Weather Girl(11)

As the song changes to something I haven’t heard before, I’m starting to think that maybe this is okay. Maybe Torrance and Seth have realized they’re making all of us miserable. Maybe this really was a peace offering.

Of course, that’s when I hear it.

“You never appreciated anything I gave you,” Torrance is saying from the middle of the dance floor, dropping her arms from around his neck.

“Is this still about the fucking sandwich maker?”

“The sandwich maker is a fucking metaphor!” she shouts back. “You never appreciated the sacrifices I made, or the kind of effort that it takes to do my job well. And now you can’t even appreciate the hard work that went into this party?”

Silver lining, silver lining . . . there has to be one. It’s what keeps me from falling apart: focusing on something brighter, something joyful.

But I’m alone at the table, and everyone is fixated on the Hales.

A few hotel staffers dressed all in black have started to approach, ready to intervene if necessary. I get to my feet on instinct, unsure what to do but whatever it is, I can’t be sitting down for it. I’m furious and disappointed and embarrassed, most of all. These are my adult coworkers, adult bosses, and they’re making a scene in public.

“Hey, man, let’s take a walk,” morning anchor Chris Torres says, reaching for Seth’s sleeve, but Seth shrugs him off.

“We can handle this,” he says through gritted teeth.

Torrance storms over to the rack of awards. “Maybe you didn’t care about that story, but it was important to me.” She runs her snowflake manicure along Seth’s Emmy. “Just like this is important to you.”

Before anyone can stop her, Torrance grabs the statuette, draws her arm back, and pitches it through the ballroom window.





4




FORECAST:

A full night of wallowing gives way to a little light scheming in the early morning hours

THE HOTEL STAFF swoops in to clean up the broken glass. A tarp is draped across the window. The sugar cookies rebel inside my stomach.

For a brief moment when the glass shattered, I was awed by Torrance’s strength. Then again, maybe I should have expected as much from the woman who once ate a ghost pepper on live TV.

Torrance and Seth are asked to leave immediately, and with all my remaining optimism, I do my best to salvage what’s left of the party. Most of that optimism went out the window with Seth’s Emmy, but there’s the slightest glimmer left.

“We have the band for another hour,” I tell news producer Avery Mitchell and her wife as they’re shrugging into their coats. Yes, I was dreading this party, but this can’t be how it ends.

“Babysitter,” Avery explains. “Sorry. They really went overboard this time, huh?”

Hannah gives me a sympathetic look as she swipes one last cookie. “I think we’ve more than overstayed our welcome. I doubt the Hilton will be having us back anytime soon.” She places a hand on my arm and squeezes. “You don’t have to try and fix it, Ari. I’m not sure anyone could.”

“It’s not all bad,” I say in a quiet voice, not fully believing myself. There were moments Torrance and Seth didn’t entirely hate each other. Too fleeting, sure, but they were there.

When it becomes clear the rest of my coworkers would rather head home to sleep off this fiasco than take more selfies with baby Jesus and Rudolph, I find myself wandering toward the bar. Now all I want is a strong drink and a wretched hangover—because I’m no longer sure I can find a silver lining.

There’s only one other person at the bar, a figure in a burgundy jacket hunched over a glass.

“Drinking your feelings?” I say as I slide onto the stool next to Russell, rearranging my skirt so I don’t flash him. The bar is all warm lighting and mahogany furniture. Cozy. Not lavish enough for me to feel too out of place, given I’m not in the habit of haunting hotel bars.

“Something like that.” He takes another sip of his drink before setting it down on a black napkin. “Nice of you to join me. I’m guessing you’re here to drink your feelings, too? Possibly for the same reason?”

“Unfortunately. What is that, by the way?”

“Whiskey sour,” he says, and I signal to the bartender and order one for myself.

“Cheers to feelings,” I say when it arrives, clinking my glass with his. He watches me as I down three-fourths of the glass at once. And—oh god. That was a mistake. It goes down like a bag of Sour Patch Kids. I’m grateful when the bartender places a glass of water on the counter next to it. “How much of a nightmare is work going to be on Monday?”

“Category seventy. At least.”

Russell’s collar is unbuttoned, his light brown hair a little mussed, nothing like the expertly combed way he looks on TV. It’s interesting, talking to someone in real life when you know their TV persona, too. Both people are them, but one version lets you see their blemishes, and the other doesn’t.

“That was the most aggressive game of white elephant I’ve ever played,” he says. “And then—well, you know.” He gestures toward the bar’s exit. The window. Seth’s Emmy. Any semblance of dignity KSEA had left.

“Ughhhhh.” I drop my head dramatically to the counter. “Let’s talk about something else.” There’s a silence, and suddenly I’m worried Russell and I don’t have “something else” to talk about. We’ve only ever talked at work, about work.