RIVAL RADIO

  KATHRYN NOLAN

  Copyright © 2022 Kathryn Nolan

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Faith N. Erline

  and Jessica Snyder

  Cover by Kari March

  ISBN: 979-8-88643-972-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 979-8-88643-973-1 (paperback)

  051622

  CONTENTS

  1. Daria

  2. Theo

  3. Daria

  4. Theo

  5. Theo

  6. Daria

  7. Theo

  8. Daria

  9. Daria

  10. Theo

  11. Daria

  12. Daria

  13. Theo

  14. Daria

  15. Daria

  16. Theo

  17. Daria

  18. Theo

  19. Daria

  20. Daria

  21. Theo

  22. Theo

  23. Daria

  24. Theo

  25. Theo

  26. Daria

  27. Theo

  28. Daria

  29. Theo

  30. Theo

  31. Daria

  32. Theo

  33. Daria

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Hang Out With Kathryn!

  About Kathryn

  Books By Kathryn

  For those who barrel through life with a wild joy. Stay hungry, you weirdos.

  1

  DARIA

  I could always tell it was going to be a good show by the number of questions I got about sex toys. We’d already received five of them tonight.

  “My question is…can I name my sex toys?” Angel asked. “Or, really, should I name them?”

  I leaned in, wrapping my fingers around my mic. “Does naming your sex toys make you happy?”

  “It makes me really happy.” She sighed. “I guess this question is a super-specific example of this larger issue I come up against sometimes. I’m working on prioritizing my own joy. Treating it like it matters.”

  “It’s a challenging first step for everyone,” I said. “We’ve been taught to treat our own personal needs and desires as the last three tasks on our daily to-do list. The tasks you never get to, but then you comfort yourself by promising you’ll do them tomorrow.”

  Angel laughed. “And you never do them.”

  “Right, yeah,” I said with a smile. “Fighting the idea that this makes us selfish is a lifelong journey. I know it is for me. Can I ask what this specific issue is you’re struggling with?”

  She paused. “Believing that the things that make me happy are…weird. Silly. Frivolous. It’s like…have you ever gone to a wedding and no one’s dancing, but then your favorite song comes on and so you just go out there, on the dance floor, and let loose? But then you open your eyes and everyone’s staring at you like you’re an embarrassment?”

  My face warmed all over. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “I’ve been there, and I am that girl every single time.” I locked eyes with Elena through the window, who was operating the board at the mixing desk in the small room connected to the sound booth. She pointed at herself and mouthed me too.

  I grinned. “We have a lot of fake rules in our society about joy and confidence. We don’t like it when it’s messy or uncoordinated. We’re uncomfortable if it doesn’t look a certain way. If it’s too loud. Too boisterous. Not the right ‘time.’ Time, of course, being something other people get to decide for us. We especially don’t like the person getting wild on the dance floor by themselves if we want to be doing the same thing but feel we can’t.”

  “That’s it exactly,” Angel murmured. “I’m discovering that I like to have a lot of fun. Singing off-key and dancing in my kitchen. Buying clothes that don’t match and wearing them with pride. Taking myself out to dinner just because. Naming all of my vibrators Chris Evans.”

  “Oh, Angel,” I said. “If you’re dancing and dressing up and naming your vibrators after Captain America, I don’t have any advice for you. I just want to offer a sincere congratulations.”

  “And I’m not weird?”

  “If weird means being your true, beautiful, authentic self, then we should all be that way. You’re not ‘taking’ when you explore what you really want. You’re ‘giving.’ That’s what choosing yourself is all about.” I wrapped my hands around my mug of hot water with lemon and honey. “On the topic of vibrators, I’m a huge advocate for the healing I found through solo pleasure. That’s pleasure of all kinds, for all kinds of bodies—multiple orgasms, massages, hot baths, afternoon naps in the sun, a long hike. Whatever we use to achieve this pleasure isn’t a toy. It’s an instrument. We take care of our instruments, don’t we?”

  “We do. We even name them if we want.”

  The obvious smile in her voice sent a flicker of satisfaction through my veins. As a kid, hanging around here before school, I’d loved the blinking of the cue lights, the cozy feel of the sound booth, the ebb and flow of my mother’s raspy, crackling voice as she hosted her beloved rock ‘n’ roll-inspired morning show.

  Working at a radio station was my definition of home. But now that I was the one behind the mic, the “expert” answering questions live on-air, I held tight to any indication that I was the right person for this job. And not an imposter.

  “Daria, can I, um…is it okay if I fan-girl for a second?”

  I fiddled with the row of earrings curving up my ear. “You can. But I’ll warn you that I’m not really used to this stuff yet.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not used to calling in to radio shows and talking about my vibrators.”

