EIGHT Quincy #2
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ernie says. “Looks like the NHC just changed the landfall location. Slight tick south.”
“What?” I frown and walk his way. He has the latest advisory pulled up on his laptop, and I read the longitude and latitude numbers over his shoulder. “That doesn’t look right.”
“Of course it’s right. It’s the National Hurricane Center,” Ernie challenges.
“And they’re always correct? You don’t remember Charley back in 2004?” I argue. “They boasted about a Tampa landfall, and hours before it hit, they said nope. It’s actually headed to Port Charlotte.”
“Cone of uncertainty. Port Charlotte was always in the path.”
“In the path and a direct hit are two different mindsets, Ernie. The public doesn’t pay attention to anything but landfall destination. We both know that.”
“With that kind of attitude, the NWS isn’t going to hire you.”
“How do you know about the NWS?” I ask, rearing back. My voice drops, focusing on Ernie’s smirk and the ash he taps out of his cigarette. “I haven’t told anyone I applied.”
I’m too afraid of what happens if I don’t get an interview. Too afraid I’ll be labeled as not good enough or fine, but could be better. The fewer people who know, the less I’ll have to explain if things don’t work out.
Not having heard anything yet makes me think it’s heading that direction.
Disappointing, yes, but at least not everyone knows I’m not worthy. That’s a secret I can keep to myself.
“I know everything.” Ernie laughs, the sound undercut with mocking. “They’d eat you alive. Might be fun to watch.”
“That’s enough, Fitzpatrick.” Sebastian steps between us, a warning lacing his words. He frowns and turns his back to everyone except me. “You applied to the NWS?”
“We have so many more important things to worry about right now.” I play with the ends of my ponytail, the weight of every pair of eyes heavy on my shoulders.
I’m finding a secluded spot for the next storm so no one can ask about my life.
There won’t be anything but me and the wind and the rain. “But, yes. I applied to the NWS.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles, dropping his head back. The line of his throat bobs around a swallow, a new five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. Distress—or maybe irritation—brackets his mouth, and when he brings his chin down, gaze meeting mine, it feels like I’ve done something wrong. “Of course you did.”
“Am I … does that mean I’m predictable? I thought it was out of left field for me.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The muscles in his jaw work, tightening then releasing. He steps away. Puts his hands on his hips and squints out at the choppy water. “It’s not important.”
“Sorry to break up whatever is happening here, but what does the data say?” Dave asks. “Data doesn’t lie. Tell us where the new landfall is, Ernie.”
I move away from the men huddling around the laptop and head for my car, digging my own computer out from under a pair of rain boots and connecting to the hot spot on my phone.
Data doesn’t lie, but neither does intuition.
Knowing when to leave and when to stay is one of the most crucial parts of storm chasing. Being patient, navigating weather on the fly, and trying to understand why it acts the way it does is a seemingly impossible task, but I haven’t given up yet.
And I’m not going to today.
Footsteps follow me. I know who it is without looking over my shoulder.
“What are you thinking, Monroe? The wheels are turning.”
Sebastian’s voice makes me shiver. The warmth of his body envelops mine, far too close. I shouldn’t be able to hear the soft exhale of his breath. How he fills his lungs before letting out another puff of air like he’s grateful to be alive.
I shouldn’t be able to smell his cologne: the scent of fresh cut wood with the hint of something spicy and forbidden beneath the surface.
It dredges up the memory of his thigh pressed against mine on the Ferris wheel.
The secret I think he was hiding and the inexplicable way I was comfortable with him next to me, even when I was afraid.
A stuffed animal that’s now sitting on my dresser at home, a light laugh.
The rumble of you’re definitely a badass bitch echoing in my ears, a mantra I’ve had on repeat in the days that have passed.
The stars reflected in his eyes and the flicker of understanding that there might be more to Sebastian than the cocky, charismatic side he shows to everyone around him.
That night was an anomaly. Too outside our wheelhouse, and it would do us some good to get back to the place where we operate best: bickering. Trying to one-up each other and seeing who comes away victorious.
“That’s a loaded question, Dunn.” I type in a website address to avoid looking at him. “Right now, I’m wondering if I could kick you in the shin and get away with it.”
“Physical touch has always been my love language.” His laughter makes goosebumps sprout on my skin.
I feel them at the top of my spine, where my ponytail brushes against my neck.
Lower, between my shoulder blades, and I step forward to get him out of my orbit.
“I meant about the storm. But we’ll come back to your affinity for violence toward me in a minute. ”
I study the satellite imagery of the storm, playing its movement on a loop. Claudia’s eye has become more defined over the last six hours, compact with a hurricane-force wind field that extends twenty-five miles. A pretty thing that will pack a punch wherever it hits, regardless of its category.
And I want to be there when it does.
“What is everyone else thinking?” I ask, treading carefully.
“Boca Raton,” Dave says, eavesdropping. “West-northwest movement would put it north of here.”
“West northwest?” I frown, clicking over to a different screen. “That’s not right. It’s moving west.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ernie mumbles. “Look at the picture, sweetheart. It’s going west northwest. You call yourself a meteorologist but don’t know your cardinal directions? That’s pathetic.”
“Fuck no.”
The viciousness in Sebastian’s tone makes everyone stop talking, including me. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, used to the guy who always keeps his cool. Who throws out a joke or two, and I freeze.