“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no door slamming.”
“She slammed the door in your face.” Nate pops a breakfast potato in his mouth. “Serves you right for saying you were the only one out of the two of you who was … what was it? Oh, yeah.Doing important work for the meteorological community.”
“Dude.” Cooper shakes his head. “Not cool.”
“I didn’t—” I grind my teeth together. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
The memory is hazy.
She was using big, science-y words, and it made me flustered.
Intelligence has always been my biggest turn-on, and she was throwing out some of my favorite lingo likethermodynamicsandmacroburstandadiabaticthe way other people talk about television shows.
The nail in my coffin that makes me even weaker?
When a woman is confident and knows what she brings to the table, and Quincy has always been wildly fucking self-assured.
“This is an interrogation.” I accidentally knock the sugar shaker over then set it back upright. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m not on any side,” Cooper says.
“Same.” Nate nods. “I’m neutral.”
“I’m still not sure why y’all don’t get along. She likes the rest of us just fine.”
“Probably because they can’t be more opposite. Sebby is chaotic and loud. Totally unorganized and flying by the seat of his pants.”
“Hey,” I interject. “I’m not—”
“It’s not a bad thing. Look how successful you are.” Nate gestures my way. “Quincy is methodical. She sticks to research and data and science when she talks about weather, while you’re full of energy and operate on vibes most of the time. You’re both good at what you do. You just take different approaches.”
“You should do a segment together. You can’t make a docuseries about hurricane season without mentioning Quin. She’s a staple in your industry,” Coop adds.
“She’s something,” I mumble. “And it’s not my fault my charisma is confused with chaos.”
“Come on.” Cooper laughs. “You’re not too much of a dick to acknowledge she knows her stuff, are you?”
Knows her stuffis putting it lightly.
Quincy is the smartest meteorologist I’ve ever met. She pays attention to detail and sees the things other people miss. Years in a classroom with her have put us on a level playing field, but when she starts talking about a topic she’s passionate about?
Pretty sure my tongue hangs out of my mouth. I have hearts in my eyes, especially when she frames the conversation in a way the average person can understand.
“Nah, I’m not.” I pull on my collar. Sitting still is impossible. “She’s smart.”
“Remember the time you first met her? You looked around our chemistry classroom waiting for a dude to show up. When Quincy sat next to you, you hit on her and asked if she wanted to … what was it, Nate?”
“Play seven minutes in heaven during lunch.” Nathan Shaw, who’s always been known as the grouchiest fucker in the world, laughs at my expense. “The earful she gave you after that was pure poetry.”
I’ll never forget the look in her eye when I kicked my feet up on the table and folded my syllabus into an origami heart, tossing it her way with a wink.
What do you say we skip lunch and do something more fun?I asked.
And what would that be?she answered, opening her notebook and not paying any attention to me.
I hear seven minutes in heaven can be a blast. I promise I’ll make you see the stars.