  I laughed. “We’re all in this being vulnerable thing together.”

  “I read your blog. Obsessively. The one you started after your fiancé, well—”

  “Left me at the altar?” I said lightly.

  “Right. Yes, that,” she hedged. “I stumbled upon your first post around the time I was going through something similar with my girlfriend. We’d been shopping for rings. And houses and wedding dresses. Then I found out she’d been cheating on me and…” Angel cleared her throat. “After I ended it between us, it felt like my heart was in tatters. And I couldn’t handle one more person telling me about silver linings, or that I should get over it by dating someone new, or that everything happens for a reason, blah blah whatever. I was furious. Talk about messy reactions people don’t want to be around. My friends and family didn’t think I deserved to be so mad.”

  I nodded, tugging on my earrings again. “This stuff is really hard, Angel. We prefer when women only express emotions that allow everyone around them to stay comfortable. Anger most of all. What happened to you is infuriating and you deserve to feel every bit of it. The only way out is through, not stifling or suppressing it.”

  “And that’s why I loved your blog so much,” Angel continued. “It appeared in my life at the exact time that I needed to see my own rage reflected back at me. Your voice, it’s like the best friend who has your back. Who takes your side and stands up for you. It’s why I adore this show. Please don’t ever change?”

  I smirked at that. “It’s highly unlikely I ever will. And I hope you do have people in your life who still support you in whatever you’re going through. And that means doing whatever your weird little heart desires.”

  The door to the production room opened and a man stepped inside. I knew who it was even before his stupidly broad shoulders came into view. It was the change in the air, the way atmospheric pressure drops before a summer storm.

  The hair on my arms stood straight up.

  Dr. Theodore Chadwick pressed his tall, lean body against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other. He adjusted his square-rimmed glasses, drawing my gaze to his forest-green eyes. Anger blazed there like a wildfire.

  I swallowed hard but raised my chin. I knew why he was here. And was as furious as he was.

  “So, yeah, back to Chris Evans,” Elena said, speaking over the dead air I’d let tick by.

  Theo subtly arched an eyebrow.

  “You’re always welcome to call in if you need to hear that affirmation again,” I added as my stare down with Theo continued.

  “Thank you for making me feel less alone at a time when I was really lonely,” she replied.

  “I know the feeling,” I said softly.

  “Here’s to being single for life,” Angel sang.

  Theo tilted his head, eyes narrowed.

  “Here’s to being single for life,” I repeated. “That is, sadly, the end of our show. Don’t forget to come hang with us on Twitter and Instagram, or you can reach our voicemail to leave your questions. This is your host of Choosing Yourself, Daria Stone. Thank you for listening to Sunrise Beach’s only independent radio station, K-SUN: radio for the people.”

  The live broadcast ended. I sat back and tugged off my headphones, stretching the tight muscles in my neck. I stood and left the sound booth, filling up on a big, deep breath. My skin prickled with the awareness of Theo’s cool scrutiny. But I ignored him and beamed a smile at Elena, who was tapping away at her phone.

  “Des just called,” she said. “Janis needs to meet with us about some last-minute program changes.�
�� Standing, she dropped her phone into her pocket. She was dressed in black dress pants, suspenders and a sleeveless shirt printed with queer AF. She had light brown skin and black, curly hair shaved on both sides. Elena was Puerto Rican, had moved to L.A. from San Juan to study radio broadcasting, and had fallen in love with one of the most famous independent stations on the west coast—92.1 K-SUN FM.

  She pointed a finger at me. “You were brilliant, as always. Great job tonight, Dar.”

  “Thanks, so were you.” I lightly touched her arm. “And sorry about the dead air. I spaced, I guess.”

  Her gaze slid between me and Theo. “Sure, yeah. It’s no worries. We’ve all been there. It’s a live show and shit happens.”

  “Having an equally brilliant board operator helps though.”

  She spun out the door with a grin. “You said it, girl. Theo, did you need something from me? Or did you come by to catch Daria talking about vibrators with celebrity names?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He smiled at Elena. Tightly. “Daria’s show is always…interesting. But no, I need to speak with her about something private.”

  Elena’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, okay then. You know where Des is?”

  “Last I saw, he was working on program scheduling in the break room and nursing a beer.”

  She nodded, waving as she left. I crossed my arms as the door closed, shutting us into the tiny space. The sudden, unwanted intimacy only reminded me that Theo was incredibly and unfairly attractive. The man looked like a more bookish Prince Charming—thick, wavy brown hair, short on the sides and longer on top. Not a single curl ever fell onto his forehead—he was much too meticulous for that.

  He was always clean-shaven and well-dressed in button-downs that his shoulders had the audacity to fully stretch. He was white, his skin tan from the boardwalk runs I knew he and Des went on most mornings.

