Page 3 of Forecasting the Forward

“Hey!” Jacob calls out.

I shake my head, choosing to walk swiftly in the opposite direction from where I need to go, but I don’t notice it until my arm is grabbed and I’m spun around.

“What?” I snap.

Jacob chuckles, and I feel the sound like the lightest of touches wafting across my skin. “You want your phone back, or is it mine now?”

I look at his bemused expression, one hand extended as he holds my phone toward me. “Oh. Yeah. Uh, sorry.”

“Also, Spitfire, I think you were walking that way,” he says, gesturing with his head behind us. “Although it’s nice knowing I rattled you.”

“I’m not rattled,” I lie. “I forgot where I was going for a second.”

“Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that,” he says with a wicked grin.

“I just got turned around when I ran into you. Maybe I have a concussion from hitting your massive body.” Blood drains from my face as my eyes widen, and Jacob’s grin gets even bigger. “I mean you’re like a brick wall, and I probably hit those amazingpecs. At least I didn’t hit your dick, and oh my God, I need to stop talking now.”

Jacob throws his head back in laughter, and mortification covers me. Growing up, I had trouble with not recognizing when I needed a filter. It took years of working on communication, as well as a very long-standing relationship with my therapist, to teach me the social skills I lacked. One interaction with Jacob Mitchell has me reeling, and I’m spiraling as I think back to a tumultuous childhood where I never felt I got the support and unconditional love I craved.

“I have to go,” I mumble, ducking my head as I dash toward the station. I hear Jacob call after me, but I’m too embarrassed to stop. I pop into the building next to our station, knowing there’s a connecting hallway, uneasy Jacob might follow me and do … something. I don’t know what.

Dashing into the first women’s bathroom I can find, I collapse into the last stall, locking the door with shaky hands. A whirlwind of memories takes over as my breathing quickens.

How embarrassing can you be, Rebecca?

You have to apologize to the Miltons. You humiliated us.

I can’t take you there! You’ll say something stupid.

Such a disgrace, Rebecca.

Shut your mouth before you say something ridiculous.

God, my sister is so re —

No. I will not think of that word, and any of the other vile things my brother said to me growing up.

As the spiral threatens to take over, I hear a very distant voice reminding me that I control my own thoughts. My therapist, Simone, has been a light in the darkness for over a decade. She taught me years ago to focus on the present, looking at everything around me to ensure the past doesn’t overwhelm me.You’ve got this, Becca. They don’t define you.

I breathe raggedly as I take in my surroundings. It’s been quite some time since someone, especially a man, threw me off my game so soundly. Simone is probably going to have all kinds of thoughts on this interaction.

Ten minutes later, my breathing under control and my skin no longer flushed, I make my way back to my cubicle at the station. I’m fortunate to have a desk by west-facing windows, giving me a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains. Cumulus clouds build above the mountain peaks, sure to bring some late summer thunderstorms to someone along the front range of Colorado. I sigh, shaking my head in awestruck wonder that I get to live here.

My usual gig is working the morning shift, but today I’m also covering the afternoon time slot for another meteorologist. I’ve been up since just after two in the morning, and I won’t get home until around dinnertime. My phone chimes with a text from my ChatBook app, and I find myself smiling as I look forward to whatever my online friend has sent me.

I hate dating apps. Loathe them. The percentage of men who use them as a way to cheat on their partners, send unsolicited dick pics, blatantly lie about their lives, and treat women abysmally just makes me lean into the expectation I’ll be living alone with my cats for the rest of my life. I’m only on ChatBook because it’s more about conversation and connection than it is about ‘matching’ with someone. It started for me as a joke, and has never moved past messages. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m completely anonymous on this app, using a stock photo of a bouquet of my favorite flower, a hyacinth, as my profile pic, and never using my name. My username is NerdGirl1025. I’m careful about giving out any personal details, and have yet to tell StickUM92 what state I live in. The only reason I know StickUM is male is because his profile pic is of his feet at the edge of what I think is the ocean. Well, I assume they’re his feet. Maybethey aren’t. Maybe I’m talking to a sixty-seven-year-old dog-hating woman who never leaves her dingy apartment in Queens. Whatever the case, StickUM makes me laugh whenever I read his — or her — messages.

StickUM92: I cannot stand olives. How they look, taste, and even smell. I honestly can’t understand how anyone can cook with them, let alone eat a handful. I’ve always hated them, which sucked as a kid because my mom thought they were a food group, and put them on everything. Because we were a “you sit here until you clean your plate” family, I was forced to finish them. A few times, I got away with telling her I had to go to the bathroom, then spitting a mouthful out. She caught onto that real quick, and then she checked my mouth before I was allowed to leave the table. Mom knows I don’t like olives, but just sent me a big box of various olives for my birthday.

NerdGirl1025: It’s your birthday? Oh wow! Happy birthday! Sorry about the olives, though. I hate them as well. I can’t even eat anything with olive juice on it. They taint the entire meal. There are so many other vegetables I prefer! I can dump broccoli sprouts on everything, and eat a cucumber right off the vine.

StickUM92: Right? Tainted. And my birthday was in May. Never had broccoli sprouts, though.

NerdGirl1025: You’re missing out on broccoli sprouts. Under-represented.

NerdGirl1025: But about your birthday … seriously? And your own mother screwed it up?

StickUM92: I know. My mom either forgot to send them in May, or she doesn’t remember when my birthday is. Honestly, I’m not surprised by any of it.

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