“That’s a good argument,” I say, voice feeble. Throat tight. It’s a side I haven’t seen from him before. Deep, aware. “I guess you’re right.”
“She’s agreeing with me, folks.” Sebastian beams at the camera. Puts a hand over his heart and flutters his eyelashes. “This might be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Bonding over mortality doesn’t make us friends, and I’m going to be disappointed if you’re the last thing I see before I die.”
“I’ll make sure to give you my good side so you get a perfect view.”
I stare ahead, attention no longer on him. “Does that look like rotation to you?”
“Hang on.” He shifts his feet. The camera strapped to his chest beeps. He points to the left. “Over there?”
“No.” My fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding his hand to the right. His skin is hot, sticky with sweat, and his pulse jumps under my touch. “There.”
The exhale he lets out is a deep and rumbly noise, pulled from the trenches of his chest, and I release him from my hold the second I hear it.
“I see it now.” His arm hangs in the air, slow to lower to his side. Lingering, almost. “Thanks.”
“That patch of clouds looks green.” I look over my shoulder, talking to the camera behind us so the viewers watching my show are included too. “Tornadoes can be accompanied by hailstorms, and the hail can—”
“Refract light from the sun, which makes the sky look dark green,” Sebastian finishes for me. “Hard to tell from this angle. Could be a reflection.”
“Why hasn’t the NWS issued a tornado warning?”
Neither of our phones have gone off with an emergency alert in the time we’ve been out here. A tornado watch was issued a few hours ago, but this is more severe. Worthy of some sort of public notification, and my stomach churns in anticipation.
“Maybe their radar doesn’t suggest enough rotation to— Oh, shit. Funnel cloud.”
It’s his turn to guide my hand to his viewpoint, the press of his fingers on the inside of my wrist a flicker of adrenaline that wasn’t there before. I blame it on the sight of the cloud, not the slow drag of his touch halfway up my arm. Blinking to clear my head, I follow his line of sight, nodding at the start of a cone-shaped cloud forming at the base of the large thunderstorm.
“Good eye,” I say.
“Stop flirting with me,” he tosses back casually.
“You’d know if I was flirting with you. I gave you the bare minimum of a compliment. An observation, really. Nothing more.”
“Oh, Monroe hasgame.”
I grab my tripod, moving it in front of me so I don’t have to tell him about my lack of personal life. It’s easier than him finding out I don’t flirt with anyone—ever.
I spend my nights alone, afraid of what a man might say if he saw how excited I get over the little things in life: Puddles in frontof my porch. The rare evenings when I crack open my bedroom window and let in the cool air, glad to sleep with a sweatshirt on. The delight I bottle up and keep close when the sun hits my face first thing in the morning.
I’m a simple girl. It doesn’t take much to make me happy, but I’m cautious who I let get close to me. I’ve been burned in the past, told my success is only because of my looks, not because of the hours and hours of work and research I’ve put into my career.
One guy spent thirty minutes complaining about women in the workforce on our first date, letting me know he prefers his partners to stick to making meals and folding laundry rather than finding ways to get smarter. There was also the guy who asked if I was comfortable taking away jobs from men who deserve the position more than me, getting angry when I told him I wasn’t just comfortable— I was goddamn ecstatic.
Sebastian doesn’t need to know about any of that, and I ignore his smirk.
I flip the camera so the viewers can see what’s happening. I smile, faint and easy and knowing we’re well out of harm’s way. We’re a safe distance from the storm, able to jump in our cars if we need to escape, and I inhale. I blow out a breath, steady and slow, savoring the changes in the atmosphere.
Ahead, the funnel cloud breaks free, stretching toward the ground. Sebastian lets out a whoop that could rival an excited kid. I’m close to squealing too.
“Fuck. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
I can’t keep up with the comments coming in on the live stream. There’s a string of exclamation points. A question asking if we have somewhere to shelter in place if things turn dangerous. One asking Sebastian to take off his shirt, followed by another asking me to take off mine.
“It’s hard for me sometimes,” I say.
“What?”
