A ball sails Russell’s way, and he misses, laughing good-naturedly. “Guess there’s a bit of a learning curve.”
It’s endearing, the way he isn’t instantly perfect at it, that he was okay committing this to film. It would have been so easy to write this off as a fluff story, and maybe that’s what people in their living rooms are doing right now—scoffing, changing the channel, switching to one of our competitors.
But it would be wrong to pass that kind of judgment. Watching him, I see what he was saying about the personalities behind the players. The league manager who met her husband playing pickleball, and after he passed away, established this league in his honor, which she runs with the help of her kids. Every year on his birthday, they throw a massive pickleball tournament that draws players from all over the world. It’s a testament to the power of recreation to create community, just as Russell says at the end of the piece.
After a commercial break, it’s time for Halestorm, which is the reason I’m here: Torrance is in the best mood after it airs, and armed with what we know about Seth, I’m going to need her in good spirits.
It’s got to help that Seth hasn’t posted any signs this week.
There’s her too-catchy intro music I find myself humming every so often, playing over an animation of a cartoon Torrance caught in a storm, umbrella turning inside out and nearly getting whisked away before the sun appears. Halestorm, which is Torrance’s platform to analyze climate trends and bring on meteorology experts as guests, is a thirty-minute segment, which seemed short to me when I was a kid and always wanted more.
Today she’s talking about the long-term effects of wildfires on our region. They’ve been growing worse each year, to the point where during the summer, the smoke is so thick that we’re advised not to go outside for sometimes an entire week—or longer. With her usual magnetism, she manages to communicate how terrifying this is, interviewing a woman who lost two houses to wildfires a year apart and wrapping up with how viewers can volunteer to help.
“That was really powerful,” I say to Torrance as she walks off the stage.
“I hope it makes people care about the fires year-round, and not just during the summer,” she says. “Haven’t you been here since three a.m.? Aren’t you exhausted? You can go home, Abrams.”
“I know.” Like I rehearsed, I hide a yawn with the back of my hand, though I stole a nap before the afternoon show. “I’m trying to tweak my sleep schedule so I can go swing dancing tomorrow night.”
Torrance pauses as we reach the newsroom. “Swing dancing? I didn’t know you swing danced.”
“I love swing dancing. I’ve only been doing it for a few months, so I’m not amazing, but I’m obsessed. Over at Century Ballroom in Capitol Hill.”
“Huh.” Her eyebrows knit together. “East Coast swing, right? Not West Coast?”
“East Coast and Lindy Hop,” I say, like I didn’t just look up the differences between them last night after studying that old photo of Torrance and Seth on the dance floor. The one they looked so happy in.
“I used to go all the time, but it’s been a while,” she says. “I’m surprised we’ve never discussed it.” Maybe because we never discuss anything.
I follow Torrance into her office, trying to disguise the joy I feel when I spot the succulent on her desk. “That’s really gorgeous.”
With a fingertip, she grazes one of its violet-green leaves. “It’s the strangest thing. Showed up without a card. No idea who it’s from.” She drops her hand and takes a seat. “Seth used to send me succulents all the time. Never flowers—they didn’t last long, and I could never keep up with the watering.” Then she laughs this off, like the thought is absurd. “But I doubt it’s from him. Probably one of the interns, trying to butter me up so I’ll write them a recommendation. What were we saying about swing dancing?”
“Right. You should come tonight,” I say. “We could make a whole thing of it, even. Get the whole station involved.”
“Plenty of us will be on the retreat next week.”
“There’s no such thing as too much team bonding.” It’s a miracle, how I’m able to fight a cringe as I’m saying it. Years of smiling on TV have prepared me for this moment.
“Okay then,” she says, cherry lips curving into a grin. “Go ahead. Send out an all-staff email.”
* * *
? ? ?
“I DON’T THINK they’re coming,” Russell says, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.
We’re standing outside Century Ballroom in Capitol Hill, next to an ice cream shop with lines down the block even on cold winter nights. It’s been in the low-to-mid-forties all week, dropping into the upper thirties in the evening.
“Torrance seemed . . . moderately excited,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “She’ll show up any minute. And if Seth is as in love with her as he said he was, hopefully he will, too.”
“Ari!” someone calls, and while I brighten at the sight of Hannah and Nate, I’m also disappointed it’s not either Hale. A few other people from the station are already inside. “Thanks so much for organizing this. We’ve always wanted to try this place, and this was exactly the nudge we needed.”
“Hannah’s going to make us all look bad, though,” Nate says. “She danced for twelve years as a kid.” He turns to Russell, holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nate, Hannah’s less talented half.”
“Russell.”
Hannah lifts her brows at me regarding Russell, and I give her a swift shake of my head. No need to fuel the office rumor mill, especially when there’s nothing going on.
“We’ll see you inside,” I say with a wave.
A few minutes later, a petite woman in a polka dot dress appears at the door. “We’re about to start,” she says. “If you’re waiting for someone, I’m afraid they’ll have to join us during the social dance afterward.”
Glumly, I follow Russell inside, hand over ten dollars, and check my coat. The first hour of the dance is a lesson. Since Torrance and Seth already know how to dance, they’re probably skipping it. That has to be it.
I tuck my necklace into the T-shirt I’ve paired with a flared skirt and blue Keds, along with tiny sun studs I picked so they wouldn’t get in the way while dancing. With a little more pep in my step, I take my place in the group of a couple dozen that’s gathered around our instructors, the woman in the polka dot dress, who can’t be more than five feet tall, and a beanpole of a guy in shiny Oxfords and a newsboy cap. They’ve kicked off the class by dancing to a Ray Charles song with so much energy it looks as though the guy is tossing the girl around. She never loses control, swiveling her legs, throwing out her arms, and at one point stealing the guy’s cap and putting it on her own head.
When the song ends, everyone claps.
“Good evening, everyone!” the girl says in a bright and booming voice. “Welcome to Lindy Hop 101. I’m Zara, and this is Theo. We’ll be your instructors.”