I gesture to the hall. “And as much as I used to love this place, I’m not here for the station. I’m here for Dominic, and that’s it. Then I’m gone.”

Kent’s mouth tightens, and he gives me a curt nod. Marlene’s long skirts flutter as she steps in front of him, and when our eyes meet, a brief understanding passes over her face. “Go,” she urges me, and I dip my head in gratitude.