I follow her back to a table with her boyfriend Nate and a few other reporters, at which point it becomes clear that I’m one of the only people at this party who didn’t bring their partner. Despite my comfort on camera, I’ve never been naturally outgoing, able to strike up a conversation with strangers. I don’t have my forecasts and graphics as a safety net.
“Any chance of snow this year?” Gia DiAngelo’s husband asks me, in that good-natured way you ask someone you know precisely one thing about. I imagine it’s similar to asking a doctor acquaintance whether they’ll take a look at a mole on your inner thigh.
“All my models are predicting warmer weather than usual,” I say. “If we get snow this winter, I don’t think it’s going to be in December.”
He lets out a long sigh, like rising global temperatures are my fault. “My kids’ll be disappointed. Just once, I’d like to have a white Christmas.” He waves a hand at the fake snow that’s part of the table’s centerpiece. “Wouldn’t that be something? Get everyone on the air wearing Santa hats, too—I bet viewers love that.”
“They absolutely do,” I say with a false smile. Hannah’s on my other side, talking animatedly to our weekend meteorologist, AJ Benavidez. I stand to head for the buffet. “Excuse me.” The line is already long because there are few things that get a roomful of adults excited like free food. To be fair, I am one of those adults.
I realize I live in a city with a Jewish population of less than two percent, but the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas has never not rubbed at me like the softest sweater’s sharp-edged tag. This time of year, it’s nearly constant. I’ve been the only person ever not wearing a Santa hat during a broadcast, and our social media blew up with accusations that I hated America.
“Weather girl,” someone says from behind me in line, and I feel myself relax when I turn to find Russell, wearing black jeans and a burgundy tweed jacket over a black button-up. His jackets are always a little more colorful than any of our coworkers. Tonight he’s more dressed down than he is on camera: no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. A shadow of stubble along his jaw that I don’t recall seeing earlier in the week.
“Sports dude,” I say, and then wrinkle my nose. “It doesn’t quite have the same effect, does it?”
He cracks a smile. “Not really, I’m afraid.”
The first few times Russell used the nickname, I worried he was trivializing what I do. Demeaning it. But he’s only ever said it in a good-natured way, and that’s part of the problem: everything about Russell is so good-natured that I’m not sure how to get to know him beyond that.
“The game today was, uh, pretty intense?” I ask, realizing too late that I’m doing what Gia’s husband was doing to me.
“You don’t follow sports, do you?”
I give him a grimace. “It’s the timing. If games were at three in the morning, I’d be all over them.”
The smile gives way to a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that the game I covered was college football, and the final score was 66-60.”
“I may not know much about football, but those numbers seem . . . high?”
“Oh, they were. I’d never seen anything like it. Great offense, embarrassing defense.”
The buffet line inches forward, and I’m a split second too slow to react, the few sips of wine I had at the table going to my head. The wind must have had its way with Russell’s hair during the game, and there’s something about men with messy hair that just does it for me. Now that I’m no longer in a relationship, my brain has run wild checking guys out. My crushes are unstoppable.
Guy whose apartment mailbox is next to mine and subscribes almost exclusively to cannabis magazines: cute.
Guy who smiled at me on the bus last week and who upon closer inspection was hiding not one but two ferrets inside his coat: so cute.
Guy in the employee cafeteria who somehow manages to make a beard hairnet look alluring: against all odds, extremely cute.
That’s all they are, though—fleeting oh, he’s cutes. Given how disastrously it ended with Garrison, they have to stay that way, which means giving up on my dream of becoming Mrs. Beard Hairnet.
“I always feel a little weird at these things,” Russell says, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “If anyone’s talking to me, it’s usually because they want to know what their favorite player is like off the field, and if so-and-so is as much of a dick as everyone says he is.”
“Same, except they want to complain about the weather. At least the food is good. It’s possibly the only thing that makes all of this worth it.”
He nods toward a display in one corner. “Not a fan of baby Jesus riding Rudolph?”
“Oh—I’m Jewish,” I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place. “Not exactly the most inclusive holiday party.”
He goes quiet as he glances around, and my regret quadruples. Russell and I aren’t close. All the complaining we do about our bosses—it’s lighthearted. I’d never want him to think I’m the complete opposite of the sunshine girl I am on camera. I do my best to make sure no one does. “It’s certainly festive,” he says in this strange flat way.
Still, there’s prime rib and honey-lemon asparagus and caramelized-onion mac and cheese. Our station may be dysfunctional, but we’re not hurting for cash. Russell and I fill our plates in relative silence, save for a moment when he tells me an asparagus spear is dangerously close to tumbling off my plate, and return to our respective tables: Russell with the rest of the sports desk, me as a ninth wheel.
Once the buffet has been demolished, the overhead lights dim, leaving just the twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling and wrapped around Christmas trees. Torrance and Seth take the ballroom stage, Torrance looking like a fierce snow goddess in a silver jumpsuit, Seth in a slate-gray tux and candy cane-printed tie, dark hair slicked back in this way that makes him look like a movie star from the 1940s.
Our gorgeous, terrible overlords.
“Good evening, everyone,” Torrance says into the microphone, the lighting turning her curls golden. “We want to thank you for another amazing year.”
“We’re able to tell important stories and maintain high ratings because of each and every one of you. From news, to sports, to weather.” Seth’s eyes land on Torrance, mouth curving upward. “And a big congratulations to Torrance for being named Seattle’s favorite meteorologist for the seventh year in a row by Northwest Magazine!”
Ample applause. Almost three decades after she started here, Torrance still nails it every night.
A rack next to them displays a collection of awards, something they also like to do every year. It’s nice, I have to admit, to see this clear measure of success in the form of winged statuettes.
“And congratulations, too, to our station for sixteen regional Emmy nominations and five wins!” Torrance says. “Including Seth’s stellar piece about the revitalization of Seattle’s waterfront.”
She claps him on the shoulder, and he gives her this aw-shucks grin. There’s a moment—or at least, I think there’s a moment—when their eyes lock and they retract their claws and they look like two people who used to love each other. Used to respect each other. Torrance’s icy exterior seems to melt, and Seth even touches her hand, giving it a few pats. It’s a great performance; I can almost believe they don’t despise each other.