Chapter Two #2
“No. Excuse me,” I say stiffly, holding my water bottles in a death grip so I don’t throw them. I instantly regret admitting I’m alone and can’t wait to get outside to friendlier faces.
They don’t move. One elbows the other and says loudly, “Hear that? Fresh meat!”
Considering I’ve been chasing for a decade and don’t recognize their faces, I’m tempted to ask if it’s their first season. I swallow it. No matter how much I’d like to tell them to go fuck themselves, pissing off a bunch of strange men isn’t smart.
Except when I turn away, I nearly crash into Wes. He reaches out to steady me, his touch light on my biceps. “You good?” His eyes race over me from beneath the brim of his well-worn baseball cap, mouth tightening into a frown.
“Wes Talbot!” Asshole One beams at Asshole Two, their entire demeanor changing. Now it’s all friendly smiles. “Hey, man, we’re huge fans. We were just joking with your girl.”
I stiffen at the implication that I’m Wes’s anything and duck around him.
“Good luck with that,” I mutter, beelining for the register on the other side of the building.
It’s hardly the first time, but I’m in no mood to watch the same jerks who treated me like nothing more than an accessory worship at Wes’s altar.
I step back out into the hot afternoon sun after paying and take a deep breath, determined to recapture my excitement. It could be a big day, and there’s nothing like catching a tornado at the start of the season to set the tone. Or in this case, correct the tone from those idiots inside.
“Hey, Sloane, wait a sec,” Wes calls, jogging up behind me as I start across the parking lot. He flashes an obnoxious grin that he probably thinks is charming. “You look way more murderous than usual. Those guys say something to you?”
“I don’t need a knight in not-so-shiny armor.”
He scowls. “That’s not—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I step around him without another word. The last thing I need is Wes using the excuse of playing hero to start shit.
He doesn’t follow me. He just stands there, arms folded across his chest, river tattoo snaking around his forearm and bicep before disappearing beneath his T-shirt. I shove away the thought that I prefer him like this over the buttoned-up suit at the wedding.
Having any kind of preference when it comes to Wes is like preferring the wind to blow in a certain direction—pointless. Forces of nature will always follow their own whims.
Leaving Wes behind, I check my phone for an update from Tracy, but nothing yet, so I head for a group of chasers I’m friendly with.
Not exactly friends, per se. More like a group of guys that can be trusted not to be outright sexist when we’re all waiting around at random gas stations for storms to kick off.
The overall chaser community out here isn’t that big, so it’s not unusual to end up chatting in parking lots with other photographers or researchers or thrill-seekers, even if they’re not my preferred chase partners.
We fall into easy small talk, the sort of generic catching up I imagine is common among coworkers who see each other a handful of times a year.
Jamie got married, Chris’s wife had a baby, Tony moved to the opposite coast. The conversation quickly drifts back to chasing, phones whipped out to show off shots from earlier in the season.
Even though I’m not particularly close to this group, it’s good to belong to something.
To effortlessly slide into a conversation and be accepted as one of them, unlike the chasers inside the gas station that see me as nothing but some guy’s tagalong.
This sense of community is in short supply when I’m home acting as involuntary cruise director for my family. Yet as much as I want to wrap myself up in the feeling of belonging, it makes it a hell of a lot harder to ignore the loneliness that stalks my shadow the rest of the year.
Loud honking yanks me out of my thoughts.
I glance up to the familiar sight of Matt’s hail-dimpled SUV pulling into the parking lot, Tracy’s bright smile visible through the dusty windshield.
As soon as she slams her door shut, she makes a beeline for me and lets out a loud whoop before yanking me into a sweaty hug, nearly plowing us into Matt in the process. “Sloane! I’ve missed you!”
Tracy came crashing into my life as a fun-loving blonde with a dirty sense of humor that could give a sailor a run for their money at the start of my chasing days.
I couldn’t be happier for her that she found Matt, but I selfishly miss our long, rambling conversations in the car when we were chase partners more than I’ll ever admit.
Every year after the season ends there’s a slow fade from daily texts to weekly notes that eventually trickle off into the occasional trading of memes. Even Wes usually loses interest in cracking jokes at my expense in the group chat before the first aspens turn yellow in the fall.
Everyone gets busy, but the annual reminder that I’m no one’s priority still stings.
