Unfinished Ex (Calloway Brothers, #2)(5)

My broadcast starts. I never read from a script or teleprompter. Unless there is breaking weather news, my spots only last for a few minutes at a time, peppered through the morning show and the news show directly after.

Today is no different than every other day this week. August in Oklahoma is hot, humid, and mostly cloudy. Tornado season has long since passed, although we still get the occasional outbreak— a meteorologist’s dream.

My spot ends and I head over to my designated workspace, grabbing a muffin and a third cup of coffee along the way. I get on the computer knowing I’ll be back on air again in about thirty-five minutes. I’m always looking for something else, an edge to a story, a spin on the typical weather.

Sometimes it gets boring reciting the same information seven or eight times a day.

Last month, I was sure I’d be fired when I reported about homelessness and the heat wave, getting far too political by pointing out shortcomings in how the city deals with the indigent population. Instead, Marty brought me flowers and told me to keep up the good work. A week later, I pushed the envelope again when I did a clip of my own story and why I became a meteorologist. I was hoping to inspire young women to get excited about science. The station was flooded with texts, tweets, and emails about how much they loved the human element I brought to weather segments.

A week ago, Kenny Marin, the station manager, offered me a raise. I’m now making more than my predecessor, which delights me to no end considering he was a man. I know they’re afraid I’ll leave. Just like everyone else leaves eventually. I’ve had my eye on WMBZ in New Orleans. While Oklahoma City is exciting as the tornado capital of the US, New Orleans is a hurricane magnet. And if tornadoes are the meteorologist equivalent of crack to a drug addict, hurricanes are heroin.

While I’d be happy moving to a more well-known station here in Oklahoma, I’m ready for a change after being here for two years. It doesn’t quite feel like the place I’d settle down.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Great spot,” Marty says. He leans down. “Might want to get the scoop on what Scott Hayes from KMBL was reporting this morning.”

Before he’s even done speaking, I’m typing it in and pulling up Scott’s segment. Damned if I’m going to be the last broadcast meteorologist to report on hot topics.

Someday, I’m going to be the first.



~



I’m home by three p.m., and that’s after I’ve done my grocery shopping and picked up dinner.

Most days, I eat my evening meal in the late afternoon. If I’m not too tired, I work out, then I’m in bed by eight, sometimes seven. That’s the price I pay for having to be up at three o’clock each morning.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything—I rub the pendant on the end of my chain—well, almost anything.

I put away my groceries and set my takeout sushi on the table. I open a bottle of wine and then eat as I go through my email. I’ve been getting more fan mail lately. It’s mostly nice people telling me how much they like me, but some of it shouldn’t really be categorized as fan mail. Hate mail is more like it. Marty warned me there will always be people like this, people who criticize my hair or say I’m too fat, too skinny, or that my clothes are hideous. People who tell me how to do my job or frankly tell me to go get another job because I suck at mine.

I try to let the negative comments roll off me, but it’s hard. A lot of TV personalities have assistants to weed through their mail. Goals.

Thankfully, the last one I read is a gushing review of the reporting I did on the fires in Arizona last month.

I close my laptop on a high, putting all other thoughts aside.

I pour myself a second glass of wine and move on to my snail mail. There’s a second reminder that I haven’t signed a new lease for another twelve months. A credit card offer. The new National Geographic magazine.

Then I pause when I see it—the envelope I’ve been waiting for. Well, not waiting for as much as dreading. I don’t need to open it to know what it says inside. It says that I’m no longer Mrs. Jaxon Calloway. Not that I ever took his name. My maiden name was always the one I was going to use for my career. Nicole Forbes has that je ne sais quoi that Nicky Calloway doesn’t.

But this is it. It’s over. Jaxon is not my husband. I’m not his wife. We’re not married. It’s as if the last fourteen years have been erased with this one little envelope.

Emotions I didn’t anticipate bombard me. Guilt. Regret. Unbelievable sadness. I swallow them knowing there’s no one to blame but myself. I shouldn’t be allowed to be upset. I made this bed. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t leave him because I didn’t love him. I did. I guess I just loved weather more. I know that makes me a selfish bitch, which is why I did what I did. He shouldn’t have to live his life playing second fiddle to my first true love. He deserves a woman who wants the same things he does: marriage, family, Disney World vacations, and game nights. That was never going to be me, no matter how much I wanted it to be.

And according to Paige, the one friend I keep in touch with on Facebook, he’s moved on with someone who may be able to give him what he wants. Just… why does it have to be Calista Hilson?

My high school nemesis. The head cheerleader and class president—both junior and senior years.

The person everyone joked Jaxon should be with, as he was not only the star quarterback but also on the student council. Me—I was too busy being in the science club, math club, physics club, and any other geeky organization I could join. I spent my weekends reading books about weather and watching TWC videos. Jaxon spent his weekends playing or watching football and organizing school events with, you guessed it, Calista.