His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Now that’s a good podcast.”

I snort. He doesn’t need to know that I subscribed to one of his Supreme Court podcasts, Justice Makes Perfect. I haven’t listened to any of the episodes yet, but I might. It’s only fair—he listened to mine. I am a firm believer in reciprocation.

A few more run-throughs of the promo. If possible, my voice sounds more grating each time. I sigh, pushing the microphone out of the way and dropping into one of the two sound booth chairs. It’s always better to record standing up—less pressure on your diaphragm.

“Are you sure my voice sounds okay?”

“For the nine hundredth time, yes.”

“You’ve clearly never had anyone laugh in your face about it.”

“No, but I’ve gotten anonymous emails telling me to go back to China,” he says. “Which is especially hilarious, given I’m not Chinese.”

“Oh.” Shit. That is not even on the same planet as my issues. “Wow. That is really fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair, abandoning his lean to take the chair next to mine. “I want to say I’ve gotten used to it because it’s happened often enough, but you really don’t. You let it fuel you. You do even better because you know there are people out there who are waiting for you to fail.”

At that, he lets his brown oxford tap the leg of my chair in a way that’s maybe meant to be comforting.

Huh. We might be getting along.

I don’t hate his company, not entirely, and I’ve mostly forgotten what happened in the break room. (Even if my throat went dry when I saw him filling a glass of water yesterday. I’m gonna be pissed if this turns into a fetish thing.) Maybe there’s a way for the two of us to be friends. It won’t be the relationship I had with Paloma, which was off balance from the beginning. But we could be something like equals. A real novelty in the public radio world.

I stare down at his shoe. The polished leather, the crisp laces. He’s a little less intimidating when he’s sitting next to me, but possibly even more of a mystery.

“One more time, then?” I say, and he hits RECORD again.

* * *

—

None of our listeners will see me, but I decide to dress up for show day. I wear a structured gray minidress, patterned tights, and lavender Mary Jane heels I found at a rummage sale with Ameena last year. My thick hair goes into its regular ponytail, but I straighten my bangs, which makes them sleek and shiny. I debate wearing contacts, but it’s been forever, and I’m so attached to my tortoiseshell glasses that I don’t want to risk any minor change to my vision.

You have a face for radio, my dad used to tell me with a grin. An A-plus dad joke. God, I still miss those.

The morning creeps by. It’s about as agonizing as getting a root canal followed by a Pap smear. At lunch, my stomach can only handle a third of a sandwich from the shop on the first floor while Ruthie reviews the rundown next to me. I manage to get mustard on the skirt of my dress, and I spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom scrubbing at it.

Kent comes by our cubes as Dominic and I are practicing our intro.

“My favorite couple,” he says, not-so-subtly gesturing to the Cupid-printed tie he wore in our honor. “Or favorite former couple. You two are going to knock it out of the park. We’re all really excited about this.”

But there’s an undercurrent to his words:

Don’t fuck this up.

Ruthie prints our most updated rundowns. This first show has no guest. It’s Dominic and me, telling our fake stories, waiting for calls to roll in.

I stumble over literally just carpet on our walk down the hall to the studio.

“You okay?” Dominic asks, reaching out to grab my elbow, helping steady me. My dress is short sleeved, and his fingers are warm against my skin.

Well, now I’m not. “Five by five,” I manage to say.

Ruthie breezes into the studio, setting a glass in front of each of us. “Water for my favorite cohosts,” she sings.

“Thank you. I would’ve forgotten.” Though I did it so many times for Paloma, I don’t want Ruthie to feel like she needs to wait on us. “How do you seem so calm? I reapplied deodorant half an hour ago and I’m still sweating buckets.”

“I’m your producer,” she says. “It’s my job to stay calm.”

And she’s right—it would be so much worse if she were freaking the fuck out, too.

I wonder how much worse it would be if she knew we’d never actually dated.

Fortunately, my nerves don’t leave any room for guilt. Not today. Not when I am five minutes from a lifelong dream. Ruthie disappears into the adjoining studio, and Dominic and I sit together on one side of the table with our twin water glasses and spinny chairs, clamping headphones over our ears.

The RECORDING sign blinks on.

“Coming up next, the premiere of our brand-new show, The Ex Talk,” Jason Burns says. “But first, these headlines from NPR.”

It’s happening. We’re really about to do this.

My own show.

“I have some prescription-strength antiperspirant in my gym bag,” Dominic says. “I could ask Ruthie to get it.”

I give him a horrified look. We’re in a small enclosed space together. I might die if he thinks I smell bad. I will definitely die if I have pit stains. “Do I need it?”