Her head pops up as she repositions herself in the chair, regarding me with a serious look. “Dalrymple. It’s Scottish. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I was Torrance Dalrymple. No one could spell it, let alone pronounce it. Then when I was going into broadcasting, I thought it would be easier, and maybe even catchy, if my name matched the job. There were so many meteorologists who had gimmicky names, like Storm Field or Johnny Mountain. I didn’t want it to be too obvious, like Torrance Tornado or something.”
“Torrance Barometric Pressure really rolls off the tongue.”
“I wanted it to be believable. So . . . Torrance Hale. And then Seth added Hale to his last name when we got married, though I didn’t ask him to. It was his idea, to make my fake name feel more legitimate, I guess. Like I could have really been born Torrance Hale and grown up to be a meteorologist.” She pauses for a moment. “Sometimes it all feels fake,” she continues, and suddenly, that happy-drunk sheen is gone. “The faces we wear on TV. All the smiling. Even my name is fake.”
“Nothing you do has ever felt fake to me.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of people online who’d say otherwise.”
“Don’t tell me you read our Facebook comments after all this time.” It’s the darkest hellhole of our social media, reserved for older people who haven’t quite grasped the concept of social media and/or assholes who are more honest and vile than on any other platform.
“Not often, unless I’m tagged in something that’s impossible to avoid. People call me a slut because I have the audacity to have breasts. Because I’m blond. Because my skirt stopped above my knees. Because I wore red. Because I laughed with a male anchor.”
I lift my glass to that. “To casual misogyny. May it kindly fuck off forever.” Some of the comments I got when I started at KSEA, mostly from men, still live rent free in my head, and I hate it. Wonder if the carpet matches the drapes. Jump to 2:36 to see her cleavage. There’s a chance of showers in my pants. It’s endless, even if you stop looking. No matter how many people you block, they always have a way of finding you, through tags or emails or DMs. “We could wear a burlap sack, and people would still be talking about whether it’s too tight.”
“That shade of burlap is all wrong for your skin tone.”
“How could you have picked such a sexy sack?”
After we stop laughing, Torrance turns protective. “Are you doing okay, though? Have you gotten anything really bad? You don’t need me to put a hit on anyone, do you?”
I’m not sure she’s kidding. “No, no, just the usual. I can handle it now, but it was rough at first.”
That hangs between us for a few moments. I wish Torrance and I could have talked about this back when I started. When I wondered whether I’d made the right career choice after all, because as much as I loved the weather, there were always going to be people out there who assumed I was only there to smile and point.
I wonder if this silence means she wishes the same thing.
“The best revenge,” she says, “is just being really fucking good at your job.”
I reach for a wedge of bread, chewing it thoughtfully. Torrance was right—this is fun. Maybe we’ve only grown close because of some gentle manipulation, but I want to believe it would have happened regardless.
“If I’m being honest,” I say, and at this point it’s only half the Chateau Ste. Michelle chardonnay talking, “I felt a little adrift when I started at KSEA. You were one of the reasons I wanted to work there. I watched you all the time growing up—I know I mentioned that in my interview.” At the time, I’d been embarrassed, worried I’d made her feel old. But she just brushed it off, and it made me like her even more. Until, of course, I started working with her. “I’m not sure if you remember this, but you actually gave me an award. For high school journalists, about ten years ago.”
Her face falls. “Ari. I’m so sorry. I wish I remembered, but—I did a lot of those things back then.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, because it is. I don’t expect her to have attached some sentimental value to it the way I did. “But when I started out, I guess . . . I guess I had kind of hoped for some mentorship or something.”
My whole body stiffens as I wait for her response, preparing for the worst.
But she surprises me, as she’s done a number of times over the past couple months. “I . . . think I would have really liked that, too,” she says softly. Then she clears her throat and says more loudly, “Do you think anyone else feels that way?”
“Maybe? I thought for a while that we might get a chance to bond at the retreat, but . . .” I lift up my arm.
“That impromptu couple’s massage was the highlight.”
“Those masseuses deserve a raise.” Then I turn serious again. “I guess it’s because sometimes whatever was going on with Seth felt more important. Like the fact that we haven’t done a real performance evaluation in three years.”
She sits up straighter, something a little like shock pulling her mouth into a tight line. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I thought . . . well, part of me thought it would be nice not to have to go through all that red tape, but maybe that was my way of making myself feel better about not doing it.”
I become braver. “A lot of other stations bring in talent coaches regularly. And I can do bigger stories, too. I could even be on Halestorm. I love this job, and I’m grateful to have it. I just want to feel like I’m going somewhere. Like I’m growing.”
“Absolutely.” She stretches forward to graze my shoulder with her hand, her once-icy gaze honest and insistent. “We’ll talk this week, okay?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, believing her. Torrance blots her mouth, her lipstick still flawless after hours of drinking and eating and soul-searching. Frankly, it’s unfair.
“I just have one more question. How do you manage to get your lipstick to last that long?”
She grins, showing off that perfect cherry shade. “It’s a multistep process. Primer, lip liner, lipstick, and then finishing it with a translucent setting powder. That’s what really does the trick. And you have to make sure you exfoliate your lips first, too.” A glance between me and the now-empty bottle. “I’ll go get more wine.”
While she’s in the kitchen, her phone lights up on the coffee table. Patrick Hale, it says.
“Torrance?” I call. “Your phone’s ringing. I think it’s your son?”
She races into the living room, bottle of wine and stopper still in hand, grabbing the phone on what sounds like its last ring. I don’t want to eavesdrop in case it’s personal, but she doesn’t make any move to switch rooms. “Oh my god,” she says. “It’s happening? Right now? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She turns to me, phone hanging limply in her hand. “My daughter-in-law is going into labor. We have to get to the hospital.” Then she presses her fingertips to her temples and groans. “I need water. And food. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m going to be drunk when I meet my grandkid.”