“Wear something other than a lab coat,” Lucas says, eyeing my button-up shirt and khakis with disapproval. “Maybe something that doesn't scream 'I haven't left the lab since 2019.'“
“My wardrobe is fine,” I mutter, gathering my things. “And I left the lab yesterday.”
“To go home and work more,” Lucas points out. “That doesn't count.”
As I walk back to my office, I can't help but replay the footage in my mind. The tornado formation was textbook, exactly thekind of system my algorithms are designed to predict. If Lila is half as knowledgeable as her father was, Lucas could very well be right as much as I hate to admit it.
No. I'm getting ahead of myself. One meeting, that's all I'm committing to. Just a conversation between colleagues. Nothing more.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on grading papers, but my mind keeps drifting to tonight's meeting. By five o'clock, I've only gotten through fifteen of the sixty-three assignments, and my red pen is running low on ink—much like my patience for undergraduate misconceptions about barometric pressure. I lectured on it for two weeks, and barely a third of my students managed to capture the correct information in their papers. It’s like they’re trying to fail.
With a sigh, I set the papers aside and open my laptop. A quick search brings up dozens of results for “Lila Brooks storm chaser.” Videos, articles, a few scientific publications that make me raise my eyebrows in surprise. She's more accomplished than Lucas let on.
One video thumbnail catches my eye. A woman with wild dark curls standing in a field, the massive wall cloud behind her like a dark mountain. The video title reads,Inside the Vortex: The Woodward County EF-3.
I click play before I can talk myself out of it. The video opens with her standing in an open field, wind whipping her hair around her face as she points to features in the approaching storm. “Behind me, you can clearly see the mesocyclone formation. That’s when warm, moist air or updraft creates a persistent rotating column.”
“Notice the inflow jets here and here,” she says, gesturing to areas that most casual observers would miss entirely. “These high speed air currents feed the storm, creating classicsupercell structure, but with an unusual pressure gradient that's accelerating rotation.”
The video cuts to footage of the tornado itself, a massive wedge churning across the landscape. Her camera work is steady despite conditions that must have been nearly impossible. Then her voice, calm despite the chaos, “Confirming multiple vortices or multiple tornadoes within the same main circulation. This matches the pattern we've seen in the last three major systems across the southern plains.”
A knock at my door startles me. I quickly pause the video as my department chair, Dr. Eleanor Winters, pokes her head in. Her ever-present cup of Earl Grey sends aromatic steam curling into my office.
“Jonah, I thought you'd gone home hours ago.” She frowns at the stack of papers on my desk. “Still grading?”
“Just finishing up,” I lie, discreetly minimizing the browser window with Lila Brooks' face frozen on the screen.
Eleanor steps fully into the office, her silver bob catching the late afternoon sunlight. “The departmental review committee was impressed with your latest simulation results.”
“That's good to hear.” I straighten in my chair, trying to look like I wasn't just YouTube-stalking a potential research partner.
“But,” she continues, setting her mug on my desk, “they're concerned about the lack of field validation. Theoretical models are your strength, Jonah, but at some point, theory needs to meet reality.”
I resist the urge to sigh. “I'm aware. I'm exploring some options for field testing.”
“Good.” She nods approvingly. “Because the NSF grant decisions will be made in three months, and without that funding...”
She doesn't need to finish the sentence. Without that funding, my research stalls, my grad students lose theirassistantships, and my path to tenure becomes considerably steeper.
“I'm handling it,” I assure her with more confidence than I feel.
“Excellent.” She picks up her mug. “Oh, and don't forget the Meteorological Society meeting tonight,” she finishes. “Several board members will be there. It would be good for you to make an appearance.”
“Actually, I was planning to attend,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the lie comes. “Lucas mentioned there's an interesting speaker.”
Eleanor's eyebrows rise. “Lila Brooks? Yes, quite the get for our little chapter. Not traditional for our group, of course, but her observational data is exceptional.”
“So I've heard,” I say neutrally, trying not to reveal how much I've just learned about her in the last hour.
“Well, good. I'm glad to see you getting out of the lab.” Eleanor gives me a look that's somewhere between approval and suspicion. “Perhaps you'll find some inspiration for your field testing dilemma.”
After she leaves, I open the browser page again, and stare at the screen where Lila's face is frozen mid-explanation, her hand gesturing toward a cloud formation. There’s something magnetic about the way she explains storms. As if she’s genuinely fascinated, like she is having conversation with the atmosphere itself. The intensity of her eyes catches me off-guard. It reminds me of why I got into meteorology in the first place: the awe of it. The feeling that nature is terrifying and beautiful enough to serve your complete attention.
And, annoyingly, Lucas is right. She is beautiful. Not in the obvious, trying-too-hard kind of way, but in the way that sneaks up on you. The kind of natural beauty that you only notice when you’ve already been paying attention too long.
I frown at the screen.
This is ridiculous.
