The Ex Talk

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

I’ve always been a forearm girl—a man rolling his shirt to the elbows is basically foreplay for me—and it’s a crime that such nice ones are wasted on him.

“This good, and she’s only nineteen!” Kent would bellow. “She’s going to run this place someday.” I didn’t want to run the place. I only wanted to tell good stories.

Mine is the kind of high-pitched voice men love to weaponize against women. Shrill. Unintelligent. Girly, as though being a girl is the worst kind of insult.

Being the fifth wheel is only slightly crushing when I realize I’m not anyone’s person.

My house is going to be so quiet when I get home. It always is.

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.

“Um,” I say, feeling my face grow warm, the way it always does when I’m on the spot. Even in a room of people I know, people with incredible voices, I’m more conscious of the sound of my voice than ever. It’s more high pitched, more nasal than usual. These people don’t say um or like. They don’t stumble over their words.

People say they want something serious, but as soon as it starts heading that way, they bolt. Either they’re lying, or they realize they don’t want something serious with me.

I check each room, making sure I’m alone. It’s not that I’m worried someone broke in and is hiding behind a door, waiting to murder me, it’s just—well, there’s no harm in knowing for sure. This is normal. Everyone who lives alone must do this.

“You’re going to think this is ridiculous, but you know what I’ve always wanted to do?” “Jobs as a Hot Pockets spokesman might be scarce, but you shouldn’t let that hold you back.”

I sign the paperwork with Steve in my lap. I decide his full name is Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers Goldstein. A very traditional Jewish name.

DOMINIC YUN: Or maybe interrupting them constantly. SHAY GOLDSTEIN: I thought this was friendly banter? DOMINIC YUN: I feel like that would require you being friendly.

“Shay, Ruthie, could one of you take notes?” Kent asks. I wait for him to add, “Or Dominic.” He does not.

SHAY GOLDSTEIN: You heard him, folks, we have a great big strong MAN in the studio today. However will the women be able to keep from fainting? DOMINIC YUN: Keeping their sarcasm to themselves might be a good start.

My hand stumbles around on the table before I find one of the truffles. It’s bite-size but probably deathly rich. “The airplane is preparing for landing,” I say as I bring it up to where I imagine Dominic’s mouth is. “Ah, yes, nothing more romantic than imagining you’re feeding a picky child,” he says, and I must press the chocolate into the side of his face because he adds, “Runway’s a little to the left.”

I wish I could explain why texting with him makes me grin at my phone like my favorite podcast just dropped a surprise bonus episode. I probably wouldn’t like the answer. For now, I’ll blame it on being tipsy.

Dominic: why, u putting on party jeans too??

“And once again, Drunk Dominic is much more fun than Sober Dominic.” “Sober Dominic wants to tell you that he’s fun, too, but he’s too busy shaking his head disapprovingly at Drunk Dominic.”

“I’ve never realize how loud it is in Seattle.” “Pretty sure they have bars in Virginia, too,” I say under my breath, not trying to sound like a dick, but doesn’t she realize that I’m still going to be living here in this loud, expensive place? Without her?

“You. Shitting on Seattle all of a sudden. I’m thrilled for you, I really am, and I know we’re supposed to be celebrating. But do you know how hard it is to sit next to you while you talk about how happy you are to be getting out of this place?”

I guess I just thought I’d have everything figured out by now. I’m almost thirty, and I don’t know if I feel any closer than when I was twenty-one or even twenty-five. There’s so much pressure to have all of this shit figured out, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I wanted the kind of marriage my parents had, and I maybe wanted a family, but that’s not something I can even wrap my mind around yet. I can only cook, like, two things competently. Most of what I eat comes from meal kits. I have a gym membership, but I never go to the gym. I work most weekends. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing at being an adult, like I’m constantly looking around, waiting for a real adult to tell me what to do if my garbage disposal starts making a weird sound or if I should be putting more money in my Roth IRA. I am just . . . I feel like a complete mess.”

“You were so sure of yourself, spoke the language of radio so fluently, made it seem like I was an idiot for not getting it.”

I didn’t want to get my hopes up, I guess. I told myself that if we were just casual, then it wouldn’t hurt to hear that you didn’t want to be together for real.” “Shay. I showed you my fucking Beanie Babies.”

“You were the cute Puget Sounds producer, and I was this obnoxious reporter who only cared about the news, and you hated me.”

Whatever you’re doing at the station, Shay, whether you’re producing or hosting, you’re an exceptional employee. We don’t have anyone else like you.” Funny, he’s never mentioned this to me before, not when I asked about my grief show or back when Puget Sounds was on the chopping block. How convenient that it’s coming up now. I wonder if exceptional really means obedient.

The thing about losing someone is that it doesn’t happen just once. It happens every time you do something great you wish they could see, every time you’re stuck and you need advice. Every time you fail. It erodes your sense of normal, and what grows back is decidedly not normal, and yet you still have to figure out how to trudge forward.

That’s the most terrifying part: that I’ve defined myself by public radio for so long that I’ve never wondered who I am without it.

“I can’t wait to learn all the weird things you do when you’re alone.” “They can’t be worse than you wearing a blanket as a cape and pretending to cast spells on Steve.”