The Ex Talk

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12

Passover seders used to be solemn affairs. They were small, just my parents and grandparents, until my mother’s parents passed away and my dad’s parents moved to Arizona to escape the Seattle gloom. And then for most of my twenties, it was just my mother making a joke about me asking the Four Questions, since I’d never not been the youngest person at the table.

Now the first night of Passover is something of a party. We’re in the house I grew up in, but with fourteen of us around the table, it’s never been this loud. The Manischewitz and various other drinks flow freely, and Phil’s grandkids had fun hunting down the afikomen, a broken piece of matzah wrapped in a napkin and hidden somewhere in the house. This was always my dad’s favorite part of a seder, and he’d get a kick out of hiding it in my mother’s violin case, between books on a shelf, and once, taped underneath the table, which was so unexpected it took me almost an hour to think to look there. Since it’s their first Passover, I gave the kids an easy one: on top of the refrigerator. But next year, I’m going to be ruthless.

I like this part: sharing our traditions, leaving space for new ones.

“We’re loving your show,” says Phil’s son Anthony, and his husband Raj nods his agreement while trying to get a spoonful of mashed veggies into their toddler’s mouth.

“The second episode was even better than the first,” Raj says. “Especially when you stumped that poor couples counselor.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “It’s been a lot of fun so far.”

Our second episode aired a few days ago, and I’ve been refreshing our subscribers almost hourly. I thought we’d continue trending upward, but our download numbers seem to have kind of plateaued. We probably won’t have a chance at sponsors until we have thousands more downloads per month. It’s still early—that’s how I’m reassuring myself, at least—but I guess I assumed the media blitz would be enough to get us out there. Unless, like Kent said, the landscape is already so saturated that buzz for a new podcast sounds like more of a hiss.

“And Dominic sounds adorable,” says Phil’s daughter, a midthirties dentist named Diana. She’s sitting across from me, flashing pearly white teeth. “I can’t believe you broke up with him.”

“Even someone with a nice voice can be . . . a huge dick,” I say, grasping for the right word and never quite landing on it. Lying to Phil’s family—my family—takes a toll on my appetite, and I push around the brisket on my plate before realizing it’s exactly what Diana’s kids are doing.

“But was he a huge dick where it mattered?”

“Diana!” Phil says from one end of the table. “Your father is here. And there are children present.”

“Dad. I have, in fact, had sex before.” She gestures

to her kids. “Exactly twice.”

More laughter at this.

This was the kind of family I always wanted growing up, especially during our quiet seders. I wanted competition for the afikomen. I wanted someone else to ask the Four Questions. Except once my dad was gone, I realized I didn’t want a giant, raucous family. All I wanted was him.

It surprises me, this ease with which they talk about sex. Ameena and I talk about it plenty, but I’ve never quite gained that comfort with my mother. Maybe it’s because I discovered grief and sex at the same time. My earliest experiences are wrapped in that tightest of blankets, warped by sadness. I didn’t know how to have either conversation with her.

“So what happened?” Diana asks. “You can trust us with the NSFW version.”

“There’s no NSFW version.” I try to sound nonchalant. “We were just . . . incompatible.”

“I know all about that. Every guy in my early twenties. So much awkward fumbling.” She reaches out and clasps her husband Eric’s chin. “Fortunately, you were willing to learn.”

“Are we really having this conversation in front of our kids?” he says. Admittedly, they’re not paying attention, bickering about who spotted the afikomen first.

“I mean, have you met me?” Diana bats her lashes at him. He chuckles and shakes his head.

Truthfully, I’d love to be able to have conversations like that with Diana. But the one time we tried to meet up for lunch, one of her kids was sick and she couldn’t find a sitter, and we never rescheduled. Or maybe I’m completely inept at making adult friends.

“Tell us about the wedding,” says James, Phil’s youngest son, a chemistry grad student. “What do you have planned so far? How can we help?”

I’m grateful for the subject change. Now that it’s mid-April, July 14 no longer seems that far away.