The elevator arrives, and when we both go to hit P, his hand gets there first. God, he looks even taller in here.

My brain does bad things in enclosed spaces with Dominic, but I want to take advantage of our alone time, ask him the questions I can’t in the newsroom.

“It’s weird, isn’t it, that some people want us to get back together?”

“Apparently, both of us are in the right and in the wrong, and we deserve both better and worse.”

“We should really stop reading the tweets.” I settle into a much less impressive lean against the opposite side of the elevator, toying with the strap of my bag. “You don’t feel . . . I don’t know, dishonest?”

He pauses, and then: “You made it pretty clear when you begged me to do the show with you. We’re telling a story.”

“Right.” I thought maybe he was wearing a facade for Kent—not that he’d abandoned his journalistic morals. Maybe they weren’t that strong to begin with. It changes my opinion of him, just a little. I guess I liked that he had something he was so passionate about. So steadfast.

“How’s your family handling all of this?” I ask. “Do they listen to the show?”

His mouth curves into that frustrating side smile. “They wonder what I did to drive you away.”

“And you told them it was your insistence on falling asleep to the lullaby of a judicial-system podcast?”

“Naturally. I was going to tell one of my buddies from college. Undergrad,” he adds. “But we’re all spread out, and we don’t talk as much as we used to. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed here for college,” he says, and there’s a hint of . . . nostalgia? in his voice. “But then I wouldn’t have the master’s degree.”

“That’s five dollars.”

“We’re off the clock,” he says, feigning a look of innocence. “You’re not going to let me off easy?”

I hold out my hand, and he groans and slides his wallet from his pocket.

This ease between us, it’s very new. I don’t entirely hate it, even if it makes me more aware of all the angles of him: the slant of his shoulders, the curve of his cheekbones. It’s cruel that I can’t go back to simply being annoyed by him.

A ding indicates we’ve reached the parking garage.

“This elevator’s been so slow lately,” I say. “Well. See you tomorrow.”

I’m heading toward the booth with the security guard, where we swipe our badges every morning, when Dominic says, “Wait.”

I turn around.

“Do you . . . maybe want to grab drinks? Mahoney’s next door has a great happy hour. Half off everything. To celebrate the top one hundred,” he adds. “It’s a big milestone. I mean—I guess we celebrated most of the day, but there’s no such thing as too much celebrating, right?” He finishes this with a sheepish laugh, a rake of his hand through his dark hair. Is he . . . nervous?

“Oh—” I start, caught off guard by the comment. Drinks. Drinks with Dominic. Dominic asked me to grab drinks with him. A friendly round of drinks between colleagues. Surely that’s all it was intended to be. He’s trying to prove we can be friends, just like our alternate-universe selves after our made-up breakup. “I, um, can’t. I have to feed my dog.”

“Let me guess, he also ate your show notes?”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god. I just realized how that sounded. I swear, I really do have to feed my dog.”

“You just adopted him, right?” Dominic’s features soften, but I don’t feel any less relaxed. “I love dogs. My apartment doesn’t allow them.”

“Last month. We’re still getting into a routine. He’s a bit of a weirdo, but it’s like, he’s my weirdo.” Now I might start rambling. “I didn’t realize I’d love him so much, but I do, despite all his idiosyncrasies. Or maybe because of them.”

For a few seconds, I think I might want to invite him over to meet my dog.

But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Dominic in my house, playing with Steve? That’s too strange a visual to even imagine.

“Okay—well,” he says, nodding toward the doors. “I’m off to drink alone.”

I groan. “Please, don’t make yourself sound that pathetic. I’ll feel bad.”

“You know you love it.” He waves, and I wonder if he really is going to a bar to have half-off drinks by himself, and something about that strikes me as so incredibly sad. He said he’d considered telling his college friends about our fake past relationship, but he didn’t mention any Seattle friends. Again, I find myself wondering how he spends his free time. If we’ve gained any kind of friendliness with each other, it isn’t enough for me to feel comfortable asking.

I half expect him to say something like another time, as though promising we’ll do drinks again when my dog’s dinner isn’t as urgent. But it doesn’t come, and as I navigate the parking lot maze to my car, I realize I was waiting for it.

* * *

—

I dump a few capfuls of lavender bubble bath into my tub and pile my hair into a topknot. Steve lounges on the rug in the middle of my bathroom, chewing on a stuffed hippo, and a glass of rosé is perched on the edge of the tub. It’s been ages since I took a bath, mainly because it hasn’t always been easy to relax in my house. Typically, I’d turn on a podcast, but the silence feels kind of nice. Tonight it feels like I can turn off my mind and just be. (Or, I’m trying to.)