“Just the way you like it. You hate to sit still.”
“I don’t remember the last time I took a day off.” I cup my mug with both hands. “I had another exciting moment last night.”
“Outside of communicating with your pen pal?” Harlow scoots closer. “Did you redownload a dating app? Finally frame your diploma so the online trolls can see you’re qualified to talk about atmospheric science and not pulling things out of your ass?”
“I’ll get to that sometime in the next six months.” I pause, reveling in the news I’m about to share with her. “I hit a million followers on Instagram.”
“Oh mygod.” Harlow launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck to give me a hug. I lose a slosh of coffee to the porch deck, but it’s hard to care when she’s squeezing me tight. Laughing and making me feel important. “You’ve been chasing that goal forever.”
“Since I started the show seven years ago.”
“Is that the first platform where you’ve hit a million followers?”
“Yeah. I have over two million combined on all the other social media sites, but Instagram is the only one where it says one million and …” I trail off and untangle our limbs. “It’s nice to see my hard work paying off.”
“You work so hard.” She sniffs and wipes under her eye. “Goddammit.”
“Harlow Whitaker. Are you crying? The world might officially be ending.”
“I’m capable of showingsomesort of emotion occasionally.” She swats at my arm. “I’m so proud of you, Quincy Phillips Monroe. You’re a woman kicking so much STEM ass. You’re going after your dreams. It’s fun to watch.”
“I’m also the receiver of mediocre dick pics before the suncomes up. Probably the most important part of my résumé. Especially when I don’t even know the guy’s name.”
“Excuse me?” Harlow wrinkles her nose, the perfect picture of disgust. “I wish I had the fucking audacity of a man. Imagine taking off your pants in a Starbucks bathroom so you can snap a picture of your balls because you think a woman wants to see them. I can assure you, we do not.”
“Traumatizing, I’ll tell you what.” I draw my legs to my chest, resting my chin on my knee. “Dicks aside, sometimes I can’t believe this is my life. I never thought a couple videos talking about what causes a thunderstorm would go viral and …” I gesture at the Craftsman house behind me. The shutter falling off the living room window I haven’t replaced yet. A potted plant to the right of the front door with a crack in the clay from where I dropped it last summer. Flawed, yes, and a life packed with lessons and mistakes, but something I’ve done entirely on my own. “Turn into this.”
Thisbeing the life I’ve built for myself by producing weather content that earns me six figures a year. There’s hardly a minute for me to slow down, to rest or do anything but focus on work, but I’ll never complain.
I’m happy, and things aregood.
I spend the days from June to November broadcasting videos for people tuning in to my show from around the world. I conduct virtual interviews with the directors of emergency operations in different counties across the Southeast, check oceanography data, and monitor low-pressure systems that form in the Atlantic and Gulf.
Women are taught to keep our accomplishments close. To not brag about our triumphs out of fear we’re being too loud and too brazen, but I’m damn good at what I do. In a field full of men who feel the need to mansplain precipitation cycles to a woman with a PhD, I’m not afraid to admit my talent.
“It turned into this because you’re incredible.” Harlow stealsmy coffee and takes a sip. “You deserve every bit of success you’ve earned. Come by The Hideout tonight. We’ll have mozzarella sticks and celebrate the first day of the season. I can probably dig up some marinara sauce.”
“How did you know questionable frozen appetizers nuked in the microwave were the way to my heart?”
“We’ve been best friends since seventh grade. You’re stuck with me for life, Quin.”
“Since I’m stuck with you for life, can I tell you another secret?”
“Always.”
I rub my thumb along my bottom lip. The hook of a smile forms when I think about last Thursday night and pacing around my living room with a bottle of cabernet tucked under my arm. The two glasses of wine I downed before I filled out the application for a job I’ve been dreaming about but never had the courage to go after and the thrill that followed.
“I applied to the National Weather Service,” I say, laughing when Harlow gapes at me. “That was my reaction too.”
“Shut up. You’ve been talking about working at the National Weather Service for as long as we’ve been friends.”
“I finally did it.” Pride runs through me like a current, and I dip my chin. A little embarrassed. Very proud. “I want to shoot my shot, and I figure it’s now or never. My career is booming. I’ve built a name for myself without any resources or funding. Think of what I could do for an organization whose job it is to broadcast information to the public during severe weather events. The timing never felt right before, and I always made excuses for why I shouldn’t go for it. Last week … I don’t know, Har. This sounds so fucking poetic, so don’t make fun of me. There was a moment when I looked out my window, saw the blue sky, and thought,I have a purpose outside of creating content.I should just do it.The NWS would give me that purpose. So, I did. Submitting a tipsy résumé and coverletter might not have been my best idea, but it’s out in the world, and we’ll see what happens.”
“Oh, Quin. This is so exciting. You have to come by The Hideout now. Forget the mozzarella sticks. We’re popping a bottle of champagne, baby.”
I rest my head on her shoulder. A crack of thunder booms overhead. The clouds break. Rain hits the path leading up to my porch, and I fight off a grin.
“Best summer ever,” I murmur.
