Page 57 of Weather Girl

“We still haven’t defined it or anything. And he has a kid, and... I’ve never dated anyone with a kid.”

“You two are smart,” she says, sounding encouraging. “You’ll figure it out.”

With a jolt, I realize this is the kind of reaction I’d want from my mother. In an alternate universe where my mother is the first person I tell about a new relationship, this is how I’d want to her reply.

And it makes me pull out one of my sunshine grins and immediately change the subject.

“This is a gorgeous house,” I say, because if there’s one thing people with nice houses like, it’s showing off how nice their house is. “When did you say it was built?”

But Torrance doesn’t take the bait. “You’re always doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Giving out compliments like that. Completely out of nowhere.” She backtracks, as though worried she’s offended me, which might be a Torrance first. “It’s not that they aren’t nice, they’re just... a bit random, I guess.”

“I—I’m sorry.” It isn’t that I don’t mean them, but of course, I can’t tell her the real reason. “I guess I just... get too deep in my head sometimes.” I drain my glass of wine, hoping this works as a brush-off. “I’m serious, though. I’d love to see more of the house.”

And maybe Torrance realizes that’s all she’s going to get from me, so she leaps up—still elegant, still poised, though probably not for long, if the amount of wine in her glass is any indication—and starts the tour.

She leads me through the kitchen, an exercise room, gestures toward a hot tub in her backyard. The hallway is lined with photos, a tribute to Torrance and Seth and questionable fashion choices. Seth with a mullet, Torrance in the mid-nineties with the Rachel haircut.

“That’s me the first year I was on TV,” she says, tapping her hair in the photo. “That didn’t work for my face at all. Somewhere, a hairdresser should lose their license.” She lets out a half laugh, her gaze lingering on the next picture, one of a surprisingly scrawny Seth in a too-big suit jacket. “But Seth looks cute here.”

Then there’s Patrick, her son, growing up, getting braces, graduating high school. Patrick and his wife, Roxanne.

We end the tour back in the all-white kitchen, where I spot the succulent Seth gave her, sitting on the marble counter all by itself. “Seth knew how much I loved this house,” she says. “He wanted me to keep it.”

“It seems like you two have been getting cozy lately?” I say.

“That night on the yacht was... well, it was amazing, to be honest,” she says, running her knuckles along the leaves of the succulent. And—she’s blushing.

Torrance Hale is blushing.

“Amazing, huh?”

“Against all odds, yes. Even if part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“And... you haven’t been seeing anyone else?” I ask, thinking back to when I saw her at brunch. If we’re intruding on some other relationship, I have to know.

“A couple dates here and there,” she says, dismissing this with a wave of her hand, and the relief is immediate. “Nothing serious.”

“Seth has seemed... less antagonistic lately. Maybe it’s because you two have been spending so much time together.”

“Huh. I didn’t know you two were close.” She lets go of the plant and reaches for another bottle of wine. “Anyway. I don’t want to get too sappy because it doesn’t go with my brand, but this is fun. Thank you. Even if it’s the least wild girls’ night in the history of girls’ nights.”

Against all odds, Torrance Hale and I might be becoming something I never anticipated.

We might be something like friends.

•••

“I WANT TO tell you a secret,” Torrance says from the armchair, legs dangling off one side of it. From where I’m sprawled across her couch, decorative pillows in a heap on the floor, I can’t see her face. I thought drunk Torrance was weird, but happy-drunk Torrance is even weirder. “Did you know”—hiccup—“my last name isn’t really Hale?”

“What? What is it?”

Her head pops up as she repositions herself in the chair, regarding me with a serious look. “Dalrymple. It’s Scottish. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I was Torrance Dalrymple. No one could spell it, let alone pronounce it. Then when I was going into broadcasting, I thought it would be easier, and maybe even catchy, if my name matched the job. There were so many meteorologists who had gimmicky names, like Storm Field or Johnny Mountain. I didn’t want it to be too obvious, like Torrance Tornado or something.”

“Torrance Barometric Pressure really rolls off the tongue.”

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