“Glad to hear the show made an impact,” Dominic says, but I lift my eyebrows at him, unsure the caller meant this in a positive way.

A sharp laugh. “Not exactly. My girlfriend, she’s been really into it, but I don’t see it.”

“Oh?” Dominic says.

“Seems pretty convenient to me that you two, on the heels of your breakup, just happened to be qualified to host this show,” says John in South Lake Union. “And I use the word ‘qualified’ loosely. But I guess they’ll put anyone on the radio these days if it means getting more clicks.”

“Say what you will about me,” Dominic says, sitting up straighter in his chair, his brows in a hard line, “but Shay’s been at this station for ten years. I’ve never met someone more devoted to public radio or more knowledgeable about it. Puget Sounds wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did without her. She’s earned this, one hundred percent.”

His words pin me to my chair. They’re too forceful not to be genuine. He’s staring straight into the other studio, which is probably a good thing. I’m not sure my heart would be able to handle the eye contact.

It’s the nicest thing someone’s said about me in a long time.

“Well, I did a little research, and I think your devoted listeners might be interested to know that not only do neither of you appear on each other’s social media, but you became Facebook friends about a month ago. I find that fascinating.”

“I’m very private on social media,” Dominic says.

Recovering from his compliments, I add, “And we wanted to keep our relationship separate from work.”

“Then what about the tweet Shay sent out in January about swiping left on a guy sitting on the toilet?”

“I—uh,” I say, fumbling. Because I did tweet about that. Shit. I thought I’d combed my social media for anything that would indicate Dominic and I weren’t together this winter, but I must have missed something. Shit, shit, shit. I steal a glance at Dominic, who still won’t meet my gaze.

We were prepared for this possibility. We talked about what we’d do if it ever happened.

I just never thought it would happen on the air.

“Look, John,” Dominic says. “You can find any piece of someone’s social media history and use it to prove whatever agenda you have. We’ve seen it happen plenty of times to people with much more at stake than Shay and me. We’re not here to convince you if you’ve already made up your mind about us. I can tell you I didn’t go to journalism school to tell lies on the radio.”

And just like that, he hits the button that ends the call.

I can’t read his expression. While I’m utterly grateful for him, I wish I’d known what to say.

“We have to wrap up today’s show,” Dominic says. He continues our sign-off, giving out our social media handles, telling the audience we’ll be back next week.

Then Jason Burns with the weather, and then an NPR newsbreak, and I’m still frozen in my chair.

Dominic takes off his headphones. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod, but my hands are shaking. Finally, I find my voice. “I think so. What you said about me. That was—you didn’t have to do that. But thank you.”

“You’re my cohost,” he says, as though it’s that simple. As though that’s the only connection we have.

I’m actually interested in someone.

And maybe it is.

17

“To handling assholes with grace and dignity,” Ruthie says, and the three of us clink our glasses.

Desperate to recover from our nightmare of a show, we decided to grab drinks after work. It’s not something I’m used to doing; Paloma and her wife had long ago settled into their routines that didn’t include three-dollar cocktails at dive bars. I didn’t think I was the team bonding type, but so far, I like this a lot.

“That guy,” Dominic says, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ve never before wished I could reach into a phone and punch someone.”

The top button of his shirt is undone, and he looks thoroughly wiped. And yet still hot, especially with his hair end-of-the-workday mussed. It’s unfair, really, for someone that attractive to have that great a radio voice. Too often, I’ve googled my NPR crushes only to learn their faces didn’t quite match up with their voices. Also unfair: the way my gaze keeps dropping to his mouth when he talks.

Stop. Stop thinking about it.

“Ah, you haven’t been in radio long enough,” I say. “Ruthie, do you remember the—”

“The heavy breather?” Ruthie finishes. “Oh my god. Yes. I’ll be haunted by that until I die.”

It must have been sometime last spring on Puget Sounds: a call from a guy who claimed to want advice on our semi-regular gardening segment, then proceeded to ask Paloma and her guest elaborate questions about rutabagas, punctuated by long, deep breaths.

“I swear I heard the sound of a zipper,” I say.

“I’m not about to kink-shame anyone, but honestly . . . ,” Ruthie says. “I really hope he was just, like, taking a shit.”

We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes with a text from Kent.

Can you and Dom come in early tomorrow?