The Ex Talk(8)
“Maybe.”
Ameena shakes her head. “Get a dog.”
* * *
—
The moment I get home, I flip on every single light and cue up the latest episode of my favorite comedy podcast. It’s almost nine o’clock, and I’ve been away from my email for too long, despite the few times I checked it in the bathroom. (Enough that my mother asked me if I was okay, which is only slightly embarrassing as an adult, to think your mom is concerned about your bowels.)
I make some tea and settle onto the couch with my work laptop. I really am content helping others tell stories as opposed to telling them myself. Paloma does it better than I ever could, even if sometimes we’re not telling the kinds of stories I love, sweeping epics about the human experience you can only hear on stations with a bigger budget. Sometimes I wonder if content is really just a synonym for complacent.
I try not to think about that, though.
After my dad died, I sought comfort anywhere I could. I smoked pot with Ameena, hooked up with the cute guy across the hall freshman year, had one bad experience with alcohol that taught me how much alcohol my body could handle. It wasn’t anything outrageously unhealthy; I didn’t want to go off the rails, but I wanted to get close enough to see what was on the other side of them.
The only thing that made me feel like myself again was my internship at PPR. That was when I realized the solution wasn’t impulse—it was consistency. And of course it was; radio had always made me feel closer to my dad. I’d get the stable job, the house in a walkable neighborhood, and the devoted boyfriend, one day husband. Ameena remained my best friend; my mother remained single. With the exception of my dating life, everything’s gone pretty much according to plan.
Phil becoming my stepfather, though—that’s going to change things.
And historically, I have not been great at change.
A house was always part of my plan, and it should have felt like this tremendous accomplishment. I’ve had it six months, but I’m forever in the middle of making it mine. I’ll spend hours scouring antique shops for the right kind of artwork before buying some mass-produced abstract blobs at Target, or try a dozen paint samples for the living room before realizing none of them feel quite right and never getting the energy to paint over them. In our early twenties, Ameena and I dreamed of hosting dinner parties when we had the space, but now we’re always exhausted. Most of the time, I end up cooking something with prepackaged ingredients that show up on my doorstep twice a week.
Every time I imagined adulthood, it looked different from this reality. All the important people in my life have their person. I have an empty house and my supposed dream job that doesn’t always love me back.
Against my better judgment, I listen to today’s show. I did this all the time when I started out, eager for ways to improve, but I haven’t done it in a while. Over and over, I rewind Dominic’s answers, trying to pinpoint what, exactly, listeners found so appealing. It takes him a few minutes to find his footing; the cadence of his voice changes, and his words become smooth, buttercream frosting over red velvet cake. He’s not a robot, the way I might have assumed before I heard him on the air. It’s almost like he didn’t want someone to find out he was doing something illegal, he says in such a mock-surprised tone that it makes me crack a smile. He responds to listener questions as though he genuinely cares about their concerns, and even when he doesn’t know the answer, he does his best to convince them he’s going to find out.
As much as I hate to admit it, Dominic Yun on Puget Sounds was good radio.
Even my dad would have agreed.
3
“Emergency meeting,” Kent O’Grady announces the next morning, before I’ve even unzipped my coat. “Conference room. Five minutes. Senior staff only.”
I’ve never been senior enough to go to a PPR emergency meeting. My promotion, in title and slight salary increase, happened a few months ago. The way Kent’s M. C. Escher–patterned tie lies crooked, as though he was so frazzled this morning that he didn’t notice, is troubling, but it still feels kind of great to be included.
I hang my coat on the hook next to my desk and remove the laptop, phone, and notepad from my messenger bag. My phone lights up with a notification from one of the dating apps I haven’t gotten around to deleting.
We miss you! 27 matches are waiting
I swipe it away and drag the app to the trash. That’s the only action I’ve had lately: Tinder and Bumble desperately trying to win me back.
Our newsroom has an open floor plan, offices reserved for the most senior of senior staff. My space is littered with empty coffee cups I’ll definitely put in the dishwasher later today. The staff rotates kitchen duty, and for my first two years at PPR, I somehow got stuck cleaning it every Friday. I assumed I was just paying my dues as a newbie, but I’ve never seen Griffin, our Puget Sounds intern, on the schedule, which is drafted weekly by our office manager. It’s never seemed important enough to bring up with HR.
Then there’s my intricate filing system for past rundowns, and pinned next to my computer, a PodCon poster signed by the hosts of my favorite movie podcast. PodCon is an annual radio and podcasting festival, and if it sounds nerdy, that’s because it is, and it’s also the best. I went a couple of years ago when it was held in Seattle, and while it would be a dream to go as a presenter, obviously a local newsmagazine doesn’t have national appeal.