“Maybe that’s the thing I’m getting hung up on,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “That it’s just the two of you, when I’ve always felt like it was just the two of us.”

That lingers in the space between us for a while, and when my mother’s face crumples, I immediately regret what I’ve said.

“Shit, that was really self-centered, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just thinking about how I had no idea that proposal was coming, and Ameena asked if I’d known about it, and—”

But my mother shakes her head, rubbing at the hollow of her throat the way she does when she’s anxious. “No. You’re right. We’ve been a unit for the past ten years, haven’t we? I should have talked to you first. I’m sorry about that.” She glances down, and then back up at me, and for a moment I see not just my mother, but a woman who’s made a mistake and wants desperately to be forgiven. “But you’re happy about it, right? You like Phil?”

“Oh my god, Mom, yes. Yes. I love Phil.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m not mad. At all. I swear. I’m just . . . adjusting.”

“I think we all will be, for a while,” she says. “I want you to be part of this in any way you want, okay?”

“Okay, but if you try to get me to wear chartreuse, I am definitely standing up when the officiant asks if anyone objects.”

She nods solemnly. “And I’d deserve that.” Then she turns to the mirror, as though remembering she’s only half-dressed. She gets to her feet and straightens herself out, and I see she’s wearing not a dress but a sleek navy jumpsuit. It’s sleeveless with a wrap front and long, clean lines. It’s both age appropriate and nontraditional, commanding but understated.

Her face splits into a grin, and I realize for the first time we have the same exact smile.

Maybe I haven’t seen it enough on either of us.

“This is the one,” she says.

* * *

—

On Sunday afternoon, Mary Beth Barkley stands in my living room, locked in a staring contest with Steve.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” I say. “He’s been a bit of a nightmare. An adorable nightmare.”

Mary Beth waves this off. “Aren’t you the cutest little thing?” she said when she got here, and gave him a hunk of cheese from the pack around her waist. “What he needs are some boundaries and some discipline. I see it all the time with first-time dog owners, especially with dogs that haven’t been socialized. He needs to know that you’re the alpha.”

She begins by calling his name, rewarding him when he responds to it. Then we practice some basic commands and leash training.

“He’s walking you,” Mary Beth says when we go outside and Steve tugs me toward his favorite pee tree. “How much does he weigh?”

“Um. Seven pounds.”

“You are the alpha,” she repeats, and I decide not to tell her I’ve been sleeping in the guest room. “Make sure he knows that. He’s not the one in charge. This walk is your choice, not his. You’re leading him, not the other way around.”

So I’m the producer of his life, essentially, and I more than know how to do that.

He pulls toward the end of his leash, but I stand firm. After a few moments of straining, he trots back to me, loosening the leash, and when I make a move to go in the other direction, he actually follows.

“Good boy!” I practically shriek it, which scares him, but a treat makes everything okay.

After about an hour, we head back inside, exhausted but victorious.

Mary Beth reaches down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re gonna be a good boy,” she says. “You just needed a little help.”

I thank Mary Beth, but she refuses payment.

“Your show sent so much business my way,” she says, which makes a bittersweet warmth bloom in my chest. We were doing something important. I always knew it, despite those moments Dominic made me doubt myself. “I’ll look forward to catching your new show, even if it does have considerable less emphasis on dogs.”

The training session makes me useless the rest of the day, which is probably good because the impending Ex Talk nerves have fully sunk their claws in me. Steve naps—in his bed, not mine—while I catch up on the handful of dating podcasts I now subscribe to, idly texting with Ameena.

A text from an unknown number arrives at a quarter to eight. I’m in the bathroom painting my nails gray, and it’s so startling I nearly drop my phone in the bathroom sink.

It’s Dominic. Got your number from the staff directory.

I had this idea. What if we did a show about people who met someone through a rideshare? Someone I know from grad school is dating a guy who was her Lyft driver.

Dominic Yun. Texting me about a show idea. For our show.

YES! I love that. Admit it. You’re excited about this.

I screw the cap back on the nail polish bottle, wondering where he’s texting me from and how he spends his weekends. Maybe he goes to the farmers’ market or out to meals with friends. Maybe he hikes or bikes or reads classic novels by himself in a coffee shop. I don’t know where in Seattle he lives, if it’s in a studio apartment or a house with a bunch of friends or at home with his parents.