In Stormy Weather

ONE Quincy

Goddamn the universe and its attempts to keep me humble.

For all the accomplishments I’ve amassed in my thirty-one years on this planet, an out-of-the-blue text message from someone listed in my phone as Restaurant Douche-Canoe is not one of them.

My morning is completely derailed, which is a shame. It was going so well.

I can handle the rain. I look forward to it, the start of summer and its thunderstorms inevitable this time of year in Florida. What I can’t handle is the unsolicited phallic images I received before the clock struck seven.

It’s a brutal reminder of why the extent of my personal life consists of spending what little free time I have at home and far away from the gender that has the balls—literally—to ruin my day before I’ve had any caffeine.

A crime if you ask me, and I do what any normal person would do after being blindsided by disappointing pornographic photos by an equally disappointing man: I fill a chipped mug with an aggressive pour of coffee.

Step onto the porch in an oversize T-shirt that reaches my knees and mismatched socks that come halfway up my calves.

I take a seat on the wood swing hanging in the corner and hit a thumbs-down on Dick Douche’s message to really deal a blow to his ego.

Free from penis hell and one step closer to shunning technology, a sigh escapes me when I glance up at the sky. Clouds of menacing shades of gray make their way across the horizon. A smile comes next, unbridled delight when the wind blows through in a strong gust.

I’ve always been happier outside, the girl who grew up with dirt under her fingernails and grass stains on her knees. An affinity for rain and open fields instead of four-lane highways.

I love the end of May and the blistering heat of Florida Junes the most. I crave the swampy middle of July and look forward to sticky, unbearable August when the air shifts to an indulgent, lazy haze. The suffocating kind that holds you tight and never lets you go.

I wish I could stay here forever. Immortalized as a summer girl with tan skin, freckles, and a clarity I can’t seem to find when the autumn months creep up on the calendar.

“Quin.”

I smile when I hear my name, glancing over my shoulder at the familiar voice coming from the house next to mine. “Morning, sunshine.”

“It’s too early for you to be so chipper.” Harlow Whitaker sticks her head out her kitchen window, tossing a look my way. “You might be enthusiastic, but I can see the bags under your eyes from here.”

“Good. Teetering on the cusp of bone-deep exhaustion and burnout is exactly what I’m going for.”

“Being in our thirties sucks. Too many recessions. Not enough orgasms. Hang on. I’ll be right over.”

Her window shuts.

There’s the slam of an old screen door.

Shoes shuffling over concrete.

I blink and Harlow, with red hair, long legs, and half-laced Doc Martens, is climbing my porch steps.

“Hi,” I say.

“Happy June first, Quin.” She puts a party hat on my head and taps my nose. “And happy hurricane season.”

“I didn’t realize we were celebrating this year.” I pull on the chin strap, wincing when it snaps against my throat. “Are things so bad we need party hats?”

“You’re the scientist.” She sits next to me and yawns, a hand tattooed with half a dozen different flowers covering her mouth. “Isn’t the world on fire?”

“I mean, technically? Solar flares can cause geomagnetic storms here on Earth and—” I stop to take a sip of my coffee, smiling against the rim of the mug. “Not on fire quite yet, but never say never. The year 2500 is probably going to be a disaster.”

“What did you do last night?”

“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand and shrug. “Nothing special.”

“If you tell me you stayed up to watch the clock strike midnight on hurricane season like it’s New Year’s Eve, I’m going to be disappointed in you. You need to have some fun.”

“I have plenty of fun and a life that doesn’t revolve around work.

” Harlow lifts an eyebrow, calling me out on my bullshit, and I groan.

“Fine. That’s a lie, but I didn’t stay up to watch the calendar flip over to June.

I answered emails then went to bed early.

There was a message from a kid out in Colorado who lives on a ranch.

His dad takes him to the edge of their property to look at storm clouds, and he told me he can identify all of them.

” I laugh, reminiscing. It’s exactly what I was like at nine years old.

Enthralled by wind and the way the temperature drops right before it rains.

Watching Twister on my parents’ VHS player until the tape wore out and riding my bike to Blockbuster to rent another copy. “It was cute.”

“I guess that’s an acceptable reason for staying in.” Her leg nudges mine, the hem of her overalls inching up her thighs. There’s a pair of cherries inked right above her knee. A stack of books next to it. “How’s the show? I’ve missed seeing you on my computer screen.”

“We’re back to daily live streaming videos, thank goodness.

Spring is too dull. There’s not enough to talk about,” I say, mentioning The Rainy Day Show, the weather-centered social media page I run.

“NOAA is predicting an active couple of months with twenty-three named storms, eleven hurricanes, and six majors. I’m going to be busy. ”

“Just the way you like it. You hate to sit still.”

“I don’t remember the last time I took a day off.” I cup my mug with both hands. “I had another exciting moment last night.”

