2. Jonah
JONAH
I've always found that the most important scientific discoveries begin with lunch. Newton had his apple, and I have the faculty dining hall's questionable tuna melt.
“You should have seen it, Jonah. This wasn't just any supercell. This was the meteorological equivalent of Woodstock.” Lucas gestures wildly, nearly knocking over his water glass for the third time.
“I'm standing there, camera rolling, wind threatening to turn me into the first weatherman in orbit, and this monster funnel drops right in front of me.”
I nod politely, stabbing at my pasta salad.
After fifteen years of friendship with Lucas, I've learned to pace myself through his storm stories.
The campus dining hall buzzes around us, professors hunched over their laptops, graduate students arguing theoretical frameworks, and me, listening to my colleague and best friend tell me about his latest storm conquest for the third time in the last few days.
“The rotation patterns were exactly what you predicted for plains-based supercells meeting a cold front,” Lucas continues, talking with his mouth full of French fries.
“That's interesting,” I say, because it is, even if Lucas's understanding of meteorological physics is about as deep as a weather app's. “Did you get clean footage?”
“Really? You know me better than that. Of course I did. In fact, I emailed it over to you two days ago. You should watch it.”
I sigh, scrolling through my email inbox. “I haven't checked my personal email in a while. Been busy with the grant proposal.”
“Well, check it now. This footage is gold for your research.” Lucas leans across the table, swiping through my phone before I can stop him. His enthusiasm has always been both his most endearing and most irritating quality.
“I can operate my own phone, thanks,” I say, taking it back.
“Oh, and the craziest part?” Lucas continues, undeterred. “You know who I met out there? Frank Brooks' daughter.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Frank Brooks? The Frank Brooks?”
“The very same. Tornado whisperer extraordinaire, may he rest in peace.” Lucas nods solemnly before brightening again. “His daughter was there, right in the thick of it. She's even more hardcore than he was, if you can believe it.”
I can't help but lean forward now. “You met Lila Brooks?”
“Not just met her. She saved an old woman, her grandson, and a cat from certain death. Drove right into the path of an EF-3 to get them into their storm shelter.” Lucas shakes his head in admiration.
“I tried to interview her, but she told me to shove my microphone where the sun doesn't shine.” Lucas chuckles, clearly more amused than offended.
“She's not exactly the media-friendly type.”
“Her father wasn't either,” I point out, suddenly finding my mediocre lunch far less interesting than this conversation. “He was notorious for refusing interviews, especially after his data was misrepresented in that Weather Channel special.”
“Yeah, well, the apple didn't fall far from the tree. But man, you should've seen her in action. Completely fearless. The kind of person who runs toward danger instead of away from it.”
I try not to roll my eyes at Lucas's obvious admiration. He's always had a weakness for adrenaline junkies, having dated a skydiving instructor and a wildfire photographer in the same year. I think there was an acrobat in there, too, but his dating life is hard to keep track of these days.
“You know,” Lucas says, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye that usually means trouble, “Lila might be exactly what you need for your grant proposal.”
I nearly choke on my water. “Excuse me?”
“Think about it! Your proposal is solid on theory but weak on field application. The review committee specifically mentioned wanting more real-world testing.” He taps the table excitedly.
“What if instead of just running simulations in your lab, you partnered with someone who's already out there collecting the exact data you need?”
“You can’t be serious.” I set my fork down. “My research requires thoroughly collected data. Not someone who drives straight into tornado paths to rescue cats.”
“And people,” Lucas corrects. “The cat was in a carrier.”
“That's not the point.”
“The point is that your grant needs real-world validation, and she has access to environments you can only dream about from your climate-controlled office.” Lucas leans back, crossing his arms with the smug expression of someone who thinks they've just solved world hunger.
“Plus, she knows what she's doing. Her father literally wrote the textbook we studied in grad school.”
“I'm aware of Frank Brooks' contributions to meteorology.” I push my tray away, appetite gone. “But there's a difference between respecting someone's work and betting my entire research funding on a collaboration with a storm chaser I've never met.”