  Theo was a few years older than me, and behind his glasses, those green eyes of his were perpetually annoyed, often studying me closely, sizing me up and finding me lacking.

  Attempting to anticipate my next move.

  “Did you really need to speak with me in private, Dr. Chadwick? Or did you just swing by to glower as usual?”

  He reached into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper I recognized. He tossed it onto the mixing table and smoothed down its edges. “I can glower at you any hour of the day, Ms. Stone. But instead of being irritated with you generally, I’m irritated with you specifically because you told The L.A. Times my show was, quote, ‘antiquated and traditional, part of a dying breed of radio hosts obsessed with romantic love in its most narrow of forms.’”

  My cheeks flushed but I forced out a dry laugh. “So? In that same article, when they interviewed you, you described my show as, and I quote, essentially a one-hit wonder, a trendy hot take on love that won’t last past the next news cycle.”

  “Was my description somehow inaccurate?” he asked.

  “Was mine?”

  His throat worked. “Janis won’t appreciate that two of her on-air personalities are bickering with each other in the Times, of all places.”

  I frowned. “Then maybe you should have thought about that before you talked shit about me to that reporter.”

  He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the wall. “I’d say the same thing to you. That was a fair amount of shit you leveled in my direction as well.”

  Guilt churned in my stomach. Trashing people to the press wasn’t my style. But it had only been fifteen months since my radio show, Choosing Yourself, had gone somewhat viral, gaining me an intense cult following of local listeners practically overnight. Before I’d spoken to the Times reporter, I’d done just a few interviews for the press and they were all easy, softball questions about my blog and experiences.

  This reporter was different. She was supposed to be profiling local radio hosts. Instead, she’d seemed hell-bent on pitting Theo and me against each other, hounding me about him over and over, attacking the subject from a dizzying number of angles.

  Theo had been under my fucking skin for three months now. Eventually, during one of her attacks, I slipped up and spoke more forcefully than I intended to. Did Theo have the same experience? Or did he offer up an eviscerating take on my talent with ease while flashing his much-too-charming grin?

  I’d seen this smile on marketing materials. Had caught rare glimpses when he was with Des or Janis or Elena, but only just out of the corner of my eye. Theo’s good humor was an endangered species whenever I was near.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that you’re not here to apologize,” I said. “And I’d rather run a marathon in stiletto heels on a blazing hot day while chugging milk than apologize to you. That means we’re back to where we were even before the interview.”

  “And where is that?” he mused. “I’m curious to hear your thoughts on this working relationship of ours.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a relationship. I’d describe the two of us as currently being in a detente.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “Do you really believe the hostilities between the two of us are easing?”

  “I did before you came in here to pick a fight with me,” I shot back.

  He dropped his finger down onto the article. “There is nothing antiquated or traditional about being a proponent of healthy and affirming romantic relationships, Daria. I’m not using my platform to force people down the aisle, dressed all in white. I’ve been a host a lot longer than you, have given advice to a lot more listeners, have had every complicated relationship question you can think of lobbed at me live and on the air. If you ever took the time to listen, you’d understand there isn’t anything narrow about it. Romance is expansive.”

  I stepped forward and dropped my finger down, right next to his. This close, he smelled like sandalwood and sunscreen. “Celebrating singlehood isn’t briefly trending, Theo. It’s radical to reject the outdated notion that a person is only whole if they have a romantic partner. Promoting this idea that we all need to buckle down and find our soul mate sets people up to constantly fail. Constantly compare their lives to others and find themselves lacking. Meanwhile, we live in a society where people are discouraged from developing the most important relationship we’ll ever have. The one we have with ourselves.”

  Theo made a low sound of frustration that sent a traitorous shiver down my spine. He had a voice made for radio, all rich, velvety notes and deep tones. That velvet had a rough edge around me, however.

  “I talk to listeners every day who are lonely, who believe—and rightfully so—their soul mate is out there,” he said. “Whether that’s one person or three. Whether that’s celebrated through marriage or not, monogamy or not. Loneliness hurts and finding love is the cure.”

  I took another step closer. “You have no idea how much the lie of true love can hurt people, Theo. I’d rather help listeners fall in love with themselves, help them celebrate the unique strengths they bring to the world instead of waiting for someone to do it for them. Some soul mate that may never even materialize.”

  The sliver of space between us was taut with restrained motion, like two predators contemplating the same prey.

  Theo’s nostrils flared. “Maybe if you actually listened to my show for once, instead of stomping around here—”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh my god, and maybe if you weren’t such a smug ass—”

  The door swung wide open, revealing Janis Hill, our station manager. Theo and I clammed right up, putting a more respectable distance between us.