Weather Girl(62)

Her face falls. “Ari. I’m so sorry. I wish I remembered, but—I did a lot of those things back then.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, because it is. I don’t expect her to have attached some sentimental value to it the way I did. “But when I started out, I guess . . . I guess I had kind of hoped for some mentorship or something.”

My whole body stiffens as I wait for her response, preparing for the worst.

But she surprises me, as she’s done a number of times over the past couple months. “I . . . think I would have really liked that, too,” she says softly. Then she clears her throat and says more loudly, “Do you think anyone else feels that way?”

“Maybe? I thought for a while that we might get a chance to bond at the retreat, but . . .” I lift up my arm.

“That impromptu couple’s massage was the highlight.”

“Those masseuses deserve a raise.” Then I turn serious again. “I guess it’s because sometimes whatever was going on with Seth felt more important. Like the fact that we haven’t done a real performance evaluation in three years.”

She sits up straighter, something a little like shock pulling her mouth into a tight line. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I thought . . . well, part of me thought it would be nice not to have to go through all that red tape, but maybe that was my way of making myself feel better about not doing it.”

I become braver. “A lot of other stations bring in talent coaches regularly. And I can do bigger stories, too. I could even be on Halestorm. I love this job, and I’m grateful to have it. I just want to feel like I’m going somewhere. Like I’m growing.”

“Absolutely.” She stretches forward to graze my shoulder with her hand, her once-icy gaze honest and insistent. “We’ll talk this week, okay?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, believing her. Torrance blots her mouth, her lipstick still flawless after hours of drinking and eating and soul-searching. Frankly, it’s unfair.

“I just have one more question. How do you manage to get your lipstick to last that long?”

She grins, showing off that perfect cherry shade. “It’s a multistep process. Primer, lip liner, lipstick, and then finishing it with a translucent setting powder. That’s what really does the trick. And you have to make sure you exfoliate your lips first, too.” A glance between me and the now-empty bottle. “I’ll go get more wine.”

While she’s in the kitchen, her phone lights up on the coffee table. Patrick Hale, it says.

“Torrance?” I call. “Your phone’s ringing. I think it’s your son?”

She races into the living room, bottle of wine and stopper still in hand, grabbing the phone on what sounds like its last ring. I don’t want to eavesdrop in case it’s personal, but she doesn’t make any move to switch rooms. “Oh my god,” she says. “It’s happening? Right now? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She turns to me, phone hanging limply in her hand. “My daughter-in-law is going into labor. We have to get to the hospital.” Then she presses her fingertips to her temples and groans. “I need water. And food. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m going to be drunk when I meet my grandkid.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, trying to sound soothing, but I have no idea what to do in this situation, either. When Alex and Javier’s surrogate was pregnant, they were already in the same place: her water broke when they were having lunch at Javier’s restaurant. “I’m sure you’ll have sobered up by the time the baby’s born. I’d offer to drive you, but, uh—” I hold up my arm.

“Right. Right. We’ll call Seth.” Her phone lights up with another incoming call. “Wait. That’s him. How does he know we were talking about him? Is this one of those things where your phone is listening to you?” She’s really losing it.

“Patrick must have told him Roxanne was going into labor, too,” I say to her, as calmly as I can.

“Seth? Hi. I’m a little tipsy.” At this, she knocks over the charcuterie board, sending crumbs and crusts of bread to the floor. “If you could come get me . . . yeah. Okay. Thank you.” She hangs up. “He’ll be here in twenty.”

Fifteen minutes later, once we’ve cleaned up the living room and the wine Torrance spills on the couch, a KSEA 6 van screeches to a halt in her driveway, Seth waving an arm out the window.

“I got here as fast as I could while still obeying the speed limit,” he says, popping the driver’s side door.

“Thank you so much.” And Torrance nearly falls into his arms in an attempt to do . . . well, I’m not quite sure what, but she lets out a squeal while doing it. “We’re going to be grandparents.”

He grins as he steadies her. “I can’t wait.”

“I can call an Uber,” I say, not wanting to intrude on this private moment.

“No, Ari, it’s okay. You can come with us!” Torrance says. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the excitement talking, but she’s so giddy, it’s impossible to say no.

So I hoist myself inside and buckle up.





21




FORECAST:

A midnight truce (or two)