The Ex Talk

He clears his throat. “Cool,” he finally says.

Excuse me while I walk right into downtown rush-hour traffic. Cool is the Kevin Jonas of compliments. It’s like saying your favorite color is beige.

“And you?” he asks. “Not too horrified by the idea that we dated, in this alternate reality?”

I shake my head. “And you’re not dating anyone right now.”

“Not since I moved here, no. Which I assume you know after your late-night stalking session.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Would you believe me if I told you I dropped my glasses onto my laptop and they happened to hit that like button?”

“Not one bit.”

“So it’s that the show isn’t news.”

He nods. “I went to school for journalism—”

“Wait, what?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

“—and that’s where I want to be. It’s killing me that the mayor story will be passed along, that I won’t be able to follow up on it.” He polishes off the last bite of his food. “Not to mention, I can’t even picture what this show would sound like. I wouldn’t know where to start with it. Like you said, most of the podcasts I listen to are . . .”

“Boring?” I supply. “Lucky for you, I am a connoisseur of fun podcasts. I’ll email you a list.” I’m already mentally compiling one. I’ll have him listen to Not Another Star Wars Podcast and Culture Clash and Femme, to start. All of them have great cohost banter.

“Can’t wait.”

“Maybe this show isn’t typical public radio,” I continue. “But it’s the edge we need. If we do a good job with it, you can do anything in radio that you want. Hosts are at the top of the food chain. It’s no small thing that Kent offered this to you. It’s a big fucking deal.”

“You don’t think he was a little . . . manipulative?”

Ameena essentially said the same thing.

“That’s just Kent. He knows what he wants. And he clearly loves you.” I hope he doesn’t catch the jealousy in my voice. “This is different from anything public radio has ever done. Sure, the national desk has done stories, sometimes series, about dating and relationships, and same with member stations. But there’s never really been an entire show dedicated to them. Isn’t it exciting, to think you could be part of that?” He shrugs, so I keep going. “I’ve been behind the scenes for so long that I want to see, I guess, if I can be more than that.”

My confession sits heavy between us.

“I had no idea you felt that way,” he says quietly.

“It’s not something I tend to broadcast very often.” I start ripping apart napkin number two. “But if you don’t think you can do it . . .”

He leans forward across the table, his eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t name. “Oh, I could definitely do it.”

I force myself to match the intensity of his gaze. It feels like a challenge, and I don’t want him to think I’m backing down. I hope I don’t have lipstick on my chin. I hope he doesn’t think I’m too old for him, at least in the hypothetical sense. I hope he realizes exactly how much I want this.

And that means wanting him, too.

“Three months,” he says finally.

“Six.”

“Shay—”

I hold up a hand, trying to ignore how much I like the way he said my name. It rumbled in his throat, sending an electric spark from my toes to some places that haven’t gotten much attention lately. I wonder if it’s how he says a woman’s name in bed. A growl. A plea.

Jesus Christ, I’m thinking about Dominic in bed with someone. I am not well. If I’m turned on simply by the sound of his voice, we’re going to have serious problems.

“Three months isn’t long enough to build a devoted audience,” I say. “Six months, enough for me to get the hosting experience I need, enough to elevate your name to the point where you can move on to something else when we’re done.”

“And if we’re caught?”