11. Lila
LILA
I've known a lot of silences in my life. The eerie quiet before a supercell forms. The hollow stillness after destruction. The heavy pause when someone realizes I chase monsters for a living on a first date. But this contemplative, gentle silence filling my truck cab is entirely new territory.
Jonah hasn't spoken in forty-three minutes.
Not since we left the motel in Oakridge, our hasty breakfast of vending machine granola bars and bitter coffee sitting uneasily in my stomach.
He's been staring out the passenger window, one hand absently taking notes on a notepad, the other occasionally reaching back to check on Max.
I catch him doing it again now—those long fingers stretching behind the seat to scratch behind the golden retriever's ears. Max responds with a sleepy thump of his tail against the upholstery.
“You know,” I say, breaking the quiet, “for someone who's never had a pet, you're weirdly good with him.”
“I think he's just grateful someone got him out of there,” Jonah remarks.
“Or maybe…it’s the beef jerky you keep slipping him when you think I’m not watching.”
Jonah shrugs. “Maybe. He appears to be very food motivated.”
I shake my head. “You can say that about most men.”
The Louisiana state line appears in the distance, and I check the radar on my phone mounted to the dashboard. The storm system we're tracking has intensified overnight. Bands of severe weather are firing off like dominoes falling across the southeastern parishes.
I glance over at Jonah again. What's going on in that overactive brain of his? Yesterday changed something. Seeing that house destroyed, rescuing Max—it's like the theoretical became viscerally real for him.
I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, grinding through whatever thought’s been building all morning.
“Lila?” he says finally, and something about the way he says my name makes me glance over. His voice has that careful, measured quality it gets when he’s about to say something he’s rehearsed internally approximately six thousand times.
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
My eyes narrow . I recognize that tone. It’s the same one he used right before he announced he was taking in a traumatized tornado dog with zero plan or experience.
“If this is about rescuing another abandoned animal,” I say immediately, keeping my eyes on the road while pointing a thumb toward the backseat, “you did not ask last time, and Max absolutely does not need a friend. My truck isn’t big enough for one dog and all your instruments, let alone a whole menagerie. ”
Jonah’s mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t?—”
“Because I can already see it,” I continue, warming to my topic. “You see a stray cat tomorrow and suddenly I’m running a mobile animal shelter out of the back of Dad’s truck. You’d name them after atmospheric phenomena. We’d have a kitten named Cumulonimbus.”
“That’s not?—”
“Or a rabbit. God help me if you find a rabbit. You’d put it in a little harness and try to train it to run a Doppler radar.”
Jonah’s brow furrows. “Rabbits can’t operate Doppler radar.”
“I’m aware of that, Professor, but you’d try.”
“I wouldn’t try to train a rabbit.”
“Unless you’re talking about a rabbit vibrator, and I can tell you from experience those do not need to be trained. They arrive fully ready to please.”
The words leave my mouth before my brain can catch up.
Jonah’s entire face goes slack. His notebook slips from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the floor mat. He stares at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues.
“Excuse me?” he finally manages.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I shouldn’t.
We’re colleagues. This is professional. I’ve spent exactly two days in this man’s company, and already I’m making inappropriate sex toy jokes like we’re old drinking buddies instead of temporary research partners.
But there’s something about the way his face just shut down completely that makes my brain keep going despite my better judgment.
“I said?—”
“I heard what you said,” he interrupts, voice higher than usual. “I just...I’m processing the fact that you said it.”
The absolute mortification on his face is worth every ounce of my dignity. His ears have gone bright pink. That blush is crawling all the way down his neck.
“Come on,” I say, grinning despite myself. “You can’t tell me the great Dr. Jonah Reed, who namedrops Supreme Court cases involving adult film stars, has never heard of a rabbit vibrator.”
His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
But even I can only torture a man so long before my conscience kicks in. And honestly, the way he’s looking at me right now—like his entire understanding of reality just got updated with a patch he didn’t download—it’s getting hard to hold the joke together without feeling like a genuine asshole.
Max lets out a loud snore from the backseat, and Jonah flinches.
Okay, Lila. Dial it back. You’ve had your fun.
