“He’s walking you,” Mary Beth says when we go outside and Steve tugs me toward his favorite pee tree. “How much does he weigh?”
“Um. Seven pounds.”
“You are the alpha,” she repeats, and I decide not to tell her I’ve been sleeping in the guest room. “Make sure he knows that. He’s not the one in charge. This walk is your choice, not his. You’re leading him, not the other way around.”
So I’m the producer of his life, essentially, and I more than know how to do that.
He pulls toward the end of his leash, but I stand firm. After a few moments of straining, he trots back to me, loosening the leash, and when I make a move to go in the other direction, he actually follows.
“Good boy!” I practically shriek it, which scares him, but a treat makes everything okay.
After about an hour, we head back inside, exhausted but victorious.
Mary Beth reaches down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re gonna be a good boy,” she says. “You just needed a little help.”
I thank Mary Beth, but she refuses payment.
“Your show sent so much business my way,” she says, which makes a bittersweet warmth bloom in my chest. We were doing something important. I always knew it, despite those moments Dominic made me doubt myself. “I’ll look forward to catching your new show, even if it does have considerable less emphasis on dogs.”
The training session makes me useless the rest of the day, which is probably good because the impending Ex Talk nerves have fully sunk their claws in me. Steve naps—in his bed, not mine—while I catch up on the handful of dating podcasts I now subscribe to, idly texting with Ameena.
A text from an unknown number arrives at a quarter to eight. I’m in the bathroom painting my nails gray, and it’s so startling I nearly drop my phone in the bathroom sink.
It’s Dominic. Got your number from the staff directory.
I had this idea. What if we did a show about people who met someone through a rideshare? Someone I know from grad school is dating a guy who was her Lyft driver.
Dominic Yun. Texting me about a show idea. For our show.
YES! I love that. Admit it. You’re excited about this.
I screw the cap back on the nail polish bottle, wondering where he’s texting me from and how he spends his weekends. Maybe he goes to the farmers’ market or out to meals with friends. Maybe he hikes or bikes or reads classic novels by himself in a coffee shop. I don’t know where in Seattle he lives, if it’s in a studio apartment or a house with a bunch of friends or at home with his parents.
Of course, he might not even be at home. He’s not currently in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean he’s not casually dating. Sure, Sundays aren’t prime hookup nights, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining his trademark lean against the bedroom door of a stranger’s apartment. Pinning someone else against a wall for real this time, bracing his hands on either side of her. It makes my stomach twist in a strange, foreign way.
Yeah. Guess I am. You worked some kind of magic on me.
Our words flowed so smoothly that night at the station, but now I’m not sure how to keep the conversation going. It hits me that I want to know him, where he lives and what he’s doing on a Sunday night and what kinds of books he likes to read. Probably nonfiction with drab covers and tiny print. Exposés.
Why we don’t have any mutual Facebook friends.
I’ve always been interested in stories, and yet I can’t exactly journalism my way into Dominic’s life. Especially when I can’t decide what to text back.
Still, I’m disappointed when my phone doesn’t light up for the rest of the night.
10
The next couple weeks are a promo whirlwind. We send press releases, take new photos for th
e website, and make a guest appearance on Pacific Public Radio’s morning show. Our first three shows are booked solid with content and guests, and even that meant late nights and early mornings. It’s hard to believe that a few weeks ago, I was producing a live show every day.
“You’re popping your P’s. Again.”
We’ve been in Booth C for twenty minutes trying to record a fifteen-second promo, during which it’s become increasingly clear to me that these booths were not meant for two people. Sure, there are two chairs, two microphones. But Dominic’s height shrinks the booth by half. Today he’s in khakis, which could so easily look horrifying on the wrong person. (He is not the wrong person.) They’re paired with brown oxfords and a gray cardigan with elbow patches. One of his more casual looks, and it’s only because we’re working so closely together that I notice these details.
Dominic switches off the RECORD button. “Would it kill you to help me instead of making fun of me?”
“Oh, I assumed you had a class about this in grad school.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Sorry. That’s not helping, either, is it?”