Page 30 of Weather Girl

“Hey,” he says, tugging on his collar in this way he tends to do when he’s nervous. Today’s jacket is more casual, a KSEA 6 zip-up. “This is Elodie. Elodie, this is Ari.”

Elodie surveys me, blue eyes behind thin oval glasses, and I’ve never before wondered if my fashion sense is preteen-approved. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversize striped sweater and looks two hundred percent cooler than I do in my suitable-for-a-long-drive leggings and UW atmospheric sciences department sweatshirt.

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

“You too.” I busy my hands fidgeting with the strap of my bag. “Your dad said you’re in the school play?”

“Musical,” she corrects, with all the confidence of a theater kid, but I can tell she’s pleased he mentioned her. She holds up the book she was reading, which I now see is a script. “It’s Alice in Wonderland. I’m the Queen of Hearts.”

“Ooh, the villains always get the best songs.”

Her eyes widen. “You know musicals?”

“I know zero about sports, but musicals, I’m all over,” I say. “My brother and I used to save up money to catch the Broadway tours when they came through Seattle. We saw Dear Evan Hansen last year and it was transformative.”

Elodie lets out a shriek. “I’ve been wanting that one to come back here forever! It was amazing, wasn’t it? Did you cry?”

“So much,” I tell her, and just like that, her hesitation turns to a combination of jealousy and awe.

Russell clears his throat. I hope I haven’t said too much to her, though I’m nothing to Russell but a coworker. A co-schemer. “Her mom was about to pick her up, but she just texted that she’s running late,” he says. “Do you mind if we stick around a few minutes?”

“Oh—sure. That’s completely fine.”

Except he looks deeply uncomfortable, focusing on plucking a stray thread from his jacket and not quite making eye contact. It’s clear this wasn’t planned, that Elodie’s mother was supposed to be here before I pulled up. I’m not sure how many people at work have met his kid, but I’m going to guess not many. Again, I wonder how old he is. After the birthday dance, I had to hold myself back from asking because I worried he’d be able to tell I was doing mental math. For all I know, she could be adopted, though there’s a clear physical resemblance in the blue of their eyes, the shape of their faces.

“Do you want me to wait in the car?” I ask.

Russell’s brow furrows. “No, of course not. You can come inside.”

A bit gingerly, I step over the threshold, like maybe Russell’s hiding even more secrets inside. The house is cozy, warm tones and plush rugs, bright-colored vintage artwork on the walls along with framed photos of Elodie as a baby, as a kid, as the preteen she is now. And of course, some sports memorabilia: a black-and-white team photo, a framed jersey with the name of a player I don’t recognize.

“It’s a great house,” I say as I spot a wood fireplace in the living room.

“It was a bit of a fixer-upper.” He leans against the wall next to a photo of toddler Elodie clutching a stuffed cow and grinning at the camera. “But the fixing is all wrapped up, at least for now. There are a few more things I’d like to do to it, but it’s tough to find the time. No one told me that when you get a house, your weekends are spent primarily fixing up the house.”

“Do not get him started on the house,” Elodie warns. “He’ll never stop.”

“If I recall, you were a pretty big fan of the loft we built in your room.”

Elodie mimes zipping her lips. “What? I love the house? Say anything you want about the house?”

My mind is working overtime to process this. This is Russell Barringer, father. Homeowner. Wearer of excellent jackets. Maybe I wasn’t getting to know him that well after all.

When Russell’s phone lights up in his hand, he doesn’t even let it complete its first ring. “She’s here,” he says to Elodie. “You have everything you need?”

“Let’s see, hair dye, DIY tattoo kit, fake ID... check, check, and check.” If I didn’t already know she was a theater kid, her killer straight face confirms it. “Don’t have too much fun.”

“That’s my line.” He pulls her in for a hug, and oh—oh no. Something terrible is happening to my heart.

The wind chimes sing, and a white woman with a brunette pixie cut and long wool coat appears, pushing open the door.

“Elodie?” she says, stepping inside. “You ready?” Then her gaze lands on me, her face splitting into a grin. “Hi! You must be Ari Abrams.” She extends her hand. “I feel like I know you already! I watch you every morning.”

“Oh—thank you?” I phrase it like a question because this scene feels straight out of a sitcom. This is Elodie’s mother. And she’s... excited to meet me? I’m getting too many mystery pieces of Russell all at once.

“Sorry, I’m Liv. Ahhh, I’m a little starstruck!” She laughs, running a hand through her short hair. “I know, I know, Russ is on TV, too, but we’ve known each other forever. So this is like... meeting a local celebrity.”

“I definitely don’t feel like a celebrity when I’m microwaving frozen ravioli in my 450-square-foot studio apartment,” I say, and it’s meant to be a way to break the tension, but it only comes out sounding pathetic.

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