Page 32 of Weather Girl

“Oh. Yeah. I’m covering a few basketball games next week.”

I brighten. “Russell! That’s great.”

He gives me a half smile, and I feel half better.

“All I want is for them to ride off into the sunset and be together forever,” I continue. “I want to throw them a fiftieth anniversary party. That’s gold, right? I’ll have to sell off an internal organ to get them a massive gold sculpture of themselves, but it’ll be worth it.”

“I’ll chip in,” he says. “I don’t need both kidneys.”

And then we fall into silence again.

Things with Russell don’t return to normal, not when we stop for burritos in Bellingham, not when we wait in border traffic, not when we make it into Canada. The energy around us is charged, not light and easygoing like it usually is. I miss it. We’ve become something close to friends over the past month, and I’m not ready to go back to what we were before, despite this inconvenient crush I have on him.

That’s all it is—a crush, and it will pass. Just like my crush on the guy in the employee cafeteria, who recently shaved his beard. Is there a direct correlation between the end of my crush and the disappearance of the beard? Who’s to say?

Of course, I know the real reason for this strained drive. I met Elodie, and his ex, and his ex’s husband. Even if everyone seemed to get along, I can’t shake the feeling we’ve crossed some line he didn’t want me to cross.

If that’s true, I’m not sure how to uncross it.

12

FORECAST:

An unexpectedly balmy afternoon, clothing optional

AS IT TURNS out, Russell didn’t just book a couple’s massage for Torrance and Seth.

Somehow, he booked a couple’s massage for all four of us.

“It did seem a little pricey when I talked to them on the phone,” Russell mutters as we’re ushered back into changing rooms in the lodge’s spa, after they’ve told us they don’t do refunds. We’ve already checked into our rooms, which are wooden floored and rustic, with sweeping views of the surrounding forest. “Even with the retreat discount.”

“Come on, Abrams.” Torrance is already unbuttoning her coat. “Don’t tell me a massage doesn’t sound incredible after four hours in the car.”

That’s how I end up facedown on a massage table, underneath a too-thin white sheet and naked except for my underwear, sandwiched between Russell and my boss. Both of whom are also naked, to unknown extents.

I love this. I have never been more relaxed in my life.

“You can take off your underwear if you want,” my masseuse says as she adjusts the sheet.

“Oh, I’m okay,” I say in this squeaky voice that’s even higher-pitched than my niece’s. The table is heated, at least, and the lavender essential oils are doing their best to soothe my chaotic brain. I try to focus on the soft piano melody playing in the background.

Still, our tables are so close together that I can hear every sigh, groan, and grunt of satisfaction as a masseuse works on Torrance.

And on Russell.

“Let me know how the pressure is,” his masseuse is saying. “If you need it to be more or less firm, just tell me.”

“That’s good.” Russell lets out a low moan—quiet, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him but just can’t help himself. “Perfect.”

I will myself to get swept away by the music. It doesn’t work. Because of course I can only think about Russell’s sounds in other contexts. My death is simply unavoidable. It’ll be tragic, perishing almost naked in the middle of a massage, but my brother won’t make too many jokes about it at my funeral. Probably.

“You’re very tight.”

“What?” I say, maybe a little too sharply.

My masseuse, a woman named Sage, chuckles. “Your shoulder muscles. I haven’t felt shoulders like yours in a while.” Oh. Obviously that’s what she was talking about. I immediately want to apologize, like my body has done something wrong by holding on to all this anxiety.

She beckons over another masseuse. “Anita, come see this. Feel how tight she is.”

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