“All right, all right,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m done. I promise.” I hold up both hands in surrender while keeping one eye on the road. “Seriously. I’ll stop.”
He stares at me for another beat, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“No rabbit jokes,” I add. “No vibrator jokes. No innuendos of any kind. You have my word.”
His shoulders drop about half an inch. The blush hasn’t gone anywhere, but the panic is receding.
“What were you going to ask me?” I say, softer this time. “Before I derailed everything with rabbit-related trauma?”
He starts to open his mouth before he snaps it closed again.
“Are you going to ask that question or what?”
“I am trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding crass or stepping over a boundary.”
“You don’t need to consult your mental committee about it. Just ask me.”
He lets out a sigh before finally asking, “How did your father pass?”
I suck in a deep breath, grip tightening on the wheel.
Part of me wants to shut this down with a joke, change the subject.
Part of me has been waiting for someone to ask.
“He died doing what he loved.” The words come out automatic, rehearsed.
True and not true at the same time. “He died in the El Reno outbreak.”
Max pushes his nose against my elbow. I give him a quick scratch, grateful for the distraction from Jonah's too-perceptive gaze.
“The official report said driver error,” I continue, hating how my words waver. “That he panicked, took a wrong turn. But Dad never panicked. Not once in thirty years of chasing. The accident report was wrong.”
“You don’t believe the report.” Jonah replies. It isn’t a question.
“I was on the phone with him when it happened.” The memory rushes back—Dad’s voice, calm even at the end. The roar of the wind swallowing his last words. “He knew exactly where he was. The tornado shouldn’t have turned like that.”
Jonah's quiet for a long moment. “Is that why you're interested in my research? The prediction algorithms?”
“Partly.” I ease off the gas as we approach a line of traffic. “If Dad had better models, better prediction tools, maybe he'd survived.”
“I'm sorry about your father,” Jonah says after a long moment. Not pitying, just understanding.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak immediately. This is why I don't talk about Dad with people. It's been three years, and the wound still feels raw, like it happened yesterday.
“For what it's worth,” Jonah continues, “I think he'd be proud of what you’re doing, carrying on his work, trying to make these storms more predictable.”
“Maybe,” I say, focusing on the road ahead as we crawl through the traffic congestion. “Or maybe he'd tell me I'm crazy for getting back in the chase vehicle after what happened to him.”
“Do you think that's true?” Jonah asks, turning more fully toward me.
I consider this as I navigate around a slow-moving semi. The question hits deeper than he probably realizes. It's something I've asked myself on countless sleepless nights, staring at motel ceilings across tornado alley.
“No,” I finally admit. “Dad understood the call of the storm better than anyone. He wouldn't have wanted me to stop, just to be smarter about it.”
Jonah nods slowly, as if taking it in. “I think that’s what separates real scientists from the rest—the ability to respect what you study without letting fear stop you from understanding it.”
It’s been a long time since someone actually got it—got me—without the judgment or concern that usually follows when people learn what I do for a living.
Most people hear “storm chaser” and immediately decide I have a death wish.
Or daddy issues. Or some reckless addiction to adrenaline that needs fixing.
Jonah doesn’t.
He asks questions instead of making assumptions.
Listens instead of trying to lecture me about danger.
And somehow, without even trying, Jonah makes me feel less alone inside the loss of my dad.
No one, not even my mom or sister, have done that.
Yet, this man, who I have only known a few days, sees me fully.
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with how seen I suddenly feel. “Anyway, enough about my tragic backstory. Tell me about the system we're tracking.”
Jonah takes the change of subject gracefully, pulling out his tablet. “This storm,” he says pointing to one to our east, “has wide open skies and nothing else around her.” He uses his finger to scroll down on the screen. “But this one to the south has better numbers.”
I glance at my dashboard radar. “You think we should adjust our route?”
“If we continue east for another thirty miles, then cut south on Route 15, we should intersect the storm's path at its most active point.” His finger traces the route on the tablet screen.
“I've taught you something after all,” I remark, unable to keep a small smile from my lips.
“I'm a quick study,” he replies with that subtle, dry humor that keeps catching me by surprise.