The Ex Talk

It’s for the best that I don’t have to worry about whether this thing with Dominic is anything other than casual because Ameena gets the job offer Friday afternoon. By the time she calls to tell me about it, she’s already accepted. Ameena is stellar at what she does, so I’m not surprised that she got the offer. Nor am I surprised that she accepted, given that this is her dream job.

What does surprise me: that when I get to her Capitol Hill apartment on Saturday evening before we head out for a celebratory dinner, there are already boxes everywhere.

“I might have been a little overeager,” she says. “They want me to start next month, which is soon, I know, so we’re flying out next weekend to look at apartments. Maybe even a house—the cost of living is much lower than it is here.”

“It’s not that bad here,” I say feebly, even though it is. But some part of me is wounded that she’s had the job for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already dumping on the city we both grew up in.

She lifts a penciled eyebrow. As kids, we used to stare at ourselves in the mirror, practicing trying to raise one eyebrow and then the other. I could never pull it off, but Ameena mastered it. “Our rent is nearly three thousand a month.”

It’s midsixties and breezy, typical for May in Seattle, so Ameena grabs a cardigan before she and TJ follow me out the door of their early twentieth-century building. It was a steal when they signed the lease a couple years ago. They live within walking distance of numerous bars, restaurants, music venues, and cute boutiques. Things that seem important in your early twenties but maybe not as crucial in your late twenties, even less so when you’re past thirty, I imagine. The only thing within walking distance of my house is a gas station. And, you know, other houses.

TJ slings an arm around her shoulder as we pass groups of Capitol Hill hipsters vaping outside bars. I try not to think about how if Dominic were my boyfriend, I’d be bringing him to this dinner instead of going alone, awkwardly clomping along behind them since the sidewalk isn’t wide enough for three people.

“God, it’s loud in here,” Ameena says when we settle into a booth at a tapas bar we’ve been to a few times. “I’ve never realize how loud it is in Seattle.”

“Pretty sure they have bars in Virginia, too,” I say under my breath, not trying to sound like a dick, but doesn’t she realize that I’m still going to be living here in this loud, expensive place? Without her?

We order drinks and a handful of small plates to start. At the booth next to us, a trio of tech bros are talking about a Tesla one of them bought. He has the nerve to say he can’t believe he had to wait so long for it to be delivered.

“Imagine complaining about your Tesla,” TJ says, taking a sip of an overpriced purple drink.

“Add that to my list of things I won’t miss,” Ameena says.

This hits a nerve. “Okay, seriously?” I say.

Her eyebrow leaps up in that practiced way again. “What?” she asks, voice threaded with frustration.

“You. Shitting on Seattle all of a sudden. I’m thrilled for you, I really am, and I know we’re supposed to be celebrating. But do you know how hard it is to sit next to you while you talk about how happy you are to be getting out of this place?”

“Shay—I wasn’t—I mean,” she says, trying to backtrack. “Shit. I’m sorry. I . . . went a little too far. You know I’ve hated corporate recruiting. And I’ve been sick of Seattle for a while.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Ameena stares down at her drink, fiddling with the straw. “Look. Maybe you’re happy here, doing the same thing you’ve always done. Working the same place you’ve worked since college. But I always wanted to get out. Right after college—” She breaks off, as though realizing she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“Ameena,” TJ says quietly, covering his hand with hers. “Are you sure you—”

She gives him a half smile, as though reassuring him that she’ll be okay after she drops whatever bomb she’s about to drop, which puts me on edge. “I’m sure.” She turns back to me. “Right out of college, I had a job offer from an environmental group in New York.”

This is news to me. “You . . . what?”

“Yeah.” She grimaces, maybe already regretting spilling this. “But I turned it down. You were still struggling with—with everything, and I felt awful about the idea of leaving you.”

Her words drop like bricks to the floor of the bar.

“I—I didn’t make you stay,” I say, unable to process what she’s saying. “I had no idea. If you’d told me, I would have encouraged you to take it!”

The fact that she talked about this with TJ, that the two of them decided it was wise to keep this from me, at least until now—that rattles me. And of course he knows. TJ’s her number one. That’s what happens when you find that person. They’re moving to Virginia together, leaving me behind. And this time, she doesn’t have to worry about me holding her back.

“Maybe you would have, but I’m still not sure I’d have taken it.”

The alcohol burns going down my throat. “I’m sorry you pitied me so much that I kept you from your dream job.”

My dad had been gone for four years at that point. I wasn’t still a mess. I wasn’t. I’d just started at Pacific Public Radio. That had made me happy.

Hadn’t it?

“You only had me,” Ameena says. “You only had me, and I felt . . . I don’t know, tethered to you.”