Weather Girl(24)

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he says, his mouth set in a firm line.

A server swings by the table and swaps our empty basket for a new one, the chips fresh from the fryer and glistening with salt. I mouth thank you to him, trying not to overhear Russell’s conversation, even though it’s happening two feet in front of me.

“Of course. I can be there in twenty. Hang tight.” He hangs up, smoothing out the collar of his jacket with his free hand. “That was my daughter. She has play practice after school, and I guess she’s not feeling well, and . . .”

The rest of his sentence is lost as my mind tries to make sense of this new information.

“Your . . . daughter?”

“Elodie. She’s twelve.” He signals to the server for the check.

I just stare at him. He barely looks older than I am. How can Russell Barringer, KSEA sports reporter, have a twelve-year-old kid? Named Elodie?

When I’m quiet for a beat too long, he says, “Oh. Oh no. I hope you don’t think I’m like, the worst father ever, getting drunk with you at the holiday party. She was at her mom’s that weekend, and I don’t usually go out even when she’s not there. I never drink that much, and never in front of her, and—”

“No, no, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I swear. That’s awesome! Wow. Um . . . congratulations!” I sputter out. Because congratulating someone on their twelve-year-old child is super normal. Hallmark definitely sells cards for that. Congrats on keeping a human alive for a decade!

“Thank you?”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god. That thing I said. About DILFs. I’m so sorry, I hope that didn’t offend you or anything—” I need to stop talking. A bolt of lightning can strike me down any time, even though the odds of that happening to someone in any given year are about one in a million, according to the National Weather Service.

“No—not at all. I mean, you had to tell me what it meant, so . . .” He trails off, rubs the back of his neck as crimson attacks his cheeks. “We’ll continue this soon?”

“Right. Yeah,” I say, still reeling. “I hope your daughter is okay.”

He gives me a tight smile, and then he’s gone.





8




FORECAST:

Clear skies and attempted optimism to kick off the new year

LAST YEAR, I spent Christmas with Garrison’s family in a postcard-perfect cabin on the Washington coast. We’d just gotten engaged, a moonlit walk through our neighborhood when he stopped to tie his shoe and then produced the box with that heirloom ring inside, and we were drunk on each other, drunk on the idea of our futures intertwined.

Most guys I’d dated weren’t Jewish, and even though I’d spent two Christmases with the Burkes, the rock on my finger turned me newly awkward around them. Eggnog lattes and Santa-shaped pancakes with his nieces and nephews and his parents asking “How’s your mother?” and my pinched answers. Hounding us about when they were going to get more grandchildren—“But really, whenever you’re ready! As long as it’s soon!”—which made me feel more like a pair of ovaries than an actual human woman. They even gave us a teeny stocking for our future mini Burke, though when I told his parents I was planning to keep my last name, they pretended they hadn’t heard me.

I looked for bright sides all along the coast, forcing a smile so wide it made my jaw ache. They’ll be different once we’re married. Probably not. Maybe next year they’ll care that I’m Jewish. Unlikely. At least the pancakes were good. Okay, I could cling to that one.

Whenever Garrison asked me if anything was wrong, I told him no and kept right on grinning.

This year, at least I don’t have to pretend I like eggnog. Hanukkah is over, and I take advantage of the holiday pay to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas. When you’re Jewish in the media industry, everyone assumes you’ll work on December 25, which is maybe not a great assumption to make, but I don’t hate the extra money in my bank account.

Even with my depression at manageable levels, every so often, I have a dark day. A day where everything feels heavy, the smallest tasks become impossible, and my brain can only conjure worst-case scenarios.

I’ll be miserable at this station forever.

Or Torrance will find out what Russell and I are planning and make sure I never work in this industry again.

My mom will reject all the help she’s getting.

I’ll never have a meaningful connection with another person.

As obvious as it sounds, I just feel really fucking sad, and while I can try to distract myself or reach out to my therapist, sometimes I have to let the fog run its course, the logical part of my brain knowing I won’t feel this way forever. In past relationships, I did my best to hide my dark days. I’d make a spa appointment I couldn’t afford, or I’d say I had errands to run and get in my car and just drive. Even if sometimes “just driving” meant grabbing Taco Bell and sitting in a parking lot for hours trying not to cry because I couldn’t summon the energy to turn the car back on. Most of the time, I don’t want to be around anyone, because forcing a smile on a dark day is a little like trying to turn concrete into gold.

Unfortunately, this dark day coincides with a text from Garrison. Two days after a Christmas I spend at a Chinese restaurant with my brother’s family, my ex asks me to come over and collect some stuff. I’m tempted to reply with Torrance’s “maybe later” gif, but instead I trudge from Ravenna to upper Queen Anne, intent on getting in and out as fast as possible. But looking for parking on my old street feels inexplicably heartbreaking. Sometimes it took half an hour to find a spot, and we’d circle and circle because no way were we paying $200/month to park in the building’s garage. I never thought I’d reminisce over struggling to find parking, but here I am.