ELEVEN Quincy
The days after getting back from Miami pass in a hazy blur of live streams, Q&A sessions, and a dinner at Cooper’s house where Sebastian and I tell our friends about chasing Claudia. Two more tropical systems form in the Atlantic, but a weak Bermuda high keeps them out at sea.
My social media exploded after Sebastian tagged me in that photo with my ski goggles and helmet.
A hundred thousand new followers rolled in.
I’ve caught myself scrolling through his profile and staring at the snapshot on more than one occasion before I realize what I’m doing and shove my phone under a couch cushion so I’m not tempted to pick it up again.
Falling into a routine is easy. I balance my time between work and helping Mia and Harlow with the thick of wedding planning.
Centerpieces and napkin colors are picked.
Bridesmaid dresses get ordered, the guest list is finalized, and we sit on my porch in the early evenings, sharing a bottle of wine and unwinding while we talk about our days.
The third Friday of July arrives, bringing with it a temptation to step away from my computer early. It’s hard to focus when I look out the window in my office and find one of those rare summer days without an afternoon storm taunting me.
There’s a light breeze, a cloudless sky.
The temperature is somewhere between stifling and almost tolerable, and some fresh air sounds nice.
I close out of the tabs I’ve been working on, pausing when I see an unread email sitting in my inbox. I frown, heart climbing up my throat when I click the subject line and scan the first few words. My mouth drops open as I read farther down, pulse spiking when I reach the end of the message.
I have to read it a second time to make sure it’s real.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “Holy shit.”
I grab my phone and FaceTime Harlow before I start to spiral. I pace around the room, anxiously waiting for her to pick up. When she does, she’s yawning.
“Quin?” Harlow props her phone against the backsplash on her kitchen counter. She disappears out of the frame, returning with a coffeepot and a mug covered in middle fingers she fills all the way to the top. “Did I miss something important?”
“I have news,” I say, out of breath. Unbelieving. “Give me a second to add Mia.”
“Do I need to sit down for this? Do you have a stalker? It was only a matter of time before some creep on the internet found out where you lived.”
“There’s no stalker. Hang on.” I tap the screen and hit Mia’s contact info, smiling when her face takes up half my screen. “Can you hear me?”
“This is fun.” Mia turns and pulls the curtains behind her desk closed. When she does, I see the printout from The New York Times bestseller list Harlow and I gifted her hanging on the pink wall in her office. “Do we want to get dinner tonight?”
“Something happened.” I sit on the couch shoved in the corner of the room. My hands tremble, and I scroll to the top of the email. A third read-through confirms it’s still true, and I burst out laughing. “The National Weather Service wants me to come in for an interview.”
There’s a moment of silence, then havoc unfolds.
Mia shrieks. Harlow rambles off a passionate soliloquy about badass women and putting men in their places. I fight back tears, soaking in their excitement for me and holding it close to my chest.
“Quin!” Mia claps. “This is huge.”
“I knew they’d ask for an interview,” Harlow says. “When is it?”
“Next Monday.” I laugh again, not caring that the tears are falling freely now.
This is all too surreal. Something I’m not sure I could make up in my wildest dreams, and every hour I’ve ever put into my work feels as if it’s coming to fruition.
Like I’m finally getting the recognition I know I deserve.
“I can’t believe they’re interested in talking to me. ”
“I’m so happy for you.” Mia sniffs and reaches for a tissue. “You’re going to be a star.”
“She’s already a star. Her videos from Hurricane Claudia have three million views and counting,” Harlow adds.
Plus, the hundreds of comments wondering when Sebastian will be back on The Rainy Day Show.
Every time I log on to social media, there are more and more messages asking for a collaboration with him.
Someone made an edit of the two of us, a cinematic mashup of footage from our failed tornado chase and Claudia coverage they put together.
When I sent it to Sebastian, he answered with a dozen grinning emojis and the link to some song from Mission Impossible.
“I don’t want to celebrate a milestone prematurely.” I drop my head against the curve of the couch. The ceiling fan oscillates above me, and I smile again. “But this calls for a night out. Right?”
“Hell yeah it does.” Mia spins in her chair, squealing. “You’re not allowed to sit at home by yourself tonight.”
