I close my eyes briefly, frustrated with myself. I don’t need to be anyone’s field accessory. And I don’t need to squeeze myself into someone else’s version of legitimacy just to feel like my work matters.
For a moment, I’d almost forgotten that.
The storm doesn’t ask permission. Neither did Dad. Neither do I.
JONAH
My phone hasn't stopped buzzingall morning with Lucas's texts. Each one more apologetic than the last. Each one I ignore. Three days of this, and he has yet to get the hint.
I stare at the latest message:
Come on, man. I said I was sorry. How long are you going to ice me out?
Forever seems like a good starting point.
I toss my phone onto my desk. The grant proposal on my screen blurs into meaningless symbols. I've been staring at the same paragraph for an hour, making zero progress since I arrived at my office before dawn.
“Think that might be important?”
I look up to find Eleanor leaning against my doorframe, a knowing smile on her face.
“No,” I answer, straightening papers that don't need straightening. “I'll respond when I’m not busy.”
Eleanor sips her tea, unconvinced. “Busy avoiding talking about what happened at the Meteorological Society meeting? The whole department heard about Lucas's little social blunder. I’m assuming that’s him,” she nods towards my yet again buzzing phone on my desk.
“It wasn't a blunder. It was sabotage.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “He deliberately undermined me. Made me look like I was—” I cut myself off, the embarrassment still fresh.
“Like you were what? Interested in Lila Brooks for reasons beyond her research?” Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “And were you?”
“Are you asking me that as my boss or a friend?”
“Both,” she shrugs. “As your boss, I expect you to be professional. As your friend, on the other hand, you need a life outside of your lab, Jonah.”
“That’s not helpful,” I argue, feeling heat rise to my face. “Her field data could have validated years of my work. Do you know how rare that kind of observational expertise is?”
Eleanor's expression softens. “Have you tried contacting her directly? Without Lucas as your social coordinator?”
I shake my head, turning back to my computer screen. “What would be the point? She clearly wants nothing to do with me or my research now.”
“You don't know that.” Eleanor sets her mug down on my desk and crosses her arms. “One misunderstanding doesn't have to derail a potentially groundbreaking collaboration.”
“It wasn't just a misunderstanding. You didn't see her face.” The memory makes me wince. “She looked disgusted. Like I was just another scientist trying to use her for field data while secretly laughing at her credentials.”
“Were you?”
“No!” I push back from my desk, frustrated. “Her work complements mine. That’s all.”
Eleanor studies me for a moment. “Then tell her that. Directly. No Lucas, no university formalities. Just scientist to scientist.”
“I don't even know how to reach her,” I mumble, though it's not entirely true. I could find her contact information easily enough.
“For a man who can calculate the probability of a tornado forming based on seventeen different atmospheric variables,” Eleanor says, “you're remarkably inept at solving simple human equations.”
I slump back in my chair. She’s right, of course. I can model atmospheric dynamics, but interpersonal dynamics remain stubbornly chaotic and unpredictable.
Storms obey physics. People don’t.
Relationships never came easily to me. Girls gravitated toward future doctors and athletes, not the awkward meteorology geek who spent lunch breaks reading storm journals. By college, I’d mostly accepted I wasn’t the kind of man women noticed that way.
