“DID YOU HEAR about the meteorologist who broke her arms and legs?” one of the camera guys calls to me as I position myself in front of the green screen. “She had to wear four casts.”
“That’s hilarious, Glenn. Top-notch humor.” I wince as morning producer Deandra Fuller helps me adjust my mic over one of my five-of-the-same-dresses in navy today. Zipping it up was hell. “Are you sure this is going to be okay?”
“Absolutely,” Deandra says. “Remember when Gia broke her wrist playing rec volleyball last year? She showed that video of people helping her get made up in the dressing room that everyone loved. And hey, maybe you can make a joke about it when you’re on the air. You know, make the viewers feel less awkward about it by showing that you don’t feel awkward about it.”
What that turns out to be is this: “A lot of snow in the mountains this week, which is good news for skiers and snowboarders,” I say, lifting my left arm. “Though I won’t be doing any of that for a while!”
I can barely keep my eyes open during the show. It’s gotten easier to sleep upright, but I’m going to have to take a break before Russell and I launch the next phase of our plan tonight. I’m a pro power-napper, but I tossed and turned between the hours of eleven and two, and when I forced myself out of bed at two fifteen, my head was pounding and my stomach was unhappy with me. Once again, I regret not buying that dog pillow from Instagram.
It’s not just lack of sleep, though. I recognize the signs of my depression creeping in, probably a mix of my injury and my mom and, as always, my brain chemistry. The littlest things make me overly emotional, like the feel-good story that wrapped up our morning show about a golden retriever who traversed three states to catch up with her family when they went on vacation. The thought of sweet Beatrice missing her people so desperately that she couldn’t bear to be separated from them for a few days . . . damn it, I might be on the verge of tearing up again. I’ll be okay—I’ll just have to work harder to force the smiles on and off camera.
Force them enough, and they start to feel real.
I’m on my way to my desk when a conversation stops me in my tracks.
“He’s been different lately,” investigative reporter Kyla Sutherland says to Meg Nishimura in the hall between the studio and the newsroom. “I saw him go into her office this morning. I thought it was going to be another one of those signs, but he left a latte on her desk.”
“Oat milk?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe they finally called a truce.”
“Or banged out all the tension.”
The two of them laugh, and despite the layer of mental fog, I let this knowledge buoy me as I head into the newsroom.
Unfortunately, it’s short-lived. I’m trying to update our social media with my forecasts, but there’s something wrong with my internet. I disconnect and reconnect. Restart my computer. Nothing. And Torrance is in the weather center now, working on her own forecasts. I know from experience that it’s a solitary task for her.
I glance around the newsroom, finding exactly zero open computers.
“Is your internet working?” I ask Meg as she takes her desk on the other side of the low-partition from me.
“Seems to be,” she says before slipping on headphones.
Doing my best to suppress a grumble, I get to my feet. Russell’s covering a game this afternoon, so maybe his computer will be free. Before I knock on the half-open door, I rearrange my features to smooth out my RBF. He’s already seen me in ways I’d never allow someone else to, drunk and bitching about our bosses, drugged up and spilling my history with Garrison. I can’t do any of that at work.
“Hey,” I call out when I spot Russell behind his computer, trying to sound casual. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”
He’s not the only one in the office. Sports anchors Shawn Bennett and Lauren Nguyen are at the desks across from him, watching our interaction very closely.
“We’ll leave you two alone,” Shawn says.
“Oh—no—you don’t have to,” I say, but he and Lauren are already snickering as they leave the office. There’s no way Russell and I can be fodder for office gossip yet, unless they’re really starved for it. And I can’t imagine Russell’s said anything to them about me. Then again, what would he say? That he platonically removed my clothes while I was high on prescription painkillers? That I hugged him in my panties?
The memory ups the temperature in the Dugout a good fifteen degrees.
They close the door behind them and god, I hope they don’t think Russell and I are going to suddenly start making out against it. Still, I’m grateful for the privacy, though it’s very possible my face matches my hair.
“Sorry about them,” Russell says, more to his computer than to me. Maybe he’s equally embarrassed—and maybe it’s because he doesn’t have the same feelings for me. It’s very possible my face matches my hair.
“It’s okay. You’re on your way out, right? I, uh, wanted to see if I could use your computer? Mine’s on the fritz.”
“Oh—sure.” He types a few sentences, tells me he’ll just be ten more minutes.
I lean against the wall beneath a vintage Ken Griffey Jr. Mariners jersey. “I saw that all-staff email Seth sent around this morning. They hired someone for the college football beat?”
Russell’s hands pause on the keyboard. “Yep, new guy fresh out of school. Shawn’s going to be on paternity leave soon, so I’m going to be covering some pro games.”
“Russell, that’s amazing!” I don’t even have to try to brighten my voice with enthusiasm. I really am thrilled for him. Even if it’s not a direct result of our plotting, it’s progress. Though . . . we have something big planned for tomorrow night that we arranged on our drive back to the US. “You’re sure you still want to do this? With the Hales?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, work seems to be improving for you. This was what you wanted, right? Covering pro sports?”
His brow furrows. “It’s not just about me. You haven’t gotten that attention from Torrance yet, have you?” My silence speaks for itself. “And the office might be a little better, but I don’t think we can call it quits yet. Are you sure, with your arm? This whole thing has already been . . . a bit more destructive than either of us anticipated. We can stop anytime, you know.”
“I think we’re close. They seemed so peaceful at the lodge.” Or I’m so used to seeing them at each other’s throats that anything else is groundbreaking. “And I overheard something earlier about Seth leaving coffee on her desk. Other people at the station are starting to notice.”
“Okay,” he agrees, pushing out his chair. “I’m just. Uh. Going to open that door before anyone gets the wrong idea.”
And that settles it. Whatever I thought he might have felt in my hotel room—there’s no trace of it today.
“Right.” Now I can’t look at him, either. “I’d hate for that to happen.”
* * *
? ? ?
THE GOAL IS to re-create Torrance and Seth’s first date. Apparently, Russell and Seth had as much of a heart-to-heart in the sauna as Torrance and I did. About twenty years ago, when they were still working in Olympia, Seth drove her down to Seattle one July evening for a dinner cruise around Lake Washington. There was a specially curated menu, one that combined his Japanese heritage with her Scottish, and even though the captain told them it was unlikely to spot a whale on one of these cruises, they did—a majestic orca lifting a fin out of the water as if to say hello.