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Coming Spring 2025

Becca

“You’re a great friend, Dani, but I think I might die if I have another blind date. Even if it’s one set up by you.”

“Come on.”

“No. They keep getting worse,” I moan to my friend, and co-worker, Danica.

If I have one more well-meaning friend or co-worker attempt to set me up, I may lose my mind. Here lies Rebecca Stephens, meteorologist extraordinaire, killed by too much small-talk, overuse of Axe Body Spray, and way too many dick pics.

May she finally rest in peace.

Alone, but in peace.

“Okay, but seriously, this is the one for you. I promise!” Danica says, gripping my hand between her ridiculously cold ones. Goodness, how are her hands this cold? We are sitting outside in August, where the temperature topped out at a balmy ninety nine degrees at Denver International Airport today. Courtesy of our studio being surrounded by concrete buildings shooting up dozens of stories, I’m sure our downtown temp is into the triple digits.

“No more dates, Dani. Really. I can’t go on one more bad first date,” I moan.

“They couldn’t have all been bad,” she says hesitantly. “You’re the hottest meteorologist on tv here, and you’re regularly featured on national shows. How could these guys perform so badly? Do you think they’re all nervous because you’re famous?”

“I’m not famous,” I murmur.

Danica scoffs. “For Denver we are. The only people who count as bigger celebrities are the sports stars here.”

I find myself grimacing. “And those are the guys I definitely stay away from. They think they’re above everyone else, all cocky and self-absorbed. I have no desire to experience that day in and day out.”

Danica laughs, her pitch higher than normal, and I notice her face reddens slightly. I chalk it up to the warm temperatures and move on. “Should I give you a list of why every blind date has gone badly?”

“Uh, okay,” she says, looking behind me. “Sure.”

I slap my hands together, rubbing them against one another as I excitedly list what should be a very bad list. Somehow, it’s become a code for me, and it’s almost as if it’s gotten so bad that I don’t think a man can give me a good first date. “I had the guy who told me his mother kept all of his hair clippings.”

“Like … as a kid?” Danica asks hesitantly.

“No. His entire life,” I say smugly. Her face screws up in disgust, and I soldier on. “There was the forty-year-old man who lived at home with his parents. And before you talk about the economy, prices of everything, and saving up for a house, just know he’d never moved out.”

“Never?” Danica whispers.

“Never. He doesn’t even give money toward rent or food, and bragged that if ‘things got serious with us,’” I use air quotes, “It’d be totally cool to move in with him. In his parents’ basement.”

“Oh, dear,” Danica says.

“One guy asked if I’d be a third for him and his wife. Another asked for him and his husband. They were curious, he said. They both liked my voice on television, and said I had nice calves.”

“Both? The husband showed up?”

“Yup. Then they did the dine-and-dash, leaving me with the entire bill.”

“It’s a pity the network wouldn’t accept a new piece called ‘Becca Dates in Denver.’ You wouldn’t need to do any research,” Dani muses.

“Which is why I can’t do any more dates. I’ve come to the realization that I’m not meant to have a relationship.”

“I promise I’ll leave you alone, but only if you let me fix you up this last time,” she says hopefully. I sigh in frustration.

“Can I think about it?” I hate hurting her feelings, but I’m so over blind dates.

“You know what?” she says as she stands, “I’ll take it. That’s better than a flat-out refusal. I’ll see you back at the station.”

After Danica scurries off, I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, and enjoy the warmth of this beautiful day. I know I’ll miss the heat when we’re dealing with hurricane-force winds and blizzard-like conditions during the winter months. Colorado loves to advertise three hundred days of sunshine per year, but they neglect to inform visitors and newcomers that the remainder of the year is filled with cold, snow, thunderstorms, and fog … sometimes in the same day. I thought I knew what chaotic weather was like when I moved here for my job at the ABC affiliate. Growing up in Indiana, I was used to severe weather, snowstorms, and the kind of humid cold that could freeze the snot in my nose as soon as I stepped outside. Once I graduated with my degree in meteorology from Valparaiso University, I grabbed the first broadcast position I could find, serving the tiny market of Gulfport, Mississippi. Coming from the Midwest, I was thrilled to be on the coast, assuming I’d get to cover hurricanes every year. In the three years there, only one hurricane came close to Gulfport, and it happened the week I was back in Indiana for my grandfather’s funeral.

