Weather Girl(14)

“Hell of a Christmas party,” he agrees.

“Holiday party,” I correct.

At that, he gives me this sheepish look. “I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but I guess I’ve gotten into the habit of not talking about religion at work. I’m Jewish, too. And this was definitely a Christmas party.”

“Wait, what?” I knock his arm with mine, an action that sends electricity across my skin. It may be the first time I’ve touched Russell Barringer, and he immediately glances down to where my arm met his, as though he’s realizing it, too. “I thought there were only two of us! We should start a club! You, me, and Hannah Stern.”

He scratches at his stubble, pretending to look pensive. “What would we do during club meetings?”

“I don’t know, learn how to make hamantaschen? I’ve always wanted to.” With my glass, I gesture between us. “Look at us, two Jews, the last people to leave a Christmas party.”

“Hey, we keep Hanukkah going for eight nights. We don’t skimp on celebration.”

“I feel like most Jewish holidays are observance and reflection as opposed to celebration.”

“Fair point,” he says, nudging his glass against mine with a soft clink. The way alcohol has unstitched him, turned my ever-pleasant coworker into someone honest and fun—I don’t hate it.

I still can’t get over this fact about him. It shouldn’t be groundbreaking, but there it is: Russell Barringer is Jewish and drunk and kind of adorable, and his leg is five inches from mine. If I slipped off my stool, which is a distinct possibility, I’d fall into his lap.

His eyes lower before flicking back up to mine with an intensity that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Is he checking me out? I’m so out of practice.

“I like your pin,” he says, his voice a quarter of the volume it is when he’s reporting a story from down on a football field.

So, not checking me out, despite the pin’s close proximity to my breasts. “Oh. Thank you. I’m not sure when we as a society stopped wearing brooches, but I’m determined to bring them back.” I make to touch the pin, but I’ve lost so much coordination that I overshoot it and wind up cupping my own boob. Classy. “What good is being a meteorologist if I can’t use it as an excuse to make these very extra accessories?” I tuck a loose strand of hair back into my topknot, revealing a matching pair of sun-and-moon earrings.

Not flirting. I’m not flirting with him, because he’s not flirting with me. It’s the whiskey convincing me his gaze lingers a moment too long.

“You made those?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“They weren’t that hard. I found the charms and then added the earring backs. I added these raindrops to the brooch, too. Brooch. That’s a fun word, and I am very not sober.” And there I go, cupping my boob again. “Something I do with all the free time that isn’t spent agonizing over my future.”

“That’s really impressive. They’re beautiful.”

It’s such a sweet compliment that I feel myself flush even hotter. “You’re telling me you don’t have basketball cuff links or something? Spoons in the shape of golf clubs?”

“Hockey’s more my thing,” he says. “Used to play, actually. In high school.” Then he clears his throat, changes the subject. “Here’s what I don’t get. If what broke them up was so bad that they’re still at each other’s throats, why are they still working together? Why subject themselves to seeing the other person every day?”

“It’s impossible to know what really goes on in a relationship.” I think back to Garrison again. Back to my parents, when my dad was still around. I barely remember him, but I used to wonder how long he’d been plotting his escape. “The worst part is, this is their normal, and no one can say a thing because they’re the ones in charge. Our GM sure doesn’t give a shit. HR is scared of them. They make work hell for us, and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Russell stops drawing a finger through the condensation on his glass, looks up at me through his thick lashes. “What if we could?”

“Is this about putting something in their coffee again? Because I don’t think I’d do well in prison. Redheads look terrible in orange.”

He leans in closer, the woodsy scent of his soap mingling with the tang of alcohol and a hint of sweat. “What if we figured out a way to get them back together?”

I blink at him before I burst out laughing. “Get them back together? Russell, they hate each other.”

“Hate and love are two sides of the same coin. As the saying goes.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I take another sip of whiskey, but it doesn’t taste sour anymore. I’ve probably burned off all my taste buds.

“Is it, though? They’re miserable, and they’re making work miserable. And not just for us. What if there was a way we could figure out what went wrong for them? A way we could fix it?”

I think back to what Torrance said at the party, about the intense passion they had. The look they shared onstage. How she lit up when Seth asked her to dance.

There’s still a spark there.

“If I’m humoring you,” I say, “which I am, because I am not at all taking this seriously, how would we even go about it? Are we taking cues from 1998 classic The Parent Trap, starring Lindsay Lohan and Lindsay Lohan? Because yes, it’s a perfect film, but I’m not sure it was intended to be a how-to.” Though I definitely spent summers wishing I’d meet a long-lost twin at camp. “And if so, in this scenario, are you the snobby rich Lindsay Lohan or the badass poker-playing Lindsay Lohan?”