Weather Girl(47)
I glance around the newsroom, finding exactly zero open computers.
“Is your internet working?” I ask Meg as she takes her desk on the other side of the low-partition from me.
“Seems to be,” she says before slipping on headphones.
Doing my best to suppress a grumble, I get to my feet. Russell’s covering a game this afternoon, so maybe his computer will be free. Before I knock on the half-open door, I rearrange my features to smooth out my RBF. He’s already seen me in ways I’d never allow someone else to, drunk and bitching about our bosses, drugged up and spilling my history with Garrison. I can’t do any of that at work.
“Hey,” I call out when I spot Russell behind his computer, trying to sound casual. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”
He’s not the only one in the office. Sports anchors Shawn Bennett and Lauren Nguyen are at the desks across from him, watching our interaction very closely.
“We’ll leave you two alone,” Shawn says.
“Oh—no—you don’t have to,” I say, but he and Lauren are already snickering as they leave the office. There’s no way Russell and I can be fodder for office gossip yet, unless they’re really starved for it. And I can’t imagine Russell’s said anything to them about me. Then again, what would he say? That he platonically removed my clothes while I was high on prescription painkillers? That I hugged him in my panties?
The memory ups the temperature in the Dugout a good fifteen degrees.
They close the door behind them and god, I hope they don’t think Russell and I are going to suddenly start making out against it. Still, I’m grateful for the privacy, though it’s very possible my face matches my hair.
“Sorry about them,” Russell says, more to his computer than to me. Maybe he’s equally embarrassed—and maybe it’s because he doesn’t have the same feelings for me. It’s very possible my face matches my hair.
“It’s okay. You’re on your way out, right? I, uh, wanted to see if I could use your computer? Mine’s on the fritz.”
“Oh—sure.” He types a few sentences, tells me he’ll just be ten more minutes.
I lean against the wall beneath a vintage Ken Griffey Jr. Mariners jersey. “I saw that all-staff email Seth sent around this morning. They hired someone for the college football beat?”
Russell’s hands pause on the keyboard. “Yep, new guy fresh out of school. Shawn’s going to be on paternity leave soon, so I’m going to be covering some pro games.”
“Russell, that’s amazing!” I don’t even have to try to brighten my voice with enthusiasm. I really am thrilled for him. Even if it’s not a direct result of our plotting, it’s progress. Though . . . we have something big planned for tomorrow night that we arranged on our drive back to the US. “You’re sure you still want to do this? With the Hales?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, work seems to be improving for you. This was what you wanted, right? Covering pro sports?”
His brow furrows. “It’s not just about me. You haven’t gotten that attention from Torrance yet, have you?” My silence speaks for itself. “And the office might be a little better, but I don’t think we can call it quits yet. Are you sure, with your arm? This whole thing has already been . . . a bit more destructive than either of us anticipated. We can stop anytime, you know.”
“I think we’re close. They seemed so peaceful at the lodge.” Or I’m so used to seeing them at each other’s throats that anything else is groundbreaking. “And I overheard something earlier about Seth leaving coffee on her desk. Other people at the station are starting to notice.”
“Okay,” he agrees, pushing out his chair. “I’m just. Uh. Going to open that door before anyone gets the wrong idea.”
And that settles it. Whatever I thought he might have felt in my hotel room—there’s no trace of it today.
“Right.” Now I can’t look at him, either. “I’d hate for that to happen.”
* * *
? ? ?
THE GOAL IS to re-create Torrance and Seth’s first date. Apparently, Russell and Seth had as much of a heart-to-heart in the sauna as Torrance and I did. About twenty years ago, when they were still working in Olympia, Seth drove her down to Seattle one July evening for a dinner cruise around Lake Washington. There was a specially curated menu, one that combined his Japanese heritage with her Scottish, and even though the captain told them it was unlikely to spot a whale on one of these cruises, they did—a majestic orca lifting a fin out of the water as if to say hello.
We lucked out with a Groupon and booked a dinner cruise for the four of us, telling them it was a thank-you for the retreat, and that I’d felt especially bad I hadn’t been able to stay. The whale is, unfortunately, beyond our control. Before the boat takes off, one of us will fake an excuse, thus leaving them alone in a deeply romantic setting, if the photos on the website are to be believed.
For the most part, yesterday’s heaviness has lifted, and I’m relieved seeing my mom didn’t sink me deeper. It’s impossible to know how long those moods are going to last or whether they require moving up a therapy appointment.
“I’m getting déjà vu,” Russell says as we wait on a dock downtown. In the summer, this area is so packed with tourists, I avoid it completely, but it’s empty in February. The water is choppy, the wind toying with the ends of his hair. Russell in a knitted scarf: a sight I could get used to.