The best part?
I’m doing it with Quincy by my side. I’ll pop onto her show and she’ll pop onto mine. We’ll talk about bomb cyclones in the Northeast and heat domes in the Midwest. There’s always an argument about forecast predictability where we debate each other until our cheeks are pink and we’re laughing into our microphones.
Two weather lovers trying to out-nerd each other, someone wrote under one of our most recent posts.Does it get better than this?
Nah.
It doesn’t.
This is it.
She’s the missing puzzle piece. I fell in love with weather because of her. I’m not surprised I fell in love with her too.
My phone rings, and she must know I’m thinking about her. My smile stretches into a grin when the photo of her in her ski goggles and bike helmet takes over my screen. Tongue out, wet hair. A valiant effort to fight off a smirk and failing miserably.
That was the moment, I think. When I knew I wanted her in a way that physically ached. It was her for me, or no one at all.
I slide my thumb and answer the call.
“Hey,” she says from the other end of the line. “I was starting to think you were never going to make it home.”
“I’m always going to come home. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Monroe. How’s my favorite meteorologist?”
“Busy. I just spent two hours consoling Mia about why rain on your wedding day is a good luck charm and not a gigantic disaster.”
“Alanis Morissette made a career out of telling people that.”
“I’m not sure Mia would’ve appreciated that thoughtful insight. She’s getting married in a month, and obsessively checking the forecast has become her second job.”
“Did you tell her January is one of the driest months of the year in Florida?” I ask. “And this whole problem could have been prevented if she hadn’t picked July for her nuptials?”
“You know what? I didn’t tell the woman planning an outdoor event for four hundred people that.” Quincy laughs. “I’m sure she’d love to hear your scientific opinion, though.”
“Probably safer if I leave my opinions to myself. What are you up to?”
“Wrapping up some research on the influence of upstream atmospheric conditions and how they relate to convective rainbands.”
“Damn, sweetheart.” I trace the outline of the tattoo I got back in late March when we took a trip to DC to see the cherry blossoms. It sits on the opposite arm of my other one, the two microphones with little raindrops around them a hazy memory that was spurred on by one too many shots of tequila and the spring air. Her mouth warm on my neck and her low whispers of how much she loved me under a full moon. “Sounds like an easy day for you.”
“I need to keep you on your toes, Dunn.”
I’m convinced she’s superwoman. She’s so damn happy working at the NWS, even with the commute and the effort it takes to keep her show running. We’re three weeks into the hurricaneseason and she’s up early every morning, talking with her viewers about atmospheric instability and moist air.
Sometimes I’ll catch myself watching her from the doorway to her office, too distracted to get any of my own work done. It’s hard to focus when she’s talking with her hands. When her voice shifts an octave higher, obvious excitement behind her discussion on the Coriolis Effect and warm ocean water.
“You definitely keep me on my toes. I can’t get anything by you,” I say.
“When will you be home?”
“I’m three cycles of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ away.”
“That is oddly specific.”
“You have no idea. Can you survive that long without seeing me?”
“I don’t know.” Her laugh echoes through the phone and knocks the wind out of me. It feels like I’m floating in the clouds, and I can’t wait to see her. “I guess we’ll find out soon, Sebby baby.”
We hang up and I reach into my backpack, checking for the hundredth time that the box I’ve carried around for three months is still tucked safely away under a rain jacket and my favorite baseball hat—the one with Quincy’s show name on it. I touch the velvet box and smile.