“Look,” Lucas says, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “I wasn't going to mention this part, but she's also, well, incredibly attractive.”
“Really? That's your selling point?”
“I'm just saying.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “You've been cooped up in that lab for what, four years since Claire left? A couple weeks on the road with someone who isn't a computer model or a graduate student might do you good.” He winks. “If you catch my drift.”
“I catch it, and I'm throwing it back.” I crumple my napkin and toss it onto my tray.
“All I'm saying is that she's brilliant, fearless, and yes, easy on the eyes. The complete package.” Lucas holds up his hands defensively.
“And you're brilliant too, just in a different way. Your theoretical models paired with her practical experience could revolutionize tornado prediction. Think about it—you could literally save lives and make some badass storm nerd babies together.”
I hate that he's making sense. Well, on the collaboration part. Not the babies. The review committee's feedback on my last proposal was painfully clear. Three years of work, dismissed because I couldn't prove my algorithms worked outside of simulations.
“Even if I wanted to collaborate—and I'm not saying I do—what makes you think she'd be interested? You said it yourself, she told you to shove your microphone where the sun doesn't shine.”
“She might have told me to get lost, but you're different,” Lucas says. “You speak her language. The real science, not TV soundbites.”
“I speak the language of theoretical meteorology and computational modeling,” I correct him. “She speaks the language of field observation and trying not to die in the process. Those aren't necessarily compatible.”
“They're complementary,” Lucas counters. “Like peanut butter and jelly. Alone, they're fine. Together? Magic.”
I can't help but smile at his ridiculous analogy. “You're comparing groundbreaking meteorological research to a sandwich.”
“A delicious sandwich that could save lives and secure your funding.” He pulls out his phone. “Just watch this footage before you dismiss the idea completely.”
He slides his phone across the table, and I reluctantly press play. The video shows a massive supercell with rotation patterns that make my scientific heart skip a beat. The camera work is steady despite the obvious high winds, focusing on exactly the features I would want to document.
“This is...” I trail off, rewinding to watch a particular cloud formation again.
“Exactly what your research needs?” Lucas finishes, looking smug.
I hate to admit it, but he might be right. The university's tenure committee wouldn't care about storm chasing videos, but they would care about a breakthrough in predictive modeling of severe weather events. And if Lila Brooks could provide the field data I need…
“You're overthinking it,” Lucas says, reading my expression. “Just meet her. One conversation. If it's a disaster, blame me.”
“Where would I even find her?” I ask, already knowing I'll regret this.
Lucas grins triumphantly. “She's in town right now, actually. Giving a talk at the Meteorological Society meeting tonight.”
“Tonight?” I blink at him. “The one I specifically told you I couldn't attend because I have to finish grading sixty-three undergraduate papers on atmospheric pressure systems?”
“The very same!” Lucas claps his hands together. “Fate, my friend. The universe conspiring to save you from a night of mind-numbing grading.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The universe isn't conspiring to do anything. And those papers need to be returned tomorrow.”
“Papers that will be graded with the same level of attention whether you do them tonight or at 5 AM after you've met a potential research partner who could revolutionize your work.” Lucas checks his watch. “Her talk starts at seven. I'll pick you up at six-thirty.”
“I didn't agree to this,” I protest, but it's weak, and we both know it.
“Wear something other than a lab coat,” Lucas says, eyeing my button-up shirt and khakis with disapproval. “Maybe something that doesn't scream 'I haven't left the lab since 2019.'“
“My wardrobe is fine,” I mutter, gathering my things. “And I left the lab yesterday.”
“To go home and work more,” Lucas points out. “That doesn't count.”
As I walk back to my office, I can't help but replay the footage in my mind. The tornado formation was textbook, exactly the kind of system my algorithms are designed to predict. If Lila is half as knowledgeable as her father was, Lucas could very well be right as much as I hate to admit it.
No. I'm getting ahead of myself. One meeting, that's all I'm committing to. Just a conversation between colleagues. Nothing more.