“I know a lot of people go into public radio thinking they’ll bide their time as producers until they get promoted to being a reporter or a host, but I love being a producer. I’m happy here. I get to make cool radio every day, and I’m doing what I love with people I love. Maybe one day I’ll wanna do something else, but for now, I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“That’s honestly really refreshing,” I say. “When I started working as Paloma’s assistant producer, my senior producer told me we had to do whatever Paloma wanted, make sure she had her kombucha and her chia seeds, that the studio wasn’t too hot or too cold, and I was just like . . . seriously? We’re colleagues. Not servants. I know Paloma respected me, but that was what I turned into.”

“You never make me feel like that. In case you’re worried.”

“Good. If I ever tell you I need kombucha at exactly forty-four degrees, please tell me to shut the fuck up.”

Ruthie tips her drink to me. “Duly noted.”

We continue to talk about work before the conversations become more personal. Ruthie tells me she’s been on a few dates with a guy named Marco, and that she might be ready to make it official. I tell her about my mom and the upcoming wedding.

The whole time, the truth rattles around inside me.

She deserves to know.

And yet, my desire for self-preservation wins out.

“Why don’t we do this more?” she asks when we realize we’ve been sitting here for two hours without glancing at our phones.

“We should,” I say, trying to ignore the sour guilt climbing up my throat. “We will.”

The Ex Talk, Episode 5: Ghosting Whisperer

   Transcript

    SHAY GOLDSTEIN: This week’s episode is brought to you by Archetype. If you’re anything like me, you have trouble finding shoes that fit just right. The whole size is too big, but the half size is too small, and uncomfortable shoes can make the workday feel far too long.

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DOMINIC YUN: That they should try Archetype!

SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And right now, Archetype is offering a special discount for our listeners! For fifteen percent off at checkout, go to archetypesupport.us and enter offer code EX TALK. That’s E-X-T-A-L-K at checkout for fifteen percent off.

18

I’m entering the elevator the next morning for our early meeting with Kent when Dominic calls for me to hold the door. He’s jogging out of the parking lot with his Pacific Public Radio thermos, clad in khakis and his sky blue shirt.

It takes all my willpower not to smack the DOOR CLOSE button.

“Thanks,” he says when the elevator traps us inside.

I manage a weak smile and inch away from him as inconspicuously as I can. Distance and professionalism. It’s the only way to eliminate this inconvenient attraction I’ve developed. His hair is shower-damp, and he smells fresh and clean with a hint of spice. His aftershave, maybe?

“Did you and Ruthie have fun last night?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Mm-hmm,” I say to the floor. I don’t need to watch the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

“How late did you guys stay?”

“Eightish.”

He lifts his eyebrows at me. Every time I dart my gaze away, he captures it again.

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No.”

“Something’s wrong,” he says, crossing the invisible line I drew down the center of the elevator. Instinctively, I press my back harder against the padded wall. He mercifully stops about a foot in front of me, leaning down to scrutinize my face with his deep, dark eyes. In my traitorous imagination, he pins me to the wall, smashes the emergency stop button. Bends to drop his mouth to my neck. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“If this is about Monday—” He breaks off, blushing, putting a little more space between us.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him blush, and it makes me want to cover my own face.

“No no no.” I tighten my grip on my bag. “It’s not. We were drunk. We were just—”

“Really drunk,” he finishes with a swift nod of his head. “I normally don’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, though all I want is a detailed explanation with an accompanying PowerPoint presentation. I reach out to graze his wrist with a fingertip—a gesture of reassurance—realizing when I make contact that it was a terribly unwise decision. I am out of control and must be stopped. I should have known better, but the guy is a fucking magnet. That brush of skin against skin is enough to bring heat to my cheeks and to a couple other locations. Moth, meet flame. Give flame the middle finger.