EPILOGUE Sebastian
NEXT SUMMER
The traffic from the Orlando airport to Oak Valley is going to be the death of me.
Being trapped in a vehicle with someone who plays Rick Astley on repeat is my idea of hell, and I’m not sure I’m going to make it out of here without my eardrums bleeding.
It’s the last hurdle I have to jump before I’m home, and this feels like the toughest part of the journey. Delays because of a thunderstorm, a missed connecting flight, and two hours in the Atlanta airport I’ll never get back have messed up my schedule.
Now I’m so close to Oak Valley, I can taste it.
The days have been good, but I really miss my girl.
I lean back and untangle the seatbelt digging into my shoulder with a grumble. Exhaustion is settling in, and I’d give anything to close my eyes and take a much needed power nap after a week out west covering brush fires in the Rocky Mountains.
It took a minute to figure out what I wanted to do after turning in my two-week notice to ABC.
A couple news stations called and asked if I’d be interested in their open Chief Meteorologist position.
The Weather Channel offered me a role up in Atlanta, but I passed.
Nothing felt right, until one day, it did.
Starting a YouTube series that dives into how weather impacts both the environment and humans was unintentional, but the best thing I ever could have done for my career.
The public’s fear of natural disasters is higher than ever, and I’ve made it my purpose to travel across the county to meet folks who have been through significant weather events.
I interview them, getting their perspective on how the experience changed their outlook on life.
I also help with getting assistance lined up in the aftermath and analyzing what went wrong from a preparedness standpoint so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.
My boots are on the ground. I get to get my hands dirty. I get to be in the middle of the chaos exactly how I wanted to be, and I’ve never been happier.
The best part?
I’m doing it with Quincy by my side. I’ll pop onto her show and she’ll pop onto mine.
We’ll talk about bomb cyclones in the Northeast and heat domes in the Midwest. There’s always an argument about forecast predictability where we debate each other until our cheeks are pink and we’re laughing into our microphones.
Two weather lovers trying to out-nerd each other, someone wrote under one of our most recent posts. Does it get better than this?
Nah.
It doesn’t.
This is it.
She’s the missing puzzle piece. I fell in love with weather because of her. I’m not surprised I fell in love with her too.
My phone rings, and she must know I’m thinking about her. My smile stretches into a grin when the photo of her in her ski goggles and bike helmet takes over my screen. Tongue out, wet hair. A valiant effort to fight off a smirk and failing miserably.
That was the moment, I think. When I knew I wanted her in a way that physically ached. It was her for me, or no one at all.
I slide my thumb and answer the call.
“Hey,” she says from the other end of the line. “I was starting to think you were never going to make it home.”
“I’m always going to come home. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Monroe. How’s my favorite meteorologist?”
“Busy. I just spent two hours consoling Mia about why rain on your wedding day is a good luck charm and not a gigantic disaster.”
“Alanis Morissette made a career out of telling people that.”
“I’m not sure Mia would’ve appreciated that thoughtful insight. She’s getting married in a month, and obsessively checking the forecast has become her second job.”
“Did you tell her January is one of the driest months of the year in Florida?” I ask. “And this whole problem could have been prevented if she hadn’t picked July for her nuptials?”
“You know what? I didn’t tell the woman planning an outdoor event for four hundred people that.” Quincy laughs. “I’m sure she’d love to hear your scientific opinion, though.”
“Probably safer if I leave my opinions to myself. What are you up to?”
“Wrapping up some research on the influence of upstream atmospheric conditions and how they relate to convective rainbands.”
“Damn, sweetheart.” I trace the outline of the tattoo I got back in late March when we took a trip to DC to see the cherry blossoms. It sits on the opposite arm of my other one, the two microphones with little raindrops around them a hazy memory that was spurred on by one too many shots of tequila and the spring air.
Her mouth warm on my neck and her low whispers of how much she loved me under a full moon. “Sounds like an easy day for you.”
“I need to keep you on your toes, Dunn.”
I’m convinced she’s superwoman. She’s so damn happy working at the NWS, even with the commute and the effort it takes to keep her show running. We’re three weeks into the hurricane season and she’s up early every morning, talking with her viewers about atmospheric instability and moist air.
