The Ex Talk

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “So did I, but I was a city kid.”

“I would have been high-key jealous of you,” he says. “I wasn’t allowed to drive on the freeway until I was eighteen.”

I snort. “Poor little suburban boy.” But I’m surprised by how naturally our conversation is flowing.

“Everyone else in my program, they were getting hired for digital journalism, or to run small-town newspapers that’ll fold in a few years,” Dominic continues. “I didn’t land here by accident. I went to grad school because, well—” He breaks off, scratches behind his neck like he’s embarrassed by what he’s about to say. “You’re going to think this is ridiculous, but you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

“Jobs as a Hot Pockets spokesman might be scarce, but you shouldn’t let that hold you back.”

He picks up one of my napkin scraps and flings it back at me. “I want to use journalism to fix shit. That’s why I want to be involved in investigations. I want to take down corporations that are fucking up people’s lives, and I want bigots out of power.”

“That’s not ridiculous,” I say, serious. I don’t know why he’d be ashamed of something that noble.

“It’s like saying you want to make the world a better place.”

“Don’t we all? We just have different ways of getting there,” I say. “Why radio, though?”

“I like the idea of being able to talk directly to people. There’s a real power to your words when they’re not backed up by visuals. It’s personal. You’re fully in control of how you sound, and it’s almost like you’re telling a story to just one person.”

“Even if hundreds or thousands are listening,” I say quietly. “Yeah. I get that. I really do. I guess I assumed you got lucky with this job.”

The dimple threatens to make a reappearance. “Well, I did. But I’m also fucking good at what I do.”

I think about him on the radio with Paloma, about the narrative he wrote in college. About all the stories on our website that people really do seem to love.

He is good.

Maybe that’s what I’ve hated the most.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to be on the radio,” he continues. “I assumed you were happy, you know. Producing. That’s what you’ve always done here

, right?”

I nod. Time to get personal. I had a feeling this was coming, that I’d be spilling my radio history to him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t ever really get easier. “My dad and I listened to NPR all the time when I was growing up. We would pretend we were on the radio, and it was honestly the best part of my childhood. I loved how radio could tell such a complete, immersive story. But it’s competitive, and I was lucky enough to get an internship at PPR, which turned into a full-time job . . . and here I am.”

“So you want your dad to hear you on the radio.”

“Well—he can’t,” I say after a pause, unable to meet his eyes.

“Oh.” He stares down at the table. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It was ten years ago,” I say, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t think about him every day, about how he sometimes personified the electronics he fixed, mostly to make me laugh as a kid, but even as I got older, I never got sick of it. It’s a risky surgery, he’d say about an ancient iPhone. She might not make it through the night.

I’m grateful when our food arrives, sizzling and steaming and looking delicious. Dominic thanks the waitress in Korean, and she dips her head before walking away.

“I asked her for another napkin,” he says, gesturing to the confetti remains of mine.

“God, it’s good,” I say after the first bite.

“Try some of this.” Dominic spoons some of his rice dish onto my plate.

We eat in appreciative silence for a few minutes.

“So. The Ex Talk,” I say, summoning the courage to talk about why we’re both here. “What’s holding you back? Is it . . . is it me? The idea of dating me?”

His eyes widen, and he drops his spoon. “No. Not at all. Oh god—I’m not, like, insulted by the idea that you and I could have dated. Mildly shocked, yes, but not insulted. You’re . . .” At that, his eyes scan my face and travel down my torso. His cheeks redden. It gives me a bit of a rush, knowing he’s very obviously assessing me.

You’re a catch. You’re a ten. I wait for a compliment from this person who’s only ever been vile to me.