“We don’t have a good streak going, do we? At least we’re safe in the confines of my office this time.”
“Any chance of a freak storm popping up that is going to hover directly over your house?”
“Not in the forecast.” Her lips twitch. She rests her elbow on her desk, chin cradled in her hand. Thirty thousand people are watching us, but she’s only watching me. “Should be a good day.”
“It already is,” I say, and her smile grows.
“There’s not a lot on the agenda today, y’all. The tropics are stagnant, which is always a good thing this time of year. There’s a common misconception that more storms are produced at the beginning of hurricane season, but the most activity happens mid-August to late October. Seeing that we’re approaching late August, we’re officially in the peak period.”
“I think you just cursed us, Monroe.” I elbow her side. She squeaks, following it up with a laugh. “You know the first rule of hurricane season.”
“Don’t talk about a quiet hurricane season. Dammit. You’re probably right. I take it back!”
“Too late. The weather gods are angry. You need to offer them something to repent for your misguidance.”
“Can I offer them you?” She tilts her head, looking my way again. “Surely that would satisfy them.”
“I was thinking more like an umbrella or barometer, but, fine. You know what?” I give her foot a tap under the desk. “I’ll take one for the team and do it.”
Quincy finishes her water and I disappear briefly to refill her glass, sliding it in front of her along with a handful of almonds on a paper towel after I hear her stomach rumble.
“The viewer numbers went down the second you left the room,” she tells me. “I might have to get a cardboard cutout of you and put it up every morning so people are more likely to watch.”
“What can I say? It’s a plight to be as good looking as me. And don’t lie. You’d keep the cutout in your room where you could stare at it all day.”
That earns me a kick to the shin before there’s a somber shift in our conversation to the upcoming anniversaries of Hurricane Andrew and Katrina, and we spend some time talking about the significance of their impact years later.
Someone asks how long we’ve known each other, which turns into a fifteen-minute history lesson of our high school and college years. When Quincy laughs at a joke I make so loudly that her desk shakes, I wonder what it would be like to do this every day.
We feed off each other. It’s natural, laid-back. There aren’t any awkward pauses or struggles to move the conversation along, and it’s the easiest time I’ve had in front of a camera in months.
“Is it really almost eleven?” Quincy taps the clock in the corner of her computer screen. “We talked for two hours, which means we kept y’all for way too long.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun, right?” I prop my elbow up, looking her way. “And I, for one, had a blast.”
“Sebastian won’t be joining us tomorrow, but you can find him on social media. His handle is @TheWeatherGuy. I hope to see some of you back here at nine a.m. Until then, be safe. Be kind. Take care of yourselves and others, and we’ll chat more soon.”
“Can I do the official sign-off?”
“Do you think you’re ready for that kind of responsibility?”
“Yeah.” I drag my palms over my thighs. “I can do it.”
“Go ahead, Dunn.”
“Okay.” I roll my shoulders back and grin at the camera. “Chase ya later.”
The screen goes blank, ending the live stream. Almost forty thousand people tuned in to hear us talk, and it’s a testament to howgoodshe is at all of this. How important she is, and it’s an honor to sit next to her.
I get it now.
The job at the NWS isn’t mine to have.
It always belonged to her.
“Wow.” Quincy throws her hair up into a messy ponytail. “That was the smoothest show I’ve ever done.”
“Probably helps that you weren’t trying to cover an impending natural disaster.”
