Page 37 of Weather Girl

His blue eyes flick up to mine, and then back down to the bed. “Elodie was born when I was seventeen.”

Oh.

“You just turned twenty-nine?” It’s not the first question on my list, but it’s the only one that comes out.

He nods, still not making eye contact. “Liv and I had been dating since freshman year of high school, and we’d known each other since we were kids. Our parents were best friends, and we even hid our relationship for the first few months we were dating because we didn’t want them to get too involved. Obviously the pregnancy wasn’t anything we were planning,” he says with a rough laugh. “We talked about it, and we weighed all the options, and ultimately it was her choice. She wanted to have the baby, and I wanted to be there for her any way I could.”

I’m still trying to process this, searching for the right thing to say. “I can’t imagine how hard that was,” I settle on.

“An understatement. The year she was born was the hardest of my life. We were teen parents. We had no fucking clue what we were doing. We were lucky that our parents supported her choice, and I know now that we both had a tremendous amount of privilege. Don’t get me wrong, they were furious, and they were disappointed. But they helped us out, both financially and as babysitters. Kids at school were considerably less understanding. Some of them tried, and some teachers, too, but there was so much judgment. Liv got the worst of it, and I felt terrible.

“And I did it, too, for a while,” he continues, and at this, he finally meets my gaze again. It’s not pain in his eyes, I don’t think—it might be weariness. “I judged myself so harshly. How could I have made this mistake that would irrevocably alter the course of my life? I’d wanted to go to college, maybe on a hockey scholarship, but I quit—I had to. It was expensive, something I’d been fortunate enough not to think about very much when my parents were footing the bill, but suddenly everything was expensive, and of course, there wasn’t enough time.”

“And you and Liv stayed together, at least for a while?”

“Until sophomore year of college, yeah. It took us a couple extra semesters to make it through, but we managed. Liv studied engineering, and she got a job offer in Seattle almost right after she graduated. She didn’t want to take Elodie away from me, and I didn’t want to be away from either of them, so moving was an easy decision to make.”

“And then you wound up at KSEA.”

“Not right away,” he says. “I networked a ton, freelanced a ton. Became friends with the guy who used to have my job, who put in a good word when he moved to ESPN. I don’t think Edible Arrangements makes a big enough basket to thank him for what he did for me.” A pause as he reaches out to help me with the stubborn wrapper of a Twix. “I still have a lot of residual anxiety from all of it, I guess. I don’t talk about Elodie much at work because I don’t want to have to explain how old I was when she was born. I don’t want anyone leaping to the conclusion that because I was a teen dad, that must make me a fuckup.”

“You are absolutely not a fuckup.” I place my right hand on his arm. “Russell. You’re not.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide her. And I love being a father. I love Elodie—she’s the most important person in my life. So when you met Elodie, and then Liv showed up, I just... shut down.”

“I get it. I mean, I haven’t been through it, but I understand why, and I’m not judging you. I wouldn’t.” As if of its own accord, my hand strokes up and down along his arm. The meds must be making me loopy, giving me this freedom to touch him in ways I may not have been brave enough to do otherwise. “Thank you. For telling me.”

“I wanted you to meet her,” he says. “And that was before I knew you were as into show tunes as she is.”

I try not to linger on what it might mean that he wanted me to meet her. “She’s got great taste.” Slowly, I move my hand away, dropping it back to the bed. “You and Liv are still close? That’s pretty impressive.”

“It took a while to get there, but yes, I guess so. I never wanted to be the kind of parents who made things hell for their kid by not being together, so it’s been a huge relief. There were a couple years where it was awkward with the two of us, but maybe because we’d been friends for so long before Elodie, we eventually found our way back to that. We alternate custody every other week, and so far we haven’t had any problems with it,” he says. “Liv got married a few years ago, and they had a baby last year, Clementine, who Elodie absolutely adores. We’re a complicated family, maybe, but it works.”

“They all seem wonderful. Truly.”

He gives me this half smile, and I want so badly to make this equal, to let him in the way I softly knocked and asked for his secrets. It’s different from how I’ve felt with guys before, and sure, that could be the meds, too, or maybe it’s that I feel this distinct sense of calm around him. But the way I’m lying down, my shirt is twisted behind my back, and I can’t move without jostling my arm.

I must make some kind of noise because Russell’s face turns serious again, that cute furrow appearing between his brows. It’s a good thing he wears glasses—without that barrier, the lovely blue of his eyes would be far too powerful.

“You okay, weather girl?”

God, that nickname. Why does it sound even sexier at night in a hotel room? “Yeah, I just—I might be more comfortable in pajamas?”

“I could help you change,” he says, and then quickly adds: “Only if you want me to.”

My burgundy sweater is across the room, but I’m still in a button-up. Jeans. A belt.

It’s a lot of clothing to need help with.

“Don’t sound too eager to get me undressed,” I tease.

A flush creeps onto his cheeks. “I swear to god, that’s not where my mind was going.”

I snicker as I lift myself off the bed and stumble toward my suitcase, digging through it one-handed before producing my pajamas, a short-sleeved Henley and a pair of shorts that I know for a fact are see-through. When I catch my reflection in the mirror above the desk, all my bravado vanishes. I should put the hotel room ice bucket over my head—I’d look cuter. “I’m a mess right now, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” he says, and even if he’s just being nice, I don’t hate hearing it. “I don’t think you could look like a mess even if you tried.”

He moves closer, until there’s only a foot and a half of space between us, and reaches for my belt buckle. My most innocent clothing item. He undoes it as delicately as if it were made of glass, and instead of letting it thump to the floor, drapes it on the armchair next to my suitcase. Then he carefully un-Velcros my sling, placing it next to the belt so neatly, I have to wonder if this is how he does his laundry, too.

---