After Gulfport, I moved up to Knoxville, Tennessee. After two years, I took a morning position with a station in Cincinnati, then moved again to Kansas City. When the morning meteorologist position opened up in Denver, I was thrilled to apply. I’d always been fascinated by the Rocky Mountains, especially how the topography and elevation impact weather. I’ve been blissfully happy in my position here for five years, and finally accepted the chief meteorologist position only a year ago. They’re going to have to force me out of here.

I was meant to be a Coloradan. I find joy in every season, and I never miss an opportunity to gape at the mountains. Great food, shopping, and outdoor activities. The dating market, however, was dryer than a la Nina summer in Colorado. Any man I do meet shows his true colors within two dates: he’s either married, a compulsive liar, talks about having an open relationship on the first date, or lives at home with his mom.

“He’s as windy as a sack full of farts,” Grammy used to say. My grandmother, God rest her sassy soul, was from southern Kentucky, near the Tennessee border. She grew up dirt poor. I thought that was just a phrase until she explained that the house she spent her first five years in didn’t have flooring. It was literally just a dirt floor. One of nine siblings, Grammy fondly remembers her momma reading to them every night by candlelight, and all the fun she could have with her sisters with only the outside as a toy. “We played a lot of pretend. On the rare chance we got a new toy, oh my, we’d be happier than a dead pig in the sunshine.”

Translation: they had fun.

Grammy taught me to find joy in the little things. Don’t focus on trivial matters. Look at the big picture before writing something — or someone — off.

Which is why I’ll let Danica set me up one last time. Her heart is in the right place, but I think I need a dating moratorium. A man sabbatical. A no sex semester.

Sighing, I grab my bag from under the table, and stand up to push my chair in. As I look down to see a new text message, I hit something solid. Gasping, I let go of my phone, throwing my arms out to balance myself. I already envision slamming into the pavement, and hope I avoid scraping my face. No matter what I tell viewers, they’ll assume the worst. Or, they’ll think I’m doing it for attention. I can never win, and usually get at least one hateful email per week about something. My skirt was too tight. Too pink. Too loose. Too bland. Someone didn’t like my hair. Thought it looked like a hooker’s hair. Asked if I owned a hairbrush. Have I gained weight? How far along am I in the pregnancy? Do I ever eat? I need to see a physician to treat my undiagnosed bulimia. Oh, and I mispronounced the name of a town in the south of France while showing a video of a flash flood. How dare I.

Before gravity takes over, a warm arm clamps around my waist, yanking me into the solid surface I bounced off. Another arm lashes out, grabbing my phone with alarmingly quick reflexes.

“Are you okay?” Wow. That deep voice, a baritone that I feel in my bones, seems smooth yet gritty at the same time. I have an immediate thought of that voice talking me through an orgasm, and I instinctively shudder. For fuck’s sake. It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex, and my lady bits are taking notice.

As I gather my wits about me, my eyes take in the body from the neck down. Athletic shorts snugly cover incredibly thick thighs, while black and white slides sit on his sturdy feet. How can I be thinking of feet as sturdy? I don’t know, but this guy has them.

A loose University of Michigan t-shirt adorns a thick chest. It’s a well-loved shirt, the large M faded in the middle, but the fabric feels soft under my fingertips. That’s right, I’m now fingering his shirt.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking,” I stammer, pushing against his chest to step away. It’s only then that I get a view of his face. And holy hell, what a face. I should know, he’s featured on the news almost daily.

Jacob Mitchell.

Star center for the NHL Denver Wolves.

