Chapter 12 #3
“So, when a meteorologist says there’s a thirty percent chance of rain…” My sentence trailed off, interrupted by a collective groan erupting from the table. “What?”
Luke dropped his spoon onto his plate, the clang reverberating through the kitchen. He centered himself to me with theatrical gravity, gently cupping my face with both hands before pulling them back and clasping them in mock prayer.
Tibb groaned once more, standing and pouring a cup of coffee. “Not this again.”
“Luke, don’t,” Jackson said, shaking his head, a hint of exasperation in his tone.
Luke slapped his hand on the table, and the dishes rattled. “She doesn’t know, Jack. And if she’s going to be one of us, she has to know this.”
A smile tugged at my lips, amused by Luke’s fake outrage.
Tibb sat back at the table, whispering at me as he sat, “Luke isn’t a fan of meteorology.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Luke said.
Jackson pushed his plate to the center of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “We have work to do today, Luke. Just tell her so we can go.” He had the face of a man who’d heard this before.
I turned my attention to Jackson, but Luke turned my head back to him. I smiled wider. “This is important, Leigh. Pay no attention to these haters. They should be as upset about this as I am. Everyone should be upset about this. We are being lied to.”
“We are? By who?”
“The weatherman!” Luke exclaimed.
The urge to laugh bubbled inside me, but I tamped it down. “I’m listening,” I said with as much seriousness as I could muster.
Luke sighed. “If the forecast calls for a thirty percent chance of rain, it does not mean that thirty percent of the area will see rain, and it does not mean that it will rain for thirty percent of the day.”
I nodded, trying to comprehend.
“My whole life, I thought thirty percent chance of rain meant just that—that there’s a thirty percent chance of rain. But do you know what it really means?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
“It means they don’t know!” Luke said, his voice rising.
“They don’t?”
“No! Do you know how they determine the chance of rain?”
“Not a clue.”
“The coverage of rain in an area and the forecaster’s confidence that it will rain.” Luke sat up straighter. “What the hell does ‘confidence’ mean? And they use a formula to determine the chance of rain. Percent confidence times coverage.”
“Where do they get the numbers from?” I asked.
Tibb lowered his head in exasperation, and Jackson took another sip of coffee. But Luke jumped. “Exactly!” He turned to Tibb and Jackson. “See? She gets it.”
“Please stop encouraging him,” Tibb said. “I’m begging you.”
“What? I’m curious,” I said, smiling.
“They make up the numbers,” Luke said. “The numbers are based on their confidence.”
“So…they guess?” I asked slowly, the information coming together. “But they don’t really know for sure that it will rain.”
“So says the weatherman,” the three said in unison.
“I understand now,” I said. “They are lying to us.”
Luke clapped his hand together once. “She’s going to work out just fine. She gets it.”
Tibb rose and kissed me on the forehead again, whispering, “Now you’re one of us.”
Luke followed Tibb’s lead, his touch light but full of meaning.
As they both disappeared in the hallway, I stood there, basking in a sense of acceptance I hadn’t expected.
It didn’t hurt, this press against my heart, but it was full in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
I hadn’t known that kind of belonging could feel this solid, this real, like the ground beneath me had thickened, becoming something I could trust to hold me up.
I never imagined I could feel this rooted, not here, not anywhere.
A chair creaked behind me, and I turned just as Jackson rose, watching me with an intensity that suggested he understood more than he let on. “They mean that.”
I waved a dismissive hand, the motion more reflex than intent, my mind still spinning from the unexpectedness of it all.
But Jackson’s large hand encircled my wrist, a gentle grip, but firm enough to still the tremor I hadn’t noticed.
I glanced down at our joined hands and back up at him.
His expression was soft as he leaned against the table, steadying himself, or maybe steadying me.
He didn’t let go. And I didn’t pull away.
“It’s okay to struggle with belonging,” he said. I tensed at how easily he plucked the thought from my mind. “And it’s also okay to belong.”
“I know,” I said, sighing.
“Thank you, Leigh,” Jackson said. The warmth of his hand still holding mine sent a shiver through me. “It’s been a long time since I—since we—have had a meal like that. You outdid yourself.”
“I should be the one thanking you.”
He smiled. “But you don’t do that.”
“I do,” I said, gesturing at the table. “I can show you something better than I could ever tell you.”
He nodded. “I’m starting to see that.”
Jackson released my hand, and I took an instinctive step back. “I better get this kitchen cleaned up and get outside.”
“Nah,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll help.”