4. Jonah #2
I pause, reading over what I've written. It sounds stilted and defensive, like I'm overcompensating. I delete the last sentence and try again.
I want to be clear that my research proposal stands on its own merits. Your observational data on multiple vortex formations aligns remarkably with the theoretical models I've been developing. This isn't about personalities or Lucas's misguided attempt at...whatever that was.
I pause again. This isn't right. It's too clinical, too detached. If I want her to actually consider working with me, I need to be honest.
I delete everything and start over.
Ms. Brooks,
I owe you an apology. What happened at the Met Society meeting was unprofessional and embarrassing—for both of us, I imagine, but particularly for you. Lucas has a habit of treating everything like a reality TV show plot, and I should have anticipated he might say something inappropriate.
The truth is, I genuinely believe our research could complement each other in ways that would significantly advance tornado prediction.
Your observational data shows patterns my theoretical models predict but can't verify without field testing.
And my algorithms might give you prediction capabilities beyond what's currently available.
If you're willing to consider a collaboration despite that awkward first meeting, I'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss it further—by email, phone, carrier pigeon, smoke signal—whatever communication method you prefer.
I've attached a more detailed outline of my research and the potential collaboration I envision. If nothing else, I hope it demonstrates the scientific merit of what I'm proposing.
Respectfully,
Dr. Jonah Reed
I read it over three times, making minor adjustments, before I finally hit send. The moment the email whooshes away, I'm seized with immediate regret. The carrier pigeon joke was too much. She'll think I'm not taking this seriously.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary and check my watch. Four hours until dinner with Lucas. I need a distraction.
I head to the department's lab, where my graduate assistants are running simulations on the latest data sets. The hum of computers and quiet concentration usually soothes me, but today even this sanctuary feels claustrophobic.
“Dr. Reed!” Aisha looks up from her workstation, her expression brightening. “I think we've got something interesting in the Oklahoma data.”
I force myself to focus as she pulls up a visualization showing pressure differentials across a developing storm system. The swirling patterns of reds and blues normally captivate me, but today they just remind me of the footage from Lila's presentation—real storms, not digital approximations.
“See this anomaly?” Aisha points to an area where the colors shift abruptly. “The model predicted this rotation pattern would dissipate, but it actually intensified.”
“That is interesting,” I say, leaning closer to examine the anomaly. “The intensification pattern matches what I've been theorizing about secondary rotation development.”
“Exactly!” Aisha's eyes light up. “But we can't explain why the model failed to predict it.”
“Because models can only account for variables we program into them,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. This is exactly the kind of discrepancy that field observation could clarify—the kind of data Lila Brooks collects.
I spend the next hour reviewing Aisha's findings, but my mind keeps drifting back to that email sitting in Lila's inbox. Has she read it yet? Deleted it without opening? Is she drafting a scathing response?
By the time I leave the lab, I've checked my phone seventeen times. No response.
I arrive at Malone's Pub fifteen minutes early, claiming our usual corner booth. The familiar smells of beer and fried food should be comforting, but my stomach is in knots. I order a club soda while I wait, watching the door.
Lucas arrives five minutes late, looking uncharacteristically subdued. His usual swagger is replaced with something approaching contrition as he slides into the booth across from me.
“You look terrible,” he says by way of greeting.
“Thanks.” I take a pointed sip of my drink. “You're not looking so great yourself.”
“Yeah, well, turns out alienating the best storm chaser in three states wasn't my brightest career move.” Lucas flags down the waitress and orders a beer. “My producer wants to use her footage from the EF-3, and guess who is now dodging his calls?”
“I can't imagine,” I say dryly.
“Look, I know I messed up.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I was trying to help.”
I shake my head. “That wasn't helping, Lucas. That was...I don't even know what that was.”
“Misguided wingmanship?” he offers with a weak smile. “Come on, Jonah. You've been buried in that lab since Claire left. When's the last time you even talked to a woman who wasn't a colleague or student?”
“This isn't about my social life.” I feel heat rising to my face. “It's about respect. You made both of us look unprofessional.”
The waitress brings Lucas's beer and takes our food orders. I wait until she's gone before continuing.
“I emailed her today,” I admit.
Lucas nearly spits out his beer. “You did? What did she say?”
“Nothing yet.” I fiddle with my napkin. “I only sent it a few hours ago.”
“Well, that's progress!” Lucas brightens considerably. “What did you say to her?” Lucas asks, leaning forward eagerly.
“I apologized for your behavior,” I say pointedly. “And I explained the scientific merits of a potential collaboration.”
“That's it?” Lucas looks disappointed. “No personal touch? No charm?”
“It wasn't a dating app message, Lucas. It was a communication between scientists.” I take another sip of my club soda, wishing it were something stronger.
“Scientists are people too,” Lucas counters. “Even the scary tornado lady.”
I glare at him. “That 'scary tornado lady' has probably saved more lives with her early warnings than your entire weather team combined.”
Lucas holds up his hands in surrender. “Fair point. I just mean you can be a bit clinical sometimes. People respond to genuine human connection.”
“I was genuine,” I insist, though doubt creeps in. Was my email too formal? Too desperate?
Our food arrives, momentarily halting the conversation. I pick at my burger without much enthusiasm.