“There’s a dive bar in Orlando. I know one of the bartenders,” Harlow says. “Cheap drinks. Good vibes. The perfect place to have a noncelebration celebration. First round is on me.”
“Okay, but I call dibs on the second and third rounds,” Mia argues. “I’m so proud of you, Quin.”
“Yeah.” Warmth settles in my chest. Happiness pulses through me. “I’m proud of me too.”
“The bartender gave me these drinks for free. He said something about cinnamon and bourbon, and it sounded delicious. Very Christmas in July.” Mia sets three glasses in the center of our table and drops in her seat, patting my thigh. “Not all of us are summer girls, Quin. Some of us like winter.”
“Hey. I like winter too. A big sweatshirt? Fuzzy socks? It’s a magical time of year.”
“A toast.” Harlow lifts her glass, and we mirror her. “To Quincy: The best meteorologist I’ve ever met. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re a revolutionary, babe, and more deserving of that job than anyone else. I can’t wait to see you knock them dead.”
“Job or no job, it doesn’t matter. We’re never going to stop being proud of you,” Mia adds. “We’re so lucky to be your friends.”
“Wow.” A watery laugh escapes me. I take a sip of the spiced alcohol to keep my emotions at bay. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry again today. Y’all are making that impossible.”
“I did not sign up to shed a tear. Knock it off with this sappy shit. We love you. We’re proud of you, and you’ll let us know how next week goes.
” She fans her face, only stopping to take a handful of nuts from the porcelain ramekin we’ve been snacking on.
“Can we talk about something else? My chest feels too tight.”
“That’s called being human, sweetie.” I reach across the table and find her hand. I squeeze her palm once, smiling when she squeezes me back. “But, yes. Please. I’m not wearing waterproof mascara. We can talk about how this drink is good, but yours would be so much better, Har.”
“I’d add an orange peel as a garnish.” She takes a small sip. “Yup. Definitely needs something else.”
“See? You’re amazing. I wouldn’t be able to tell you what ingredients are in here while you can make twenty different drinks with vermouth.” I laugh. “Also, I have a bone to pick with you, Mia Dunn.”
“What did I do?” she asks.
“You want to celebrate me, but we need to celebrate you too. When were you going to tell us you signed a new three-book deal worth seven figures?” I ask. “That is incredible.”
“Mia!” Harlow gapes at her. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry! The only time I checked my phone today was when you FaceTimed me, and I forgot that post was going live on social media this afternoon.
I didn’t tell you all because I’m always so …
nervous, I guess, that things won’t pan out.
Book deals get announced all the time, but until it’s a sure thing, until I walk into a bookstore and find the physical copy there, it’s hard to believe it’s true. ”
“Of course it’s true. You’re immensely talented, and I’m not saying that because you’re my friend. I’m saying it because I absolutely believe it,” I tell her.
“You’re the only person who could get me to read a romance novel,” Harlow adds. “That’s how good your books are.”
“You’re going to make me blush. Thank you. With every book that comes out, I think this will be the one that ends my career because it’s not good enough. Because it won’t sell or people will hate it. Six books later, and I still can’t believe this is my job.”
“I can’t wait to have an entire shelf dedicated to Mia Dunn bestsellers.” I grin. “The signed copies you send me are my most prized possessions.”
“You know I’m grateful for your support, but can we talk about how that guy four tables over hasn’t stopped staring at Quincy since we walked in?” Mia scoots her stool closer, her elbows resting on the table. “He’s cute.”
“Which one?” Harlow cranes her neck, letting out a hum of approval. “He is cute.”
“I’m not interested in who is or isn’t cute.” I grab a handful of cashews and stuff them in my mouth. “There is no time for me to date right now. We’re in the middle of hurricane season. I might be starting a new job. Where does a relationship fall into the equation?”
“It’s been too long since you were with someone, Quin.” Mia’s gaze is sharp, assessing. “Three years, right?”
Something like that.
It might be closer to four.
I’ve gone on first dates. I’ve made it to some second dates, but the third date is when things take a turn.
I’m too deep into my work. I go all day without checking my phone and miss messages and plans being set up.
There’s always an apology. A promise it’s a one-time thing and a rain check that never happens.
I’ve tried the friends-with-benefits route, something physical and easy. No expectations, no pressure. Those last longer, but eventually, they fizzle out too.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love like Harlow.