Sometimes I’ll catch myself watching her from the doorway to her office, too distracted to get any of my own work done. It’s hard to focus when she’s talking with her hands. When her voice shifts an octave higher, obvious excitement behind her discussion on the Coriolis Effect and warm ocean water.
“You definitely keep me on my toes. I can’t get anything by you,” I say.
“When will you be home?”
“I’m three cycles of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ away.”
“That is oddly specific.”
“You have no idea. Can you survive that long without seeing me?”
“I don’t know.” Her laugh echoes through the phone and knocks the wind out of me. It feels like I’m floating in the clouds, and I can’t wait to see her. “I guess we’ll find out soon, Sebby baby.”
We hang up and I reach into my backpack, checking for the hundredth time that the box I’ve carried around for three months is still tucked safely away under a rain jacket and my favorite baseball hat—the one with Quincy’s show name on it. I touch the velvet box and smile.
“This won the Brit Award for Song of the Year, didn’t it? Back in 1988?” I ask.
My driver’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, wondering if he’s found a new member of the Rick Astley fan club. “It did.”
“A shame. ‘China in Your Hand’ was better, in my opinion. Totally underrated.”
That earns me another bump of the volume, and I smirk.
My rating for this ride has reached the depths of hell, and it’s about to get even lower.
There are things to do. Plans to put into motion, and I ignore the notifications that greet me when I pull up my social media. I angle my phone and press a couple buttons, going live and waiting for the video to start rolling.
“Hey, y’all,” I say to the viewers jumping on.
“I’m back in Orlando after a great trip out to Colorado, and I’m a few minutes away from home.
I feel lucky I get to travel and meet so many people for my job, but there’s something grounding about coming back to the place you love most in the world.
The person you love too.” I toss the velvet box in front of the camera.
I hitch it open and show off the ring inside; a blue sapphire on a metal band.
Unique, just like her. Beauty in the small things, calm like the air before the start of a summer storm. “Today is a big day.”
Comments flood in. Someone says finally! Another adds a string of sad faces, guess he’s off the market now following the emojis. There’s one offering me congratulations, telling me they called this months ago.
Funny.
I knew the day I met her.
“I’m a lucky guy. I love a lot of things in my life: my family, my friends.
I love weather and the sense of purpose it brings me.
I love doing something good in the world, but I’ve always struggled with how to describe love.
Words don’t seem sufficient when you’re talking about the things that bring you joy. Then I think about Quincy.”
I rub a palm over my shirt. A nervous laugh escapes from my chest.
“I’ve finally figured it out. We’ve all been caught in a storm while driving on the highway, right? I’m not talking about a sun shower. I mean an absolute downpour where you can’t see more than six inches in front of you. The rain is so loud, you can’t think.”
I take a breath. I didn’t realize my hand had started to shake.
“Then there’s that … that moment when you drive under an overpass, and there’s instant relief.
Silence in the best possible way. That …
that feeling of complete peace? That’s exactly what it’s like whenever I’m with her.
But the moment never ends. It’s there constantly.
When she steals the covers from me. When I kiss her in the rain.
When she’s eating a bowl of cereal and a drop of milk gets stuck in the corner of her mouth.
It’s a never-ending reminder of how fuck—sorry, kids—freaking lucky I am to have her by my side. ”
New comments come in. One from a guy who says I know exactly what you mean, man. If there’s another version of myself out there, I would go to the place where I first saw her and wait, hoping to meet her again. Another from a woman who writes I hope a love like this finds me.
“Quincy isn’t going to see this live,” I say. “She’s busy working and changing the world and, man, y’all. I’ve missed her so much. I was only gone for seven days, but it felt more like seven lifetimes. I see our driveway up ahead, and it feels like I can finally breathe again.”
Rick Astley’s biggest fan pulls up to our house and I practically throw the door open.
I hop onto the curb, taking in the shutters we painted bright yellow and the new mulch we laid two weeks ago.
The hibiscus plant I bought for Quincy looks freshly watered in its clay pot, and the bird feeder she set up next to the crape myrtle bush has a visitor.