The Ex Talk

“Mm-hmm,” I manage. Yep, this will be what keeps me up tonight. “Just a typical wild Monday night. Right up there with drinking alone.”

“Have I said thank you yet?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you,” he says emphatically, seeming to come back to himself a bit more, at least, the part of him that’s genuine. The part of him that’s peeked through a few times since we started this whole charade. “I mean it. I know I could have found my own way home, but I’ll probably feel a lot less like death tomorrow, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome. I was the one who encouraged you to go out, so. I felt bad.”

“Maybe, but I’m the one who decided to do Jägerbombs.”

When a streetlamp catches his face, the light hangs on the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. It’s rude that he looks good even sloshed. Even with—especially with—his hair disheveled. I like messy Dominic, the Dominic who is literally less buttoned up than he is at work.

“I hope I didn’t get in the way of you trying to get someone’s number or anything.” Shit. I hate myself the moment I say it. Why why why why why.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t. It’s been a very long drought.”

“Your last relationship ended about a year ago?” I ask, and he nods. “It’s been about the same amount of time for me, too.”

A very long drought. Does that mean he hasn’t slept with anyone since his relationship ended, or that he hasn’t dated? It’s not unrealistic, of course. Maybe he isn’t one for casual hookups. I tend to get too attached for them to be healthy for me, a lesson I learned in my early twenties. Which is where he still is.

“You haven’t dated at all?” he says.

“I’m on a dating app hiatus.” I stare down at the floor, realizing that in my haste to leave, I put on one black shoe and one brown shoe. Jesus, speaking of messy. “In the meantime . . . there’s always the fun drawer. Never lets me down and never wants to go to brunch in the morning.”

“There’s a whole drawer?”

I am never drinking again. Dominic is going to think my nightstand is overflowing with dildos.

I steal a glance up front, making sure the driver is still immersed in his phone call. “Well, half a drawer.” I am still tipsy, right? Or I have a contact drunk from him. That has to be the explanation for why I’m talking to him like this.

“You could find someone if you wanted.” A lazy roll of his head toward me, a lowering of his eyelashes to half-mast. “Someone who isn’t battery powered, I mean. You’re cute.”

It’s the first time he’s complimented me outright, and I have no idea what it means. Drunk words, sober thoughts? Even if that’s true, I shouldn’t care if Dominic thinks I’m cute. I am cute. He’s simply stating a fact.

Of course, I’m not going to tell him that the finding isn’t the issue—it’s the scaring away once I inevitably fall faster than the other person does.

“I thought I was ‘cool,’” I say, trying to project a coolness I do not feel. An aloofness. A nonchalance. I am Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher! I am Meryl Streep in that movie with the nuns. My gaze falls to his mouth, to the hollow of this throat, to the triangle of skin exposed by his unbuttoned buttons, and all pretense of cool vanishes. I am Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again.

“Both.”

“And once again, Drunk Dominic is much more fun than Sober Dominic.”

“Sober Dominic wants to tell you that he’s fun, too, but he’s too busy shaking his head disapprovingly at Drunk Dominic.”

I’m still laughing, heart still hammering, when the car stops outside his place. The bar wasn’t very far from his place downtown, but the ride felt shorter than I thought it would.

“I like this area,” I say as we get out of the car and I five-star Julius. The air against my face is a welcome respite from the heat of the back seat.

He shrugs. “It’s not great. You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I picked it because it was close to work.”

Each step we take is heavier than the last. I’m just walking him to the door. Surely I’m not helping him inside. He already seems much less wasted than he was at the bar. Still buzzed, but perfectly capable of entering a building without me fearing for his life.

“Thank you,” he says when we reach the front steps of his building, a newer construction that looks the same as all the other apartments on this street. He leans against the door, his trademark stance. Somehow, it doesn’t bother me as much as it usually does. “Again. I’m sure I would have made it home okay, but it’s nice to know, I guess . . . that you cared.”

That lands across my heart in a way I didn’t at all expect. “Of course I care.” I shuffle my weight from side to side, run my hand up and down the strap of my bag. “Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I stopped caring. I care about all my exes.”

This earns me a half smile. He likes that I’m playing along. He makes a move to reach for his keys—at least, that’s what I think he’s doing, until his hand lands on my wrist instead. I swear it happens in slow motion as he pinches the hair elastic I have there, snapping it against my skin.