Page 7 of Weather Girl

Guy who smiled at me on the bus last week and who upon closer inspection was hiding not one but two ferrets inside his coat: so cute.

Guy in the employee cafeteria who somehow manages to make a beard hairnet look alluring: against all odds, extremely cute.

That’s all they are, though—fleeting oh, he’s cutes. Given how disastrously it ended with Garrison, they have to stay that way, which means giving up on my dream of becoming Mrs. Beard Hairnet.

“I always feel a little weird at these things,” Russell says, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “If anyone’s talking to me, it’s usually because they want to know what their favorite player is like off the field, and if so-and-so is as much of a dick as everyone says he is.”

“Same, except they want to complain about the weather. At least the food is good. It’s possibly the only thing that makes all of this worth it.”

He nods toward a display in one corner. “Not a fan of baby Jesus riding Rudolph?”

“Oh—I’m Jewish,” I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place. “Not exactly the most inclusive holiday party.”

He goes quiet as he glances around, and my regret quadruples. Russell and I aren’t close. All the complaining we do about our bosses—it’s lighthearted. I’d never want him to think I’m the complete opposite of the sunshine girl I am on camera. I do my best to make sure no one does. “It’s certainly festive,” he says in this strange flat way.

Still, there’s prime rib and honey-lemon asparagus and caramelized-onion mac and cheese. Our station may be dysfunctional, but we’re not hurting for cash. Russell and I fill our plates in relative silence, save for a moment when he tells me an asparagus spear is dangerously close to tumbling off my plate, and return to our respective tables: Russell with the rest of the sports desk, me as a ninth wheel.

Once the buffet has been demolished, the overhead lights dim, leaving just the twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling and wrapped around Christmas trees. Torrance and Seth take the ballroom stage, Torrance looking like a fierce snow goddess in a silver jumpsuit, Seth in a slate-gray tux and candy cane-printed tie, dark hair slicked back in this way that makes him look like a movie star from the 1940s.

Our gorgeous, terrible overlords.

“Good evening, everyone,” Torrance says into the microphone, the lighting turning her curls golden. “We want to thank you for another amazing year.”

“We’re able to tell important stories and maintain high ratings because of each and every one of you. From news, to sports, to weather.” Seth’s eyes land on Torrance, mouth curving upward. “And a big congratulations to Torrance for being named Seattle’s favorite meteorologist for the seventh year in a row by Northwest Magazine!”

Ample applause. Almost three decades after she started here, Torrance still nails it every night.

A rack next to them displays a collection of awards, something they also like to do every year. It’s nice, I have to admit, to see this clear measure of success in the form of winged statuettes.

“And congratulations, too, to our station for sixteen regional Emmy nominations and five wins!” Torrance says. “Including Seth’s stellar piece about the revitalization of Seattle’s waterfront.”

She claps him on the shoulder, and he gives her this aw-shucks grin. There’s a moment—or at least, I think there’s a moment—when their eyes lock and they retract their claws and they look like two people who used to love each other. Used to respect each other. Torrance’s icy exterior seems to melt, and Seth even touches her hand, giving it a few pats. It’s a great performance; I can almost believe they don’t despise each other.

Torrance and Seth getting along: maybe this really is the most wonderful time of the year.

She’s clearly in a good mood tonight. I’d love to catch her alone, have a real conversation. I vow to do it as soon as she’s free.

“With dinner winding down—yes, let’s give it up for the Hilton catering staff!” Seth breaks for applause. “With dinner winding down, we wanted to get started on what’s always been our favorite KSEA tradition. You know what that means... it’s time for our annual white elephant gift exchange!”

Our tables are arranged in a semicircle around the ballroom’s largest tree, and with more than sixty people in attendance, there’s a significant stack of boxes beneath it. I brought a cheese board shaped like Washington state I found at a boutique near my apartment.

“Please don’t bring home anything embarrassing,” Hannah says to Nate.

“I’m offended. You know you’ve used last year’s Ove Glove as much as I have, if not more.”

Our places at the table had numbers when we arrived that designated our order in the game. Hannah winds up going first, unwrapping a trio of scented candles. Reporter Bethany Choi goes next, picking an oddly shaped package that turns out to be a tiny USB-powered vacuum.

Then it’s Seth’s turn. He bypasses Hannah’s and Bethany’s gifts for something new, and I have never seen a grown man’s face light up the way his does when he pulls out a breakfast sandwich maker. “No way,” he says, holding it like I imagine a parent holds their newborn baby for the first time. “This can do an English muffin, egg, and ham all at the same time?”

“And cheese,” offers up Chris Torres. “I have one of those. It’s a game changer.”

“I do love breakfast sandwiches.” Seth tucks it under his arm and heads back to his seat. “If anyone comes for this, I hope they’re ready to forgo their next raise. Kidding, of course.”

“I don’t think he’s kidding,” I whisper to Hannah.

“Funny you’re so enamored with that,” Torrance says in a tone that suggests it isn’t funny at all. “Because as I recall, I bought you something very similar—some might even say identical—for Christmas one year.”

“Yeah. You did. And you took it in the divorce,” Seth says calmly.

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