Page 8 of Weather Girl

From a table away, I catch Russell’s eye, and I don’t miss the twitch to his jaw.

We make it through the next few players without incident, and then it’s my turn. I pick a craft cocktail kit that gets stolen in the next round. That makes it my turn again, and that’s when I see the opportunity.

Torrance is still sulking while Seth reads the sandwich maker box, making a big show of it. The game had a fifty-dollar limit, so it’s not as if it’s something he couldn’t have bought for himself, but I can tell it’s the principle of the thing. And if I want Torrance to like me, or at the very least to respect me—I’m a realist, I know I can’t have both—I have to do something to earn it. Clearly, that something hasn’t happened during work hours yet. At the station, I either disappear or distract, though it usually ends up being the former. Tonight, maybe I can smooth some of the friction between them.

“I’ll take the breakfast sandwich maker?” I say. It comes out like a question.

Both Seth’s and Torrance’s heads whip toward me. There’s this unspoken rule in white elephant: you don’t steal from your boss.

“You don’t want this, Ari,” Seth says. “It’s a piece of junk. It’ll probably break the first time I use it.”

“She can make up her own damn mind, Seth.” Torrance is not doing a great job suppressing her glee. She might be seconds away from leaping across the circle to yank the gift from Seth’s grasp. “If she wants the breakfast sandwich maker, she should take it. It looks like it can make mini pizzas, too?”

“Yeah.” Seth crosses his arms, biceps straining against the suit fabric. “It can.”

Suddenly I’m no longer sure if I want to get in the middle of some Torrance-and-Seth pettiness. I glance around the circle, most people averting their eyes. I didn’t know a party game could be this fraught. But of course, this is what the Hales do. The Hales are why we can’t have nice things. They turn anything, even a simple game at a holiday party that is a Christmas party with one sad menorah ornament, into a standoff.

“I—I can take something else,” I say. “I’ll steal something, or I’ll pick a new gift, or—”

But Seth’s already stepping forward and handing it over, and that is how I learn it’s possible to feel both triumphant and like a total piece of shit at the same time.

He picks another gift, one with penguin-patterned wrapping paper. “A set of reusable straws. Cool,” he says, with all the excitement of a kid who’s gotten socks for their birthday.

“Great!” Torrance’s smile gleams brighter than it does on TV. “Who’s next?”

•••

THE PARTY DRAGS on, dessert and dancing and people laughing over their white elephant gifts. Fleetingly, I wonder why Garrison couldn’t have waited to dump me until after New Year’s. Then at least we wouldn’t have had to suffer through these parties alone. Though he’s probably having a blast at his investment firm’s annual yacht party.

I’m picking at a plate of “holiday” cookies—a Santa, a tree, a sleigh—and debating giving up on the whole thing when Torrance drops into the chair next to me. “Hey there, Ari Abrams,” she says, the words running into one another. Drunk. And still, her lipstick hasn’t budged. If we ever become close, which would require one of us developing incurable amnesia, I’ll beg her to teach me her tricks. “Ari Abrams. It’s a good name for TV, isn’t it?”

“I hope so, given that I’m already on TV.” I inch a glass of water her way, hoping she’ll take the hint. I like Sloppy Torrance even less than Hurricane Torrance.

“I’m sorry about all of that,” Torrance says, waving her wine toward the mess of wrapping paper and empty boxes, the liquid forming a merlot tsunami inside her glass.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, because I’m so used to being steamrolled when it comes to Torrance that I can even do it to myself. And then, because I hope I didn’t sound too dismissive, I add: “Congratulations again on the awards. There’s no one who deserves favorite meteorologist more than you.” Positivity. There.

But she ignores the compliment, giving me this look I’m not sure I’ve seen on her before. Apologetic? A few mascara crumbs dot her cheekbones, and her face is flushed a warm pink, and those cracks in her façade make me soften a little. “It’s not okay, Abrams. And you don’t have to say it is just because I’m your boss.”

Some of the tension I’ve held onto all night, or maybe even for the past three years, loosens. Not a lot, but it’s a start.

“I wish it weren’t so rocky between Seth and me,” she continues. If their relationship is rocky, Mount Everest is a speed bump. “It’s always been intense. When we were in love, we had so much passion that sometimes we couldn’t even be in the same room without wanting to rip each other’s clothes off. And then, when we fell out of it... that intensity was still there. It just morphed.”

Not sure if I needed to hear about my boss and this particular kind of passion in the same sentence, but more power to her. I hope someone still wants to rip my clothes off when I’m in my fifties.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Oh, a lot of little things that probably seemed about as petty as our arguments these days. I’m not sure either of us could pinpoint a single event that caused it.” She says this breezily, but she’s not making eye contact. Instead she’s watching Seth across the room, laughing with a trio of anchors and their spouses. “I figured one of us would leave KSEA, give the other some breathing room. But either we’re both too committed to the station or we’re playing the world’s longest game of chicken.”

I think about that for a long moment as the band starts playing a jazzy version of “Winter Wonderland” and couples head to the dance floor. I get the distinct sense there’s more to the story, but I’m not about to push.

“Plus,” she continues, “our son Patrick—his wife’s pregnant. Due in May. I never thought I’d feel this way, but I can’t wait to be a grandmother.” At that, her face changes, smile turning genuine. “I wasn’t close with my grandparents, and I always wish I’d been. I love the idea of being able to babysit whenever they need it, being there for every birthday and holiday. I don’t think I could leave Seattle. And I’m guessing Seth feels the same way.”

“That’s really great,” I say, meaning it. Of all the things I didn’t expect from Torrance tonight, a confession that she can’t wait to be a grandmother is near the top of the list. That gooey center of my heart—it’s fully activated. “My brother has five-year-old twins, and they’re pretty fantastic.”

“You should bring them by the station sometime. Give them a tour.” Torrance covers my hand with hers. Her nails are painted silver with tiny white snowflakes. “And Ari, we should really talk more.” I don’t point out that she’s been the one doing most of the talking, and I don’t care if she’s drunk—this is too nice. I want to enjoy it as long as I can.

Buoyed, I turn back to my cookies, biting off Santa’s ruby-cheeked face. It tastes a whole lot sweeter than it did a few minutes ago.

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