I relax when I smell bacon.
Syrup and hash browns, too, and I’m glad I have some company.
Our server comes over and takes our order. We both pour a full cup of coffee despite the moon starting to peek out from behind a cluster of clouds, and Quincy adds cream and a spoonful of sugar to her mug.
“Wow.” She sighs around the word after taking a long sip. “That’s delicious.”
“I don’t normally do caffeine this late but today calls for it.” I cover my yawn with the back of my hand. “Thanks for filming me, by the way. I know you had your own things going on, and I appreciate the assist.”
“I’m adding it to my résumé.” She folds both hands around her mug. Another sigh loosens from her chest when she leans back. “I can’t believe you saved that woman. I can’t believe it’s on video. Is your phone blowing up?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t bothered to look at my notifications. Cooper said it’s making the rounds online, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’d do it again if I needed to. I hope you don’t think I did that for—”
“For attention? I don’t. Not at all. That was life-and-death. And a good thing you did.”
The compliment means a lot coming from her, and I smile at the server who brings our food over. “Thank you.”
“This looks delicious. I just wish it wasn’t freezing in here.”Quincy draws her arms across her chest and shivers. “That’s what I get for not changing out of my wet clothes.”
I drop my elbow on the table and grin. “Drowned raccoon, remember? Here.” I pull my sweatshirt over the back of my head and hand it to her. It’s an old thing, hardly more than a scrap of fabric at this point with a torn right sleeve and missing drawstrings, but it gets the job done. It’s a hell of a lot better than the wet outfit she’s in, and I don’t like seeing her cold. “Take this.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Come on.” I lean forward, thighs bumping the table. I drop the hoodie in her lap and sit back down. “It’s not going to bite.”
“Are you sure about that?” Quincy asks.
“Only one way to find out.”
She doesn’t put the sweatshirt on, but she does spread the material over her legs. She tucks the sleeves under her thighs and lets out a content sigh that’s infinitely better than chattering teeth. I fight back another smile when she rubs her hand across the tattered cotton. When she curls her fingers in the hood.
“Thank you,” she finally says.
“Happy to help.”
Our conversation lulls while we dig into our meal. There’s mumbled appreciation for the melted butter. Knuckles nudging the bottle of syrup across the table and the second round of waffles we both order. The hash browns Quincy adds, asking for ketchup then sheepishly telling me she loves adding the condiment on almost everything. When I polish off my food, I groan.
“I haven’t had a day this long in a while.” Quincy reaches for her coffee. “It always takes me a storm or two to get back in the groove.”
“I understand what you mean. When you do get adjusted to your new normal for the next five months, it’s good for the soul, you know?”
I rub my hand over my chest, knowing today was beyond goodfor my soul. It’s too scary to tell her the days I spend in the studio in New York make me think I’m claustrophobic. The evenings where I’m crammed inside and wishing for fresh air, small towns, and sweet tea in a mason jar on Cooper’s porch with my boys. Instead, I decide on the elephant in the room. The other part I’m not going to mention to her.
Not yet.
I like this bubble we’ve found ourselves in too much to burst it by saying we’re going after the same job. It will dredge up old animosity, and I want to stay in this moment for as long as I can. It’s too nice to want to bolt away.
“So. The NWS, huh?” I ask, hoping that everything we’ve been through today has distracted her from my reaction earlier to hearing the news from Ernie. Or, if she did notice the change in my behavior, she’s forgotten about it by now. We’ve lived a hundred lives since then. It’s probably the last thing on her mind. “That’s new.”
“Making videos is great, but I want to do more. Taking people into the action is where I’m going to make the biggest difference. I don’t care about followers or numbers or anything like that. It sounds so cheesy, but I want to … inspire, I guess, the next generation of weather lovers. Especially young girls. I remember growing up and watching my local meteorologist every night. She was sopassionateabout what she talked about, and it made me want to be passionate about it too. I’m learning I’m happiest when I’m in the thick of the storms. It makes me wonder if there’s a better way I could …” Quincy trails off, the sentence unfinished. Whatever she isn’t saying is a secret for her, and I don’t push it. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
Listening to her is making it obvious why she wants to pivot and try something new. She thinks she needs to work harder to have a bigger purpose. As if what she’s doing isn’t enough, when that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“You’re not,” I say. “I get it. I have the easiest job in the world. Thousands of people in our field would kill to go on-air for an houra day and make a seven-figure salary. But lately, I’ve been wondering what good is all that shit if you’re miserable?”
“Wait.” Her face softens. She moves her plate out of the way, leaning closer. “Are you miserable?”
“Not miserable. Just … burned-out. Stuck.” It slips out before I can stop it, and I wince. “I love what I do, but I don’tlikewhat I do. Not right now, at least. Does that make sense?”
