As much as I don’t want to admit it, Noah’s right. But I’m not going to apologize. There’s something about the weather girl that is off-putting. With everyone at this shindig, she just happens to be the one who needs a boost in her career, and she just happens to be a sorority sister of Peyton. Never mind Peyton’s job, her connections, her husband, and her famous family. I don’t buy it, and it smells like a heaping pile of shit.
“I’m out,” I say to my very pissed off quarterback. Yep, I can kiss my Sunday stats goodbye at this point. I’ll grovel tomorrow when I’m sober and not so angry.
“Good thing you can walk home from here,” Noah says.
“Yep, see ya in the morning.”
“Set your alarm. You don’t want to miss the walk-through.”
He’s right. I don’t. Once I’m out in the hall, I pull my phone out and set my alarm for six a.m. Instead of heading home like I should, I walk a few blocks to the local bar when I get outside. It’s empty, except for two guys in the back, playing pool. I take a seat on one of the stools and order another bourbon. I’m three glasses deep when the news airs. The bartender turns the volume up and hollers to the guys in the back that the news is on.
“Did I miss something?” I ask, wondering why it’s so important.
“Ever since they hired the new reporter, I've been more interested in the news.”
“Same here.” A guy next to me slams his hand down on the bar. “Man, I can’t wait to see her out and about. I’m going to shoot my shot for sure.”
I’m confused until the anchor says Autumn’s name. The camera pans to her. She’s standing there, in a form-fitting blue dress, with her hair curled and her legs looking like sin. “Fuck,” I mutter as my pants tighten around my crotch. Heels and long legs. The bane of my existence.
“What a babe,” another guy says.
“MCAX is now my favorite station. I’m going to have to record the news twice a day just to see her,” another adds.
“I wonder if some old boyfriend has nudes of her,” says the guy standing next to me holding a cue stick.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say to him. “Don’t be such a pig.”
The asshole doesn’t say anything but mumbles to his buddy. These guys are trouble, and I don’t need it. I throw a couple of twenties down, and the bartender asks me where I’m going.
“Home.”
“But we haven’t even got the good part,” one of the guys says.
“There’s nothing good about Weather Girl,” I mutter and walk out.
Seven
Autumn
It’s a rare fall day in Portland. The sun is shining like I said it would, and the temperature is hovering in the mid-seventies. The leaves are the perfect blend of red and gold and give the city a picturesque fall afternoon. I have to say I’m impressed with the foliage, although I will always feel as though Chicago has the best fall colors. With that said, I wouldn’t know much about the foliage on the east coast, which I’ve been told rivals any other location.
I’m in full swing, so to speak, at the station. My time slots are solid, the team I work with is fantastic, and the staff here at MCAX really puts the station in North Dakota to shame. I get that I needed to work there to appreciate what I have now, but they could stand to learn a thing or two from MCAX, or really any other station for that matter.
The knock on the door signals it’s time for me to make my way to the sound stage. Even though I feel like I’ve done my job a million times, I still get nervous. Talk to anyone on the street, and they’ll tell you being a weather personality is easy. At least it looks easy to them. You stand there, you point, and you say whatever comes up on the teleprompter because that is what the viewers see. They see me on their screens, doing just that. They have no idea the research that goes into predicting the weather or how one colleague may say a storm will move north, but when you’re looking at the calculations and the jet stream, you believe it’s going to move south. No one also considers that whatever we tell you on air, we’ve written. This means, when I mess up, it’s my onus. I hate being wrong.
I open the door to find Lisette standing outside of it. Well, not exactly. She’s leaning against the wall, writing furiously on her clipboard and nodding. It took me a few days to remember Lisette is always wearing a headset and often talking to others when she’s with me. We fall in line together, walking toward the sound stage. As soon as I enter the space, I’m mic’d up, and powder is brushed onto my face.