The Ex Talk

Slowly, I peel back one side of the blankets.

“Did you bring anything from the fun drawer?” he asks. “Because that might make this awkward.”

I gape at him. A few beats of silence pass before I start laughing, a full-body laugh that makes me bend over and clutch my stomach. Then he does, too, and we’re both completely losing our minds. I have to grip the bedpost to keep from falling over.

And it eases, just a little, some of that tension between us. It makes me feel like maybe we can be okay. Maybe we are okay.

When I steal a look at his face, his expression is a mix of amusement and something else I can’t name. I’ve never seen him like this, without that confidence shield he puts up for everyone else.

I like that he’s allowing himself to be this whole person with me.

We slip into bed without any other major catastrophes, and I manage to safely wriggle out of my bra. I’m thinking I can finally relax when he turns to face me, propping his head on one arm. Maybe it’s the lingering alcohol or the dim lamplight, but he looks even lovelier than usual, as though painted with soft brushstrokes.

“Hey,” he says. “I wanted to say thank you. Again. For being so great about all of that earlier. I haven’t been able talk like that in a while, and it meant a lot to have you listen.”

“Like you said,” I say, turning to match him. “You’ll have to be able to open up if you don’t want to end up a cat man.”

I expect him to laugh. Maybe I imagine it, but he seems to stiffen at my words.

“Or you’re just really easy to talk to.” Beneath the sheets, his foot grazes mine, a friendly little touch that makes me think unfriendly thoughts.

It would be so easy to slide closer to him, to line up our bodies, to press my face into his neck. It’s a good thing we’re under the covers, because otherwise my nipples would be glad to let him know exactly how turned on I am.

I let out a slow breath, convinced he can hear the hammering of my heart.

“Since we’re being honest,” I say. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” He lifts his eyebrows, as though encouraging me to continue. “When we started this whole thing, you were so against the lying aspect of it. You were going on about taking down bigots and using journalism to really help people. And yet . . . none of what we’re doing seems to bother you.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “Compartmentalization is a powerful drug,” he finally says. “My mom actually learned English through NPR. That’s kind of the reason I was so excited about getting a job out here. So I’m pretty desperate to stay there, even if it means . . .”

“Compromising your morals?”

A wry smile. “Well . . . yeah.”

Huh. “Dominic Yun, you keep surprising me. I’m just—” I break off, take a deep breath. “I’m glad I’m not going through it alone.”

“Me too.” With a fingertip, he doodles on the sheets between us. “We’ve been talking too much about me. I want to know more about Shay Goldstein.” He drags his finger over to my bent arm, tapping at my elbow. “Tell me about your dad?”

It’s a question, and the way he says it makes it clear I could easily say no. But I find myself giving in, only marginally distracted by the rhythm of his finger on my skin.

“He had the absolute best radio voice,” I say. “Like Kent times a hundred.”

“He worked in radio?” Dominic pulls his hand back to his side of the bed.

I shake my head. “He owned an electronics repair shop. Goldstein Gadgets. He started it before I was born. I spent most of my afternoons there as a kid, and I loved watching him work. He had so much passion for it, not just for the technology itself but for the art of radio. We listened to everything together, pretended to host our own shows. So I guess we kind of have that in common—inheriting radio from our parents.”

I worry, for a moment, that I’ve slipped too deep into nostalgia, but Dominic is listening intently.

“My mom plays in the symphony,” I continue, “so I never had a quiet house, though sometimes they fought about what to listen to. Even today, I can’t stand the quiet.”

“Do you want to turn something on?” Dominic asks.

“No. This is . . . this is nice.”

“Is it okay to ask what happened? How he—” He breaks off, as though unsure how to verbalize it.

“How he died?” I say. It’s been a long time since I told this story. I roll over to stare at the ceiling, unsure if I want him to see my face as I tell it. “Sudden cardiac arrest while he was at work. No one could have done anything or detected it. A random horrible thing. I remember getting the call from my mom, but then my memory goes dark for like a week. I can’t even remember the funeral.

“My life just . . . fell apart after that. People would tell me I was lucky to have eighteen years with him, lucky he didn’t die when I was much younger. None of that made it any easier to lose him. So I lived in my bed for what felt like months, made some bad choices, then some slightly less bad ones. And it wasn’t until I started interning at PPR that things finally started to feel like they could be okay.”