The Ex Talk
Steve pulls to the end of his leash, looking for the perfect tree to pee on. “This is Steve Rogers,” I told Dominic when I pi
cked him up. “The furriest Avenger?” he asked. It was the only moment of levity on our entire trip. Shortly thereafter, I learned that Dominic has horrendous taste in music. Even though I was driving, he kept insisting we listen to his favorite radio station from his teen years, which used to play alternative but now plays whatever the hell “adult contemporary” is. I am an adult, and adult contemporary is garbage. Finally, we agreed to turn my Spotify to random.
Inside, Dominic drops our bags in the entryway before manspreading across the couch in the living room.
“I guess this is where we bond,” I say.
“Right,” he says, an edge to his voice. “Because Kent assumes we can conjure a relationship from thin air.”
That stings a little. Like we don’t have any kind of relationship at all when the past couple of months, we’ve gained at least a modicum of closeness.
Though, to be fair, that drunken kiss might have obliterated it.
The house is cute and quaint, mahogany furniture with blue accents and a real wood fireplace. Hanging plants, sprawling landscapes by Orcas Island artists. Exactly the kind of place two people might enjoy spending time together if they enjoyed spending time with each other.
“So should I take notes on all the weird things you do?” I say, making my way over to the armchair opposite him. “Take photos of you in your sleep to use as blackmail?”
“I look adorable while I’m sleeping, thank you very much.”
I roll my eyes at this. “Now I know you’re someone who takes their shoes off as soon as they get inside.”
He glances down at his socked feet. “Habit. My parents had these pristine white carpets, and they lost their minds if we tracked a speck of dirt onto them.”
It’s just past eight o’clock, and while it’s not so late that I’m ready to turn in, after being in the car all day, I have no desire to leave this place. The rain is coming down even harder, pummeling the house like it has a score to settle. Thunder roars in the not-so-distance, and Steve races around the house, barking like mad.
“Steve,” I call out, running after him, trying to soothe him, but he’s possessed: jumping on and off the couch, zooming so fast he starts panting. He even ignores a handful of his favorite treats I present to him. I’ve never seen him like this, and I hate that he’s so scared. That I can’t fix it. “Steve, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Dominic heads for his suitcase, unzipping it and retrieving a white undershirt. At first I think he’s going to change into it, but instead he kneels on the floor, stretching out his hand to a wildly barking Steve. Steve sniffs the air tentatively, and then, as though lured simply by the scent of Dominic, trots over to him.
“Good boy,” Dominic says, petting his head. I can tell he’s still trembling. “Can I try something?” he asks me.
“Go ahead.”
Gently, he scoops Steve into the T-shirt, then wraps it around his body once, twice. “It’s okay, little guy,” he says. “Do you have anything to secure this?”
I lift my eyebrows at him, completely lost. But I grab a few hair bands from my bag, trying to forget the way Dominic snapped one against my skin. Trying to ignore the way my skin burns when he takes them from me.
He uses the hair bands to hold the T-shirt in place, not too tight, and . . . it works? Dominic lets go of Steve, who looks concerned but no longer batshit. He sits down, staring at us and wagging his tail.
“My sister had a small dog that got scared of fireworks, and he had this special shirt that calmed him down,” he explains, scratching behind Steve’s ears. “This is just a makeshift one. The pressure helps with the anxiety.”
Watching him with Steve tugs at my heart in a way I’ve never quite felt before. It catches me off guard, turns my legs liquid.
“Thank you,” I say, still dazed. I wobble my way into the kitchen. We’re in the relative middle of nowhere, so we brought enough nonperishables to cook dinner. I open a cabinet, checking for cookware. “Well, I’m getting hungry. Should we just make some pasta or something?”
“Yeah, sure. Don’t overcook it, though. I like it when the noodles are al dente. The way they’re supposed to be.”
I pause with one hand around a pot. It’s a relief he’s back to being obstinate. It makes disliking him much easier. “I’m not going to make it for you. If you want dinner, you can come help.”
I hear a groan from the living room, and then he appears in the kitchen, settling into a lean against the doorframe. Did he have to bring that lean all the way out here?
“Noodles are in the blue bag,” I tell him.
* * *
—
I’ve never viewed making pasta as a particularly volatile experience, but with Dominic, it turns into one. The first batch of noodles, we overcook, and Dominic refuses to eat, saying they’re too slimy, so we dump them in the compost bin and start over. He’s acting like a child about it. Then he fails to mention he’s allergic to mushrooms, and it’s a good thing the pantry was stocked with another jar of sauce. It feels like I’m back in college, or in my first apartment with Ameena, where we set off the smoke alarm every time we tried to cook something besides macaroni.