It explains the athletic slides, as well as the tree trunk sized thighs that could probably crack a coconut if he tried hard enough. A backwards hat covers dark blonde curls that always look perfectly out of control, and I hate knowing I’ve thought about what it might feel like to run my fingers through them. I just know his hair is soft.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asks again, his stupid southern twang hitting all the right places in my body. When his grin widens, I realize he knows he’s affecting me, and that really pisses me off.

I hate athletes. Loathe. Detest.

That’s not entirely true, as virtually every long-term boyfriend I’ve had in my life has been an athlete in one way or another.

Professional athletes? Not enough words to express my disdain for them.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he says, and I laugh sarcastically.

“That’s the best you can come up with?”

His brow furrows as he studies me. “That wasn’t a line. You look really familiar.”

“I get that a lot.” I’m not going to explain myself. He probably only watches the sports report on my channel, undoubtedly ignoring anything else newsworthy.

“Me too.”

I roll my eyes as I push away from him. Yeah, he’s still holding onto my waist, and I’m clueless as to why I’ve stood stationary this entire time. Jeez, Becs. Get it together. “Okay. Great. Gotta go.”

I step back, and the warmth of his arm drops from me. Beautiful baby blue eyes peer down at me in confusion, I’m sure due to me not falling at his feet like women undoubtedly do. He reaches up to twist his ball cap around, giving me a glimpse at his tousled curls pointing in every direction before he slides the cap down onto his forehead. It’s like his hat, when backwards, allows an open dialogue with Jacob. Once he turns it around, however, I can see the invisible wall slamming down as he schools his expression.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

“Yup. Totally fine,” I respond, slapping my hands together for an unknown reason. Am I okay? Hard to tell. Physically, yes. Emotionally, I’m a complete mess. This man has rattled me, which is something that rarely happens to me. “Thanks again.”

“Hey!” I shake my head, choosing to walk swiftly in the opposite direction from where I need to go, but I don’t notice it until my arm is grabbed and I’m spun around.

“What?” I snap.

Jacob chuckles, and I feel the sound like the lightest of touches wafting across my skin. “You want your phone back, or is it mine now?”

I look at his bemused expression, one hand extended as he holds my phone toward me. “Oh. Yeah. Uh, sorry.”

“Also, Spitfire, I think you were walking that way,” he says, gesturing with his head behind us. “Although it’s nice knowing I rattled you.”

“I’m not rattled,” I lie. “I forgot where I was going for a second.”

“Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that,” he says with a wicked grin.

“I just got turned around when I ran into you. Maybe I have a concussion from hitting your massive body.” Blood drains from my face as my eyes widen, and Jacob’s grin gets even bigger. “I mean you’re like a brick wall, and I probably hit those amazing pecs. At least I didn’t hit your dick, and oh my God, I need to stop talking now.”

Jacob throws his head back in laughter, and mortification covers me. Growing up, I had trouble with not recognizing when I needed a filter. It took years of working on communication, as well as a very long-standing relationship with my therapist, to teach me the social skills I lacked. One interaction with Jacob Mitchell has me reeling, and I’m spiraling as I think back to a tumultuous childhood where I never felt I got the support and unconditional love I craved.

“I have to go,” I mumble, ducking my head as I dash toward the station. I hear Jacob call after me, but I’m too embarrassed to stop. I pop into the building next to our station, knowing there’s a connecting hallway, fearful Jacob might follow me and do … something. I don’t know what.

Dashing into the first women’s bathroom I can find, I collapse into the last stall, locking the door with shaky hands. A whirlwind of memories takes over as my breathing quickens.

How embarrassing can you be, Rebecca?

You have to apologize to the Miltons. You humiliated us.

I can’t take you there! You’ll say something stupid.

Why do I have to be stuck with the retarded sister?

Such a disgrace, Rebecca.

Shut your mouth before you say something ridiculous.

As the spiral threatens to take over, I hear a very distant voice reminding me that I control my own thoughts. My therapist, Simone, has been a light in the darkness for over a decade. She taught me years ago to focus on the present, looking at everything around me to ensure the past doesn’t overwhelm me. You got this, Becca. They don’t define you .