“Outside of communicating with your pen pal?” Harlow scoots closer. “Did you redownload a dating app? Finally frame your diploma so the online trolls can see you’re qualified to talk about atmospheric science and not pulling things out of your ass?”

“I’ll get to that sometime in the next six months.” I pause, reveling in the news I’m about to share with her. “I hit a million followers on Instagram.”

“Oh my god.” Harlow launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck to give me a hug. I lose a slosh of coffee to the porch deck, but it’s hard to care when she’s squeezing me tight. Laughing and making me feel important. “You’ve been chasing that goal forever.”

“Since I started the show seven years ago.”

“Is that the first platform where you’ve hit a million followers?”

“Yeah. I have over two million combined on all the other social media sites, but Instagram is the only one where it says one million and …” I trail off and untangle our limbs. “It’s nice to see my hard work paying off.”

“You work so hard.” She sniffs and wipes under her eye. “Goddammit.”

“Harlow Whitaker. Are you crying? The world might officially be ending.”

“I’m capable of showing some sort of emotion occasionally.” She swats at my arm. “I’m so proud of you, Quincy Phillips Monroe. You’re a woman kicking so much STEM ass. You’re going after your dreams. It’s fun to watch.”

“I’m also the receiver of mediocre dick pics before the sun comes up. Probably the most important part of my résumé. Especially when I don’t even know the guy’s name.”

“Excuse me?” Harlow wrinkles her nose, the perfect picture of disgust. “I wish I had the fucking audacity of a man. Imagine taking off your pants in a Starbucks bathroom so you can snap a picture of your balls because you think a woman wants to see them. I can assure you, we do not.”

“Traumatizing, I’ll tell you what.” I draw my legs to my chest, resting my chin on my knee.

“Dicks aside, sometimes I can’t believe this is my life.

I never thought a couple videos talking about what causes a thunderstorm would go viral and …

” I gesture at the Craftsman house behind me.

The shutter falling off the living room window I haven’t replaced yet.

A potted plant to the right of the front door with a crack in the clay from where I dropped it last summer.

Flawed, yes, and a life packed with lessons and mistakes, but something I’ve done entirely on my own. “Turn into this.”

This being the life I’ve built for myself by producing weather content that earns me six figures a year. There’s hardly a minute for me to slow down, to rest or do anything but focus on work, but I’ll never complain.

I’m happy, and things are good.

I spend the days from June to November broadcasting videos for people tuning in to my show from around the world.

I conduct virtual interviews with the directors of emergency operations in different counties across the Southeast, check oceanography data, and monitor low-pressure systems that form in the Atlantic and Gulf.

Women are taught to keep our accomplishments close. To not brag about our triumphs out of fear we’re being too loud and too brazen, but I’m damn good at what I do. In a field full of men who feel the need to mansplain precipitation cycles to a woman with a PhD, I’m not afraid to admit my talent.

“It turned into this because you’re incredible.” Harlow steals my coffee and takes a sip. “You deserve every bit of success you’ve earned. Come by The Hideout tonight. We’ll have mozzarella sticks and celebrate the first day of the season. I can probably dig up some marinara sauce.”

“How did you know questionable frozen appetizers nuked in the microwave were the way to my heart?”

“We’ve been best friends since seventh grade. You’re stuck with me for life, Quin.”

“Since I’m stuck with you for life, can I tell you another secret?”

“Always.”

I rub my thumb along my bottom lip. The hook of a smile forms when I think about last Thursday night and pacing around my living room with a bottle of cabernet tucked under my arm.

The two glasses of wine I downed before I filled out the application for a job I’ve been dreaming about but never had the courage to go after and the thrill that followed.

“I applied to the National Weather Service,” I say, laughing when Harlow gapes at me. “That was my reaction too.”

“Shut up. You’ve been talking about working at the National Weather Service for as long as we’ve been friends.”

“I finally did it.” Pride runs through me like a current, and I dip my chin.

A little embarrassed. Very proud. “I want to shoot my shot, and I figure it’s now or never.

My career is booming. I’ve built a name for myself without any resources or funding.

Think of what I could do for an organization whose job it is to broadcast information to the public during severe weather events.

The timing never felt right before, and I always made excuses for why I shouldn’t go for it.

Last week … I don’t know, Har. This sounds so fucking poetic, so don’t make fun of me.

There was a moment when I looked out my window, saw the blue sky, and thought, I have a purpose outside of creating content.

I should just do it. The NWS would give me that purpose.

So, I did. Submitting a tipsy résumé and cover letter might not have been my best idea, but it’s out in the world, and we’ll see what happens. ”

“Oh, Quin. This is so exciting. You have to come by The Hideout now. Forget the mozzarella sticks. We’re popping a bottle of champagne, baby.”

I rest my head on her shoulder. A crack of thunder booms overhead. The clouds break. Rain hits the path leading up to my porch, and I fight off a grin.

“Best summer ever,” I murmur.