The Ex Talk

I wish I could explain why texting with him makes me grin at my phone like my favorite podcast just dropped a surprise bonus episode. I probably wouldn’t like the answer. For now, I’ll blame it on being tipsy.

Dominic: Shay Evelyn Goldstein

Dominic: I am very drnuk. too drunk for autocrrect

Shay: How do you know my middle name?

Dominic: we dated for three months, of course I know your middle name

Shay: It seems as though the party jeans are really living up to their name.

Dominic: oh yeah. everything’s spinny and bouncy and beauuuuuutiful

Dominic: I’m even starting to forget where I live

This wipes the grin off my face. I’m sure it’s a joke, but I’m the one who suggested he go out. He was so in control when we were drinking at the station. Depending on how drunk he is, he may actually need help.

Shay: Where are you right now?

Dominic: the nomad in cap hill

Dominic: why, u putting on party jeans too??

I’m not going to be able to properly enjoy this romance novel or even fall asleep afterward if I’m worrying about him, damn it.

Shay: Stay there. I’m on my way.

15

“You didn’t have to do this,” Dominic slurs when I find him hunched over the bar, proving exactly why I had to do this. A few empty shot glasses are stacked next to him. He has one cheek pressed to the countertop, and I don’t want to think about how sticky his face is going to be when he sits up. God, it’s strange to see him like this outside of work, like seeing your middle school principal at the grocery with a cart full of Lean Cuisines.

“Maybe not,” I say, sidestepping a beer puddle. “But I can’t host the show alone if you fall in a ditch on your way home, so here I am.”

He couldn’t have picked a divier place to drink away his sorrows, if that was in fact what he was doing. Or maybe he was just being young and sprightly. The bar is small and dark and playing Nickelback, which should on its own be a reason to shut it down. It also just feels damp.

“Shay.” He schools his features into this expression of utmost concentration. With one hand, he strokes the counter, his ear intimate enough with it to contract an STD. “Shay. Shhh. I think I can hear the ocean.”

“I’m sure you can, buddy.” I pat his back, and it’s meant to be reassuring, maybe even a little patronizing. It’s rare for me to feel any kind of power with Dominic, and I can’t say I’m not enjoying this. But I can feel the flex of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the firmness of muscle. How warm he is.

I drop my hand.

“Careful. I might have cooties.” He snickers at this.

My head is starting to throb. I should have stopped after one glass of wine, but at least I’m not as far gone as he is. If I’d said yes to drinks earlier, would we both be this plastered?

“I’m so sorry about him,” I tell the bartender, a woman with full sleeves of tattoos who looks like she could probably bench-press two Dominics. “I didn’t realize I’d be taking care of a six-year-old when I came to pick him up.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen much worse.” She fills up a glass of water, plunks it in front of him.

“Drink,” I instruct, and though he grumbles, he manages a few sips. “Have you eaten anything?” I interpret his shrug as a no. “Do you serve food?” I ask the bartender.

“Just fries and tots,” she says, so I order one of each.

Since I don’t want to leave until he has a bit of food in his stomach, I hoist myself onto the too-tall stool next to him. Our baskets of grease arrive, along with a bottle of ketchup with just enough inside to make it look like I’m doing something obscene when I slap it against my palm.

“Wow. You really just get right to it,” Dominic says.

I give the bottle another hard shake before the ketchup comes out.