I take in a ragged breath as I take in my surroundings. It’s been quite some time since someone, especially a man, threw me off my game so soundly. Simone is probably going to have all kinds of thoughts on this interaction.

Ten minutes later, my breathing under control and my skin no longer flushed, I make the way back to my cubicle at the station. I’m fortunate to have a desk by windows facing west, giving me a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains. Cumulus clouds build above the mountain peaks, sure to bring some late summer thunderstorms to someone along the front range of Colorado. I sigh, shaking my head in disbelief that I get to live here.

My usual gig is working the morning shift, but today I’m covering for another meteorologist for his afternoon stint. I’ve been up since just after two in the morning, and I won’t get home until around dinnertime. My phone chimes with a text from my ChatBook app, and I find myself smiling as I look forward to whatever my online friend has sent me.

I hate dating apps. Hate them. The percentage of men who use them as a way to cheat on their partners, send unsolicited dick pics, blatantly lie about their lives, and treat women abysmally just makes me lean in to the expectation I’ll be living alone with my cats for the rest of my life. ChatBook started as a joke, and it has never moved past messages. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m completely anonymous on this app, using a stock photo of a beach for my profile pic, and never using my name. My username is NerdGirl1025. I’m careful about giving out any personal details, and have yet to tell StickUM92 what state I live in. The only reason I know StickUM92 is male is because his profile pic is of his feet at the edge of what I think is the ocean. Well, I assume they’re his feet. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe I’m talking to a sixty-seven-year-old woman who never leaves her dingy apartment in Queens and hates dogs. Whatever the case, StickUM92 makes me laugh whenever I read his — or her — messages.

StickUM92: I hate olives. Hate them. I honestly can’t understand how anyone can cook with them, let alone eat a handful. I’ve always hated them, which sucked as a kid because my mom thought they were a food group, and put them on everything. Because we were a “you sit here until you clean your plate” family, I was forced to finish them. A few times, I got away with telling her I had to go to the bathroom, then spitting a mouthful out. She caught onto that real quick, and then she checked my mouth before I was allowed to leave the table. Mom knows I don’t like olives, but just sent me a big box of various olives for my birthday.

NerdGirl1025: It’s your birthday? Oh wow! Happy birthday! Sorry about the olives, though. I hate them as well. I can’t even eat anything with olive juice on it. They taint the entire meal.

StickUM92: Right? Tainted. And my birthday is in May.

NerdGirl1025: But you said … seriously? And your own mother screwed it up?

StickUM92: I know. My mom either forgot to send them in May, or she doesn’t remember when my birthday is. Honestly, I’m not surprised by any of it.

NerdGirl1025: I’m sorry. That sucks.

StickUM92: It is what it is. I’ve never had the best relationship with her.

NerdGirl1025: What about your dad? Can’t he help?

StickUM92: They divorced when I was five, and my dad died a few years later. He had initiated the divorce, and my mom was really salty about it. She’s been hunting for the elusive happily ever after ending since. She just married husband number five.

NerdGirl1025: Wow. Five?

StickUM92: Yup. That doesn’t even count the revolving door of men while I was living at home. We moved a lot as she chased one guy or another. I think I saw every small town in east Texas by the time I was a teenager.

Ah. He lives in Texas. Probably why he seems so nice. I have yet to meet a southerner who hasn’t been cheerful and fun to talk to.

NerdGirl1025: Well I say you slowly give the olives back to her, or donate them to a food kitchen. Might as well make some people happy with the disgusting little fake grapes.

StickUM92: Fake grapes. HA! I’ll think about what to do with them. Sorry for being a little down-in-the-dumps. Any interaction with my mom makes me grumpy.

NerdGirl1025: I understand. That’s how I am with my dad, so I get it.

When StickUM92 doesn’t respond, I turn off my phone screen. Honestly, I get grumpy thinking of any of my family members. My father and older brother were the worst to me growing up, but I’ve held a lot of animosity toward my meek mother for allowing it to happen.

I haven’t been home in over a decade, and I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve spoken to any of them. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the last remaining Stephens family member.