Weather Girl(10)

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 fa?ade 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.

Seth waltzes up to us. “Excuse me, ladies,” he says in this faux debonair tone that makes me cringe. “I’ve come with a peace offering. How about a dance, Tor? For old times’ sake?”

“You remember,” she says, eyes lighting up.

“Of course. How many people’s favorite Christmas song is ‘Run Rudolph Run’?”

“Plenty,” she insists, like this is something they’ve joked about for years.

“I feel like I owe it to you after the white elephant debacle.” Seth gives me a half-hearted shrug, as though that’s all he needs to do to be forgiven. “Sorry about that, Ari.”

“I guess I can’t say no to that.” Torrance throws a look over her shoulder at me as she takes Seth’s hand, as though to say, this is what I meant.

And to my utter shock, the two of them start swing dancing, Torrance laughing as Seth twirls her around the floor. We’ve slipped back in time. They’re good, and I have to assume they danced all the time when they were together. I can’t help wondering when it turned sour, if it was five years ago exactly or whether it built to a crescendo, and if it happened the way Torrance said: a lot of little things that eventually became impossible to ignore. With my parents, it was one big thing—I’m certain of it, even if I haven’t heard from my dad for about fifteen years. And then with Garrison, it was a little thing that he turned into a big thing, though I realize it didn’t feel little to him at all.