Of course, he might not even be at home. He’s not currently in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean he’s not casually dating. Sure, Sundays aren’t prime hookup nights, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining his trademark lean against the bedroom door of a stranger’s apartment. Pinning someone else against a wall for real this time, bracing his hands on either side of her. It makes my stomach twist in a strange, foreign way.

Yeah. Guess I am. You worked some kind of magic on me.

Our words flowed so smoothly that night at the station, but now I’m not sure how to keep the conversation going. It hits me that I want to know him, where he lives and what he’s doing on a Sunday night and what kinds of books he likes to read. Probably nonfiction with drab covers and tiny print. Exposés.

Why we don’t have any mutual Facebook friends.

I’ve always been interested in stories, and yet I can’t exactly journalism my way into Dominic’s life. Especially when I can’t decide what to text back.

Still, I’m disappointed when my phone doesn’t light up for the rest of the night.

10

The next couple weeks are a promo whirlwind. We send press releases, take new photos for the website, and make a guest appearance on Pacific Public Radio’s morning show. Our first three shows are booked solid with content and guests, and even that meant late nights and early mornings. It’s hard to believe that a few weeks ago, I was producing a live show every day.

“You’re popping your P’s. Again.”

We’ve been in Booth C for twenty minutes trying to record a fifteen-second promo, during which it’s become increasingly clear to me that these booths were not meant for two people. Sure, there are two chairs, two microphones. But Dominic’s height shrinks the booth by half. Today he’s in khakis, which could so easily look horrifying on the wrong person. (He is not the wrong person.) They’re paired with brown oxfords and a gray cardigan with elbow patches. One of his more casual looks, and it’s only because we’re working so closely together that I notice these details.

Dominic switches off the RECORD button. “Would it kill you to help me instead of making fun of me?”

“Oh, I assumed you had a class about this in grad school.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Sorry. That’s not helping, either, is it?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You could start by telling me what the hell a popped P is.”

That, I can do. It takes me back to the early weeks of my internship, the one-on-one coaching I got from Paloma. Back then, I thought it was ridiculous—I’d never be on the radio anyway. Still, I learned to avoid P-pops and the less common B-pops and hissing S’s, just in case.

“It’s called a plosive,” I say, trying not to wonder if his sea salt cologne will linger in the booth after we leave. “You’re sending a blast of air from your mouth right into the mic when you make that p sound.” I hold my hand in front of my mouth, indicating that he should do the same. “Pacific Public Radio. Can you feel the difference against your hand when you say a p word versus an r word? There’s more air with the p’s, right?”

“Pacific Public Radio. Pacific Public Radio.” Dominic tries this a few times and nods. It’s both funny and validating, watching this six-three giant taking direction from me.

“And the thing you feel is going to sound distorted on the recording,” I say. “Aside from having better recording technology, which we’re not going to be able to afford anytime soon, you can practice better breath control. It takes some time, and you’ll probably be thinking about it a lot at the beginning, but it’ll get easier.”

He repeats the phrase into his hand several more times, sounding smoother. When he finally drops his arm, his sweater sleeve brushes my shoulder. I wonder if it’s wool or cotton, soft or rough. Maybe I don’t hate the way he dresses at all.

“Thank you,” he says. “That’s actually really helpful.”

We try the promo again.

I’m Shay Goldstein—

And I’m Dominic Yun. This Thursday at three o’clock on Pacific Public Radio, tune in to our new show, The Ex Talk. It’s all about dating, breaking up, and making up from two people who managed to stay friends after their own relationship ended.

We can’t wait to share our story and hear yours.

“Better,” I say. But I can’t get the sound of my own voice out of my head. With the show premiering so soon, it’s the last place I want to linger. “Culture Clash was good this week.”

“Don’t tell me! I haven’t listened yet.”

“Okaaaay, but there’s this one part where—”

He makes a show of clutching at his ears. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible?”

“Most people.” I give him an angelic smile. “There’s also this newish Buffy podcast I’ve been meaning to check out.”

“Five by Five? It’s great. First episode was a little shaky, but they found their footing by the third.”

“So you don’t only listen to the news,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows.

“You mean, I’m a complex and layered human being?”

“Jury’s still out.”