Page 25 of Weather Girl

Russell immediately backs me up. “Absolutely. But sometimes, the station itself... well, it’s not always the most welcoming atmosphere.”

“Jesus. It must all seem so childish. Sometimes I wonder, if we’d worked things out...” He cranes his neck to look beyond our row, as though silently willing Walt to return and save him from this conversation. “Look. I’ve probably already said too much. We all work together, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with her.”

“You’re not,” I say as gently as I can. His expression has changed, and I think I might recognize it. So I take a leap. “I know what it’s like when something ends and it isn’t your choice. When you’re still invested, but the other person is just... done.”

“That happen to you, too?”

“I was engaged. Until three months ago. I can see now that maybe it should have ended earlier, but when we broke up, it was a complete surprise.”

“I’m sorry.” Seth really does look it. “Relationships are fucking complicated,” he says in this way that manages to sound profound.

“I’ll drink to that.” Russell raises his cup of beer, and we all take a sip.

My confession buoys Seth, seems to make him more comfortable. “Tor was the one who wanted the divorce,” he says. “I wanted to work things out. To try harder. But I had no fucking idea how.”

It takes everything in my power not to flick my gaze over to Russell. Torrance wanted the divorce. This is huge. I’m painfully curious what things needed to be worked out, but we’re making progress, and I don’t want to ruin it by pressing too hard on a bruise.

“Did you?” I ask. “Try?”

A guilty look from Seth. “Barely. I wanted to, sure, but I didn’t have the right tools. About six months after the divorce was finalized, I got my ass to therapy. It’s the toughest and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. And I think I had to do it for myself first.” His fist clenches around a napkin, then loosens. “I sure as hell didn’t make things easy for her back then, but I’ve changed. I’m not the same man I was five years ago.”

This conversation is starting to prove that. He can speak openly about therapy, while I’d never been able to. Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening him up, but this version of Seth is different. Aware.

Heartbroken.

That realization must make me brave. “And you want her to know that you’ve changed?” I say. “Because... the signs probably aren’t helping.”

“Yeah. You’re not wrong,” he says with a sigh. “But we’ve gotten into this pattern. One of us provokes the other, and the other reacts. It isn’t that I don’t know the signs are bullshit. Trust me, I feel like a dick every time I put one up. But there’s something about knowing just how to get underneath someone else’s skin.”

“So it’s a way to talk to her,” Russell says.

“Probably not the best way, but at least she’s talking. Even if most of the time, she’s yelling. At least if she’s reacting... well, part of me thinks it’s because she still cares. It’s a relief, almost, that we still have that.”

“What exactly are you saying?” Russell asks slowly, and my heart lifts. It’s very possible our mighty news director is telling us he wants to get back together with his ex.

Seth takes another sip of beer. “It’s not easy,” he says, “to keep loving someone who’s given up on you.”

“Maybe she hasn’t.” I fill my words with hope. It’s not a lie if I believe it’s true. “If you wanted to change things—if that’s something you wanted to do, I mean—what if you aired Torrance’s crab story? Isn’t it worth it, making viewers a bit mad, if it’ll make Torrance happy? If you’re meant to be with her, isn’t it worth bending a little?”

“I’ll think about it,” Seth relents, and it feels like a tiny victory. I had no idea this sensitive man was buried beneath those Garamond-font signs. “It could be a start, at least.”

Walt returns from concessions with a pretzel and another cup of beer. “Hell of a line back there,” he says.

When the second period starts, I try my best to focus because I really do like the game, but all I can think about is this revelation from Seth. He wants her back. He wants her back, and he’s been trying to change.

Soon the score is tied, and when Seattle sinks another goal to bring us up to 2–1, Russell’s hand drops to my knee. It’s a soft, victorious gesture, one that communicates yesssss our team scored, and maybe I can barely feel it through the fleece-lined tights I’m wearing beneath my jeans, but every cell in my body focuses on those few inches of denim.

I swallow hard, wondering how it’s possible that a hand on my knee is enough to make me warmer beneath all these layers than I’ve been the whole game.

It’s so loud that he has to lean in, putting his mouth right next to my ear. “You having a good time?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say in a strained voice I don’t recognize as my own.

Finally, he seems to notice the placement of his hand, because he glances down and moves it away. A flush spreads across his cheeks. Maybe he thought it was his own knee. Maybe the warmth I felt was simply that I overdressed.

Seattle wins, 3–1, and I allow myself to get swept up in the chaos as we weave through the arena, everyone yelling and whooping, strangers hugging and high-fiving.

“I can see why you love it so much,” I tell Russell when we step outside, his glasses immediately fogging up. The city has turned dark, the nearby bars filling up with fans. “I feel kind of victorious? Even though I had no impact on the game.”

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