Weather Girl(5)

“Is everything okay over here?”

Seth is striding toward us, hands in the pockets of his navy slacks, hem of his matching jacket swaying as he walks. Posture relaxed, chin tilted upward just slightly. Completely unbothered by his ex-wife’s distress. He looks so innocent, he might as well be whistling a tune and wearing a cap at a jaunty angle.

“What do you think?” Torrance asks sweetly, snatching up the sign with her thumb and index finger and dangling it in front of his face. “You realize people might actually do what you want them to if you asked them nicely, right? Instead of this passive-aggressive bullshit?”

“What a shock that I’d want to put it in writing instead of dealing with this,” Seth says, monotone. While he’s not as imposing as Torrance, he’s well past six feet, black hair graying at the temples in that distinguished way only men seem able to pull off, though I’d love to think I could rock a gray streak someday.

Everyone at my old station in Yakima, my first full-time job out of college after I double-majored in atmospheric sciences and communications at the University of Washington, felt like one big family. Maybe the problem here is that the Hales are too much like a dysfunctional one.

As the news director, Seth should be chief meteorologist Torrance’s boss, but because of their history and her seniority, she’s directly underneath our GM, a man named Fred Wilson whom I have spoken to exactly twice. Given that Wilson’s third-floor office stays locked most of the day—when he bothers to show up, which he didn’t even do for the seventy-fifth birthday party we threw him last month—this essentially puts Torrance on equal footing with Seth. The two of them are willing to run this station right into the ground, as long as it means one of them comes out on top.

“I don’t need to be micromanaged, Seth,” Torrance says. “What I put in and take out of the fridge is my own business.”

Seth crosses his arms over his chest, which he probably does in part to show off the way his ridiculous biceps strain against the fabric of his jacket. Sometimes I think Torrance and Seth are locked in a battle to prove who’s winning their divorce. I imagine them at gyms on opposite sides of the city, panting on treadmills while personal trainers shout at them to go faster. “Can’t say being a team player has ever been your strong suit.”

“And not being a massive prick has never been yours.”

I bring a hand to my throat and rub my thumb along the tiny lightning bolt at the end of my necklace. The charm is about the size of my pinky nail and hammered gold, a gift from my mother when I graduated from college. A rare day she seemed truly happy. I want to disappear between my low-partition walls, but the whole point of them is that you kind of can’t.

“I’m just going to—” I start, but Torrance suddenly stands straighter, something catching her attention across the room, in her office. She marches over there and, in one swift motion, tugs a sheet of paper off her computer monitor. Another sign.

“Be sure to turn off your office lights to conserve power when you’re not using them? Did you put this in my office when I was on the air?”

“I wanted to make sure you’d see it,” Seth says with an innocent shrug.

Maybe Seth’s requests aren’t entirely unreasonable, even if his method is. Yes, they’re petty, but Torrance does have a way of forgetting her surroundings when she’s at work. On camera, she’s poised and professional, but off it, she’s a bit of a mess. Too often, I’ve swept trash off her desk, tidied her makeup in the dressing room, watered the plants in her office. If her ficus is thriving, it’s not because of her. It’s probably not the best way of getting my boss to pay attention to me, but at the very least, I figure I’ve prevented a couple Hale v. Hale brawls.

Torrance storms back over to my desk, sign balled in her fist. “That is such a blatant invasion of privacy, I don’t even know where to start.” She juts her chin toward me. “What do you think, Abrams? Can you imagine if I put up signs in the weather center saying, ‘Be sure to check the National Weather Service’ or ‘Don’t forget to smile when you’re on the air’? Would you appreciate being treated like a child?”

Again, I get the feeling anything I say is going to be the wrong answer.

“Maybe the weather center would be run much more efficiently if you cleaned it up every once in a while,” Seth says. “I don’t know how any of you can work like that. That place is a pigsty.”

“Because I just finished my shift!”

“Excuse me,” I say, backing out of my chair and grabbing my bag, but they’re no longer listening to me. If they ever were.

The farther I get from them, the easier I can breathe, but their voices follow me down the hall. I probably could have come in later, since I won’t be on camera until three, but I’m an early riser to my core. And I could use some therapeutic alone time with my hair straightener—I’ve never quite mastered my natural curls and have to iron my shoulder-length hair into submission before each broadcast—and newest eye shadow palette. The people at Sephora adore me. I’ve been a VIB Rouge since before I could legally drink.

My usual shift may require getting up at 2:30 in the morning, but there’s one benefit that wasn’t listed in the job description: Torrance and Seth are never there.

On my way to the dressing room, I catch Russell leaving the Dugout, which is what they call the office where the sports team sits. Morning anchor Chris Torres told me—bitterly—they got their own office because one time they were throwing around a football and hit an unsuspecting reporter in the head, but I’m pretty sure that’s just a rumor. All I know is that they have their own office, and on days like this, I kind of hate them for it.