I frown down at it. Dom. The nickname he doesn’t like but won’t say anything to Kent about. I don’t love that Kent asked only me, as though I’m responsible for Dominic. As though I’m still just a producer and not someone with the same responsibilities as Dominic.

Just a producer. I need to stop saying that, or I’m as bad as everyone else who buys into the nonsense public radio hierarchy that puts hosts on a pedestal above everyone else. Ruthie isn’t just a producer. She’s . . . well, Ruthie.

I show them the text. “Kent wants to talk to us tomorrow.”

“About that caller?” Dominic says.

“Probably.” And since Ruthie doesn’t have any reason to believe we’d be panicked about someone discovering the truth, I add, “He must just want to make sure we’re not too rattled or anything.”

Dominic’s eyes briefly meet mine over the top of Ruthie’s head. It’s strange to be on the same side as him, the same team. We both want this to be okay. We both want to not have fucked up the show.

“I should get home,” he says. “I’m having dinner with my parents tonight.”

I want to scrutinize his tone of voice, figure out what exactly his relationship with his parents is like. But he says it casually, and his face doesn’t give anything away, either. We swap goodbyes and he pays his tab, and I watch him slink out of the bar, messenger bag swaying at his hip.

“Kind of fucked up that Kent texted you and not Dominic,” Ruthie says.

“Right?” I say, grateful to tear my eyes from Dominic. When he’s gone, I can breathe easy again.

Ruthie gets it. Of course she does. “It’s almost like Dominic has a penis and you don’t. I mean—sorry. I shouldn’t say that.”

“You’re not wrong. Kent seems to play favorites sometimes, and a lot of his favorites are dudes,” I say with a shrug, though it’s validating someone else has noticed it.

“It’s going okay, though? The show? Aside from John in South Lake Union?”

If I ignore my cohost, yes. “It’s going surprisingly well. I love being on the air. Once I got over the voice stuff, it felt natural. It sounds strange to say that I love talking, because it’s probably not that apparent if you just randomly met me, but . . .” I pause, trying to figure out how to put it into words. “I like being in control of the conversation and making connections with listeners, hearing their stories. There’s something incredible about being able to do that. Plus, this month’s master’s jar is getting close to fifty dollars, and I can’t say I don’t love draining Dominic’s bank account.” I pause, wondering if I’m ready to tell her this next part. “I also had this idea. For a show about grief.”

I explain it to Ruthie. My mother and I talked about it on the phone last night, and she agreed to go on the radio as long as I’d be there next to her. I told her there was nowhere else I’d rather be to hear that story.

“Yes,” Ruthie says automatically. “I’m into it. We should clear it with Kent, since it’s a bit different from what we’ve been doing, but it’s already breaking my heart and putting it back together.”

“Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite producer?”

“Not nearly enough,” she says. “I sort of can’t believe I’m producing my own show, to be honest. I didn’t think I’d be doing this at twenty-five.” She reaches across the small table and covers my hand with hers. “Seriously, Shay. Thank you. Kent could have cut me loose, and I know you fought for me.”

“It wasn’t a fight,” I say. “There was no question about it. I was only doing the show if I had you.”

“Stop, I really am gonna cry!” She takes another sip of her drink and gestures to the bartender for another.

Meanwhile, I’m racking my brain, trying to remember if Ruthie and I have ever spent time together just the two of us.

We have not.

“How’d you get into radio?” I ask, suddenly curious.

“Oh, is it story time?” Ruthie crosses one leg primly over the other. “Okay. I went to school for marketing, and I was working on the sales side at KZYO for a few months. Then they had this summer that all their producers took a vacation at the same time, and it was kind of all hands on deck, so I pitched in and helped out. And I was good at it. More important, I loved it. I liked pulling the strings and putting the show together, you know? So the next job that opened up, I was able to switch over. There were always a lot of job openings there—the benefit of commercial radio.”

“I had no idea,” I say.

“And I really lucked out with this job. Kent liked that I had commercial radio experience, and I was dying to work somewhere I wouldn’t be nonstop tortured by jingles for auto repair shops and pickle companies.” She shudders. “I can never eat a Nalley pickle.”

“That jingle is the worst. Crispy crunchy yummy—”

“Nalley Pickles!” we both cry out, before bursting into laughter.

“But aside from that,” she says when we recover, “the commercial station covered a lot of semi-sensational stuff. Someone getting into a car accident was big news, and it was always so upsetting. Public radio is much better at deep dives and talking about the issues in a more nuanced way.