But for a few minutes, it felt like it could have been.

I wasn’t sure how long I could improvise with him like that, though, so I was relieved when calls started coming in. “You sound like me and my ex,” Isaac from West Seattle had said with a laugh. “Although I don’t think I’d have nearly enough chill to host a radio show with him.”

Then Kayla in Bellevue called in to lament that she seemed to scare off potential dates by being too forward and making the first move.

“As women, we’re told we’re not supposed to initiate things,” I said, realizing it was something I had a strong opinion about. “That it’s more romantic for the guy to do it. Aside from how outdated and heteronormative that is, how else are you going to feel like you have any semblance of equality in a relationship? I never want to wait around, hoping someone else will decide to take control when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“I love when women make the first move. In fact,” Dominic said with a glance at me, “Shay’s the one who asked me out.”

“That’s right,” I said, not even needing to flip to the place in my notes where we summarized our first date. “I walked right up to him in the break room and asked if he wanted to grab dinner after work. And my mom just proposed to her boyfriend.”

Kayla pressed me for more details, and I realized I was happy to share them, to gush about my mother. After I’d had some space to process it, I could admit that it had been a great proposal.

I continue scrolling through Twitter, laughing at a tweet from someone who swears that if Dominic were her ex, she’d never have let him go. The sound of my joy startles Steve, and he leaps into action, licking my face until I surrender and peel myself out of bed.

On our walk, I check my phone with frozen hands. I lunge for it immediately after my shower, dripping water all over the screen. I refresh our hashtag while waiting for the toaster to release my multigrain bagel.

By the time I’m ready to leave for work, it’s eight forty-five. I have never, in my history at Pacific Public Radio, gotten to work later than eight fifty-five. I may be perpetually late to dinners with my family and friends, but never, never to work.

I haven’t had a chance to reply to the text Ameena sent after she listened to the podcast last night, unable to take a break at work. Holy shit! You and your fake ex-boyfriend sounded so good! So I call her on Bluetooth as I sit in I-5 traffic.

“Hello, radio star. It appears video hasn’t killed you.”

“Not yet, at least,” I say. “Hi. Yesterday was a whirlwind. I didn’t want you think I’d forgotten you in my rise to fame.”

She snorts. “Two thousand Twitter followers, and you’re suddenly too good for me?”

“I wasn’t going to say it, but if you feel uncomfortable with my extremely low level of celebrity . . .”

“Seriously, though, you guys sounded great,” she says. “Really natural. I forgot for a moment that you hadn’t actually dated, and I was cursing you for breaking up with him.”

“Ha,” I say. “Thank you. It sounded sort of real to me, too. Dominic hasn’t been entirely terrible to work with.”

“TJ wanted me to tell you that he was all ready to call in with a fake story about breaking up with me in public to save you if you needed it, but he didn’t have to. He was almost disappointed—he spent a lot of time coming up with it.”

“Tell him I appreciate it anyway.”

My speakers go staticky, like she’s covering the phone. “Ack, I have to run into a meeting,” she says. “Brunch on Sunday?”

“You know how I feel about brunch, but I’ll do it for you.”

* * *

—

The panic over being late sets in once I step into the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. I’m convinced Kent is going to yell at me as soon as I open the door, but that’s not what happens.

First, Emma McCormick at reception: “I loved your show, Shay!” And in a lower voice: “I shouldn’t ask this, but was he a good kisser? He seems like he would be. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but if you do . . . you know where to find me.”

Then Isabel Fernandez: “You two sounded fantastic! We should have done this a long time ago.”

Even senior editor Paul Wagner tells me he and his wife listened to the podcast during dinner last night and couldn’t stop cracking up.

None of it feels real. At any moment, I’m convinced Kent will pop up and say, Gotcha! Or that someone at the station will ask a question about my relationship with Dominic I’m unable to answer. That’s the part that makes my multigrain bagel threaten to come back up.

This is only how it begins, I try to convince myself. We’re telling a story. That’s what radio is. The show will grow beyond our story—it has to. It’s the only way I can stomach our lie.

I need to talk to Dominic, with all his journalism do-gooder morals. I need to know how he’s feeling, if he’s overwhelmed by the social media response or withering under the weight of a lie he never thought he’d tell.

But I don’t get the chance. He’s already at his desk, laser-focused on his computer screen. The ends of his dark hair are damp and curling slightly against the back of his neck. If his hair is still wet, he must not have gotten here that much earlier than me.