“So what happens if she doesn't respond?” Lucas asks through a mouthful of fries.
“Then I find another way to validate my models.” I shrug, trying to sound more nonchalant than I feel. “There are other storm chasers.”
“Not like her,” Lucas points out. “Her data is unparalleled.”
“I'm aware.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes before Lucas clears his throat. “You know, I really am sorry,” he says quietly. “I wasn't thinking.”
“That's the problem, isn't it?” I push a fry around in ketchup without eating it. “You never think about the consequences.”
“Look who's talking,” Lucas counters, but there's no heat in it. “Mr. I-Can-Calculate-The-Exact-Trajectory-Of-A-Tornado-But-Not-How-To-Talk-To-People.”
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “Fair point.”
“So what now?” Lucas asks. “You just wait for her to respond?”
“I guess so.” I finally take a bite of my burger. “Not much else I can do.”
“You could call her.”
I nearly choke. “Absolutely not. That would be crossing a line.”
“Emails are easy to ignore,” Lucas points out. “Phone calls are harder. I’m sure my producer has her number.”
“Absolutely not,” I counter. “I sent the email. The ball is in her court now.”
My phone buzzes on the table between us. We both freeze, staring at it like it might explode. I flip it over, heart racing embarrassingly fast.
It's Eleanor.
Don't forget the department budget meeting tomorrow. 9 AM sharp.
The disappointment is more acute than it should be.
“Not her?” Lucas asks.
“No, just my department chair,” I say, tucking the phone away. “Reminding me about a budget meeting.”
Lucas nods, visibly relieved. “Look, if she doesn't respond by the weekend, I have an idea.”
I groan. “The last time you had an idea, I ended up in this mess.”
“Hear me out.” He leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “There's a big storm system moving in from the west. All the models show potential supercell development across northern Oklahoma. Perfect tornado conditions.”
“So?”
“So guess who's going to be out there chasing it?” Lucas raises his eyebrows meaningfully.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “Absolutely not. Following her into the field uninvited would be completely inappropriate.”
“Not following her,” Lucas clarifies. “Just happening to be in the same area, studying the same storm system. It's a public road, Jonah. Storm chasers converge all the time.”
“That's...” I pause, considering, “unprofessional.”
“Is it, though?” Lucas takes a long pull from his beer. “Studying storms is literally your job. If you happen to be collecting field data when she's out there doing the same...”
“It would look like stalking,” I finish for him. “Which is exactly what it would be.”
“Not if you're actually doing legitimate research,” Lucas counters.
I consider Lucas's point despite myself. There is some logic to what he's saying, though I'm loath to admit it. Collecting field data would legitimately help my research, regardless of whether Ms. Brooks is there.
“I don't have the proper equipment for field research,” I argue, more to myself than to him. “My instruments haven't been calibrated for field conditions in years.”
“The meteorology department has equipment,” Lucas counters, leaning forward eagerly now that I haven't outright rejected the idea. “I bet Eleanor would approve an emergency requisition if you explained it was for grant research.”
“And transportation? You know my Prius isn't exactly built for off-road storm chasing.”
Lucas grins triumphantly. “Channel 8's storm vehicle is fully equipped. The producer owes me a favor after that exclusive on the Stillwater flooding. I can get you cleared to ride along.”
“So your brilliant plan is for me to borrow university equipment, ride along in your news van, and just happen to run into her in the middle of tornado alley?” I shake my head, but I can feel my resolve weakening. “That doesn't seem desperate at all.”
“It's not desperate, it's determined,” Lucas corrects. “And besides, what's your alternative? Sit in your office refreshing your email while the perfect storm—literally—passes you by?”
The worst part is, he's making sense. If Lila doesn't respond to my email, this might be my only chance to salvage this partnership.
And the grant committee is not going to wait forever. My models are strong, but without field validation...
“Fine. If she doesn't respond by Friday, we'll consider the field trip option.”
Lucas claps his hands together. “That's the spirit! Who knows? Maybe seeing you braving the elements for science will impress her.”
“Or maybe she'll think I'm following her and report me to the ethics board at the university,” I mutter. “But at least I'll have some field data for my grant proposal.”
“That's my guy,” Lucas says, raising his beer in a mock toast. “Always looking on the bright side.”
I check my phone again. Nothing.
The rest of dinner passes with Lucas filling me in on the latest gossip from the news station and the new piece he’s working on for the upcoming summer Olympic Games.
By the time I get home to my quiet apartment, it's nearly ten, and I'm exhausted in that particular way that comes from social anxiety rather than physical exertion. I drop my keys on the counter and head straight for my laptop, unable to resist checking my email one more time.
The inbox loads. Five new emails. The screen takes what feels like forever to load, and when it does, I audibly swear as five emails from students with questions appear on my screen. But, no reply from Lila.
I lean back in the chair, exhaling slowly. So that’s my answer. Not a rejection. Not an acceptance. Just silence. The kind that leaves room for doubt, for second-guessing, and for contingency plans I don’t want to make.
Friday isn’t far off.
I close the laptop and rub a hand over my face, already running through the logistics I swore I wouldn’t need. If this partnership is going to happen, it won’t be because she met me halfway.
It’ll be because I stepped into her world instead. And I’m not sure yet how I feel about that.