“It’s like saying you want to make the world a better place.”

“Don’t we all? We just have different ways of getting there,” I say. “Why radio, though?”

“I like the idea of being able to talk directly to people. There’s a real power to your words when they’re not backed up by visuals. It’s personal. You’re fully in control of how you sound, and it’s almost like you’re telling a story to just one person.”

“Even if hundreds or thousands are listening,” I say quietly. “Yeah. I get that. I really do. I guess I assumed you got lucky with this job.”

The dimple threatens to make a reappearance. “Well, I did. But I’m also fucking good at what I do.”

I think about him on the radio with Paloma, about the narrative he wrote in college. About all the stories on our website that people really do seem to love.

He is good.

Maybe that’s what I’ve hated the most.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to be on the radio,” he continues. “I assumed you were happy, you know. Producing. That’s what you’ve always done here, right?”

I nod. Time to get personal. I had a feeling this was coming, that I’d be spilling my radio history to him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t ever really get easier. “My dad and I listened to NPR all the time when I was growing up. We would pretend we were on the radio, and it was honestly the best part of my childhood. I loved how radio could tell such a complete, immersive story. But it’s competitive, and I was lucky enough to get an internship at PPR, which turned into a full-time job . . . and here I am.”

“So you want your dad to hear you on the radio.”

“Well—he can’t,” I say after a pause, unable to meet his eyes.

“Oh.” He stares down at the table. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It was ten years ago,” I say, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t think about him every day, about how he sometimes personified the electronics he fixed, mostly to make me laugh as a kid, but even as I got older, I never got sick of it. It’s a risky surgery, he’d say about an ancient iPhone. She might not make it through the night.

I’m grateful when our food arrives, sizzling and steaming and looking delicious. Dominic thanks the waitress in Korean, and she dips her head before walking away.

“I asked her for another napkin,” he says, gesturing to the confetti remains of mine.

“God, it’s good,” I say after the first bite.

“Try some of this.” Dominic spoons some of his rice dish onto my plate.

We eat in appreciative silence for a few minutes.

“So. The Ex Talk,” I say, summoning the courage to talk about why we’re both here. “What’s holding you back? Is it . . . is it me? The idea of dating me?”

His eyes widen, and he drops his spoon. “No. Not at all. Oh god—I’m not, like, insulted by the idea that you and I could have dated. Mildly shocked, yes, but not insulted. You’re . . .” At that, his eyes scan my face and travel down my torso. His cheeks redden. It gives me a bit of a rush, knowing he’s very obviously assessing me.

You’re a catch. You’re a ten. I wait for a compliment from this person who’s only ever been vile to me.

He clears his throat. “Cool,” he finally says.

Excuse me while I walk right into downtown rush-hour traffic. Cool is the Kevin Jonas of compliments. It’s like saying your favorite color is beige.

“And you?” he asks. “Not too horrified by the idea that we dated, in this alternate reality?”

I shake my head. “And you’re not dating anyone right now.”

“Not since I moved here, no. Which I assume you know after your late-night stalking session.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Would you believe me if I told you I dropped my glasses onto my laptop and they happened to hit that like button?”

“Not one bit.”

“So it’s that the show isn’t news.”

He nods. “I went to school for journalism—”

“Wait, what?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

“—and that’s where I want to be. It’s killing me that the mayor story will be passed along, that I won’t be able to follow up on it.” He polishes off the last bite of his food. “Not to mention, I can’t even picture what this show would sound like. I wouldn’t know where to start with it. Like you said, most of the podcasts I listen to are . . .”

“Boring?” I supply. “Lucky for you, I am a connoisseur of fun podcasts. I’ll email you a list.” I’m already mentally compiling one. I’ll have him listen to Not Another Star Wars Podcast and Culture Clash and Femme, to start. All of them have great cohost banter.

“Can’t wait.”

“Maybe this show isn’t typical public radio,” I continue. “But it’s the edge we need. If we do a good job with it, you can do anything in radio that you want. Hosts are at the top of the food chain. It’s no small thing that Kent offered this to you. It’s a big fucking deal.”

“You don’t think he was a little . . . manipulative?”

Ameena essentially said the same thing.