“When’s that going to be?”
“Not sure. I’d like to stay as long as they’ll let me,” I say, but I know this project has an end date.
Everyone is on board with the series. They see the potential, but the problems start when I go days without sending any footage to the team in the studio because I don’t have any footage to share. It’s not a case of laziness. I can’t make a tornado appear out of thin air just to shoot some content, and my boss is starting to think I’m enjoying an extended vacation while my replacement fumbles his lines on national television.
Gary, the poor bastard, is just an intern. He mentioned rearend inflow the other night and giggled for three minutes straight. ABC had to cut to commercial, and I’ll be shocked if he makes it through the summer.
There’s a message in my inbox every few days asking when I’m planning to get back to the studio. Johnathan does his best to stick up for me, outlining that the likelihood for a hurricane to hit Florida is high, but the executives don’t want likelihood. They want sure things, and I know I’m running out of time. Grasping for any sort of way I can spin the series so I can stay in town a little while longer.
Dread takes up space in my stomach when I think about New York for too long, and I’m stalling. Without any news about the NWS position, I’m pulling excuses out of my ass. I tell my boss patience is a big component of this job. I mention that the hurricane season goes until the end of November, and the peak time to expect a tropical cyclone is mid-September. I’ve boasted about the up-close-and-personal viewpoint people will be able to watch firsthand because I was in the action. It’s Jurassic Park, but with weather!
The last one didn’t garner a reply, and the email I read at some point last night, caught between sleep and awake, told me I have until October 15 in Florida if I want to keep my job.
Two and a half months doesn’t feel like enough time to figure my shit out.
I’m hoping for some sort of epiphany. A revelation that will magically make all of this tolerable again, and I’ve been catching it in bits and pieces. I’ve found sparks of inspiration when I sit on Cooper’s porch with a beer and watch a thunderstorm roll in. It was there in South Florida when I took shelter in a parking garage. Again in a booth at Waffle House.
The more time I spend in Oak Valley, the more my heart tethers itself to the town like it did when I was younger.
It’s the easy way of life. Unhurried, but still important.
I have a routine, things I look forward to. It’s always the same: a morning run that ends in the center of town. Popping by Nate’sbakery, Whisk and Rise, for a croissant and an iced coffee where we shoot the shit. Heading back to Cooper’s an hour later with enough time to lock myself in my room and watch Quincy’s show.
I haven’t missed a day in seven years.
“Here’s fine.” I point to the parked car up ahead. “That’s her.”
“Her back right tire is low on air.” Cooper frowns. “I have a pump at my house. I’ll bring it by the day after tomorrow and take care of that for her.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” I clamp down on the jealousy that flickers in my chest. “Thanks for the ride, Coop.”
“Text me if you need anything else. I have my phone on.”
“Will do.” I open the passenger door, greeted by sticky humidity. Still-damp dirt and the smell of flowers. “Be safe.”
“Anything for you, Sebby.”
The drive to her house stretches long with traffic and construction work. I keep checking the clock, frustration mounting when I get stuck behind a Subaru doing forty-five down I4. At nine on the dot, the time when Quincy always starts her show, I take the exit for Oak Valley. I find a parking lot and snag a spot under a tree, waiting for her live video.
I’m sure she’ll talk through our experience from last night. She probably uploaded the footage to a split screen so she can dissect every detail. The things that went right: We escaped. The tornado dissipated. No one was hurt. The things that went wrong: Her injury. The tumble she took and how I can’t get the thought of losing her out of my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, I check Instagram. I tap her profile, confused when the last thing she posted was more than twelve hours ago.
Maybe it’s a glitch.
Switching over to YouTube, I search for her account. Shestreams her show simultaneously there to half a million followers, but there’s no notification of a live video under her handle.
By the time the clock reaches 9:15, I’m confused.
And fucking concerned.
She never misses a show. Four years ago, she was stuck in Heathrow Airport after a canceled flight and managed to snag enough Wi-Fi to go live from a cramped bathroom stall. Last July she was ten minutes late thanks to a flat tire on her way home from Whisk and Rise, and her comment section was full of people worried about her.
They might be thinking the worst this morning after yesterday’s events.
Shit.
I get back on the road, trying to remember the route to her place. I’ve only been there a handful of times—mostly to pick Mia up during the holidays when I’m back in town for a few days—and my shitty memory leads to a wrong turn and a dead-end street. There’s still no live video, and I’m vibrating with nerves when I finally pull into her driveway.