It’s not that I’m entirely alone in Colorado Springs.
There are occasional drinks with the makeup artists and bakery owners and florists I’ve met along the way, but those are more impromptu vent sessions than meaningful friendships.
They all think I’m nuts for running toward the kind of storms most people can’t get away from fast enough.
And as for my family, even when we manage to have a good time together, there’s always another disaster looming over the horizon.
I wriggle out of Tracy’s embrace with a laugh. “You’re just saying that because you know I’ve got a bag from Whole Foods with your name on it.”
Her lips curve into a sly smile as she playfully elbows me. “Chocolate-covered cherries aren’t the only reason I’m happy to see you. You ready to show these boys how it’s done? I can lose to you, but one of us has to win.”
Darting a glance across the parking lot, I watch Matt laugh while he playfully shoves Wes’s shoulder.
Wes gestures toward the convenience store, then points to the back of the building.
By the way Matt shakes his head, Wes is suggesting something so absurd even his chief enabler wants nothing to do with it.
Maybe it’s Tracy’s influence—or maybe Matt has just matured in a way that Wes never will.
We’re too far away to hear whatever Matt says, still shaking his head, but then Wes points to the ground.
The look on his face is full of challenge, but even if it wasn’t, I’ve known him long enough to recognize what his widened stance means.
Some sort of dick-measuring contest is about to begin, and while Matt might be the more mature one, Wes knows how to goad him.
Determined not to get involved in their drama, I turn to Tracy with a teasing smile. “Matt know you’re plotting against him? He was invited too, right?” From the corner of my eye, I catch Wes whipping off his shirt and throwing it in Matt’s face.
“Of course.” She gives me a wide-eyed look of faux innocence and stage-whispers, “He loves it when I’m in charge.”
“Too much information.” I wrinkle my nose, but deep down, I can’t quite ignore the flash of jealousy.
Not over Matt—he’s never appealed as anything more than a friend—but Tracy’s confident happiness in her relationship, not to mention her fiancé’s unwavering support, isn’t something I’ve ever experienced.
The thought is forgotten when Matt and Wes both drop to the dusty asphalt and start counting off push-ups. I can’t help rolling my eyes at them despite having seen this before—Matt admitted last year it’s how they solve disagreements.
Men really will do anything but go to therapy.
“You better bathe Matt in hand sanitizer before you let him back in the car,” I mutter, eyeing the various stains, cigarette butts, and hardened wads of gum littering the pavement.
“Mmmhmm” is the only reply I get with Tracy’s attention glued to the two men. Matt’s shirt is sitting in a heap next to Wes’s, back and arm muscles flexing in a steady rhythm under his olive skin. She licks her bottom lip and mutters under her breath, “Worth it.”
When I glance back at the two men, Wes catches my eye and has the nerve to wink. “Twenty-seven,” he shouts, staring directly at me. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…You want to count for me, Sloane? I can do this all day!”
“You sure you didn’t just forget what comes after twenty-nine?
” I call back, folding my arms over my chest like I’m above their childish game.
No one has to know that I’m not exactly immune to the sight of Wes’s bare skin, draped in tattoos and gleaming in the sunlight.
It’s a shame his personality isn’t anywhere near as attractive.
“Thirty-two!” How Wes has the lung capacity to laugh is beyond me. “Thirty-three!”
“Fifty-five, forty-three, sixty-four…” I count loudly over him. Tracy giggles next to me when Matt shoots us a murderous glare. His face is red now, darker than the flush beginning to creep into Wes’s cheeks, and sweat drips off his forehead.
“This,” Tracy begins with a sigh, pretending to fan herself, “this is what they should mean when they say ‘boys will be boys.’ I don’t even care what they’re arguing about. In fact, if Matt wants to solve all our fights by taking his clothes off…”
I laugh, nodding toward her left hand where her engagement ring should be. “Should I take the missing ring as a sign wedding planning is going well?”
“One of the stones was a little loose so it’s being fixed.
” She sighs and brushes her thumb over the faint tan line left behind.
“Planning is…You’re probably the last person I need to tell this, but I swear, weddings aren’t even for the couple anymore.
My parents, his parents, everyone thinks they deserve a piece of the day. ”
I nod sympathetically. I’ve seen the fights up close. It’s one of the many reasons I’ll be passing on a big wedding if it’s ever my turn to go down the aisle.