“Try me.” It comes out far more serious than I intend.
Wes steps closer, his chest nearly touching mine. I don’t back down. Not even when he’s so close I can see the flecks of color in his storm-cloud eyes as he leans in. There’s a level of seriousness that can only be mockery in his voice when he says, “One of these days, I’m going to figure out who turned you into the fun police. We need to have a very long talk.”
“Good luck havingthatconversation with my mother,” I fire back. The second some emotion I don’t want to examine too closely flickers across his expression, I know I’ve made amistake. I quickly change the subject. “Let’s just get out and chase, all right? We both have the contest to focus on. I don’t have time to play games with you this year.”
“You know what I think?” Wes closes the little remaining distance between us, leaning down so we’re eye to eye. His glint with challenge. “I think you look forward to playing games with me. Admit it. I made your night better last week at that wedding in Houston.”
“It’s a miracle you fit that ego of yours in your shiny new car.”
“Sounds an awful lot like a yes.”
I roll my eyes and absolutely don’t think about the fact that he’s so close I can smell his soap. “Stay out of my way, Wes. I mean it. There are too many new people out here for you to be fucking around.”
“But fucking around is what I do best.” He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and rocks back. “You should try it sometime. Might help you relax.”
Typical Wes. When outright mockery doesn’t work, he switches tactics and tries to get under my skin another way. And yet, for some stupid reason, the image of him dancing at that wedding flashes through my mind. I shove it away and take a wide step around him, determined not to waste any more time on pointless verbal ping-pong.
“If you need the number to an STD clinic, a couple of my old clients are nurses,” I call over my shoulder before closing my car door. In the rearview, I watch him laugh the dig off before getting into his own car and pulling out behind me.
Chapter Three
While I chase alone thesedays, I’m neverreallyalone.
A dozen or so cars leave the gas station in a haphazard caravan. Of course when the road narrows into one lane, I end up stuck behind Wes and his ridiculous customChaseplates. I guess it’s better than some of the elaborate glittering decals some of the tour groups use.
My mood climbs along with the updrafts as we clear the old grain elevators at the edge of town, and the sky opens up in an endless expanse of blue. The base of the storm is almost due east, a darkening oval bruise that stands out against the otherwise clear sky. Without taking my eyes off the road, I reach behind me to grab the ancient Rocky Mountain National Park ball cap that lives in my car, stuff my braid into it, and lower the windows to breathe in the hot, dusty air.
Spring on the plains smells like freedom.
Ahead of me, Wes has his arm resting outside his window as he drives. When a bolt of lightning drops in the distance,his arm is suddenly up in the air, fist raised toward the sky. I can practically hear his loudwhoopto match the one I let out as adrenaline floods my system.
We’re all just a bunch of weather and photography nerds racing down country roads in search of the kinds of storms that most people avoid. And sure, we might not be entirely sane, but it’s good to remember that despite making a living by documenting the biggest moments of someone else’s life, these six weeks are aboutmymoments. That therearepeople who don’t think I’m out of my mind for wanting to be here.
Cars start to peel off as we get closer to the storm. Everyone has a slightly different preference for how they line up their shots. Some go for the awe-inspiring wide angles that capture the towering height of the clouds punching into the upper atmosphere. Some choose the story in the details. Some are shooting time-lapse video, and some people just want to see something cool on the other side of their lens.
My heart lies with sweeping wide angles. I’ve grown up surrounded by towering Colorado mountains and golden oceans of wheat bending and swaying in the wind. I imagine it’s a bit like the coastal dwellers with their love for the oceanbecauseof its vastness. While I don’t really need a reminder of my own insignificance, standing in front of a storm cloud punching sixty thousand feet into the atmosphere definitely makes me feel small. Like for once, I’m not taking up too much space.
Ahead of me, Wes flips on his turn signal. I glance down at the iPad mounted in between my seats to double check the map. It’s the same left I was planning to take. Ugh.
The car behind me follows us, but everyone else keepsheading east. I’m a little surprised Wes isn’t trying to get closer to the storm, but he must have some other master plan. Obnoxious as he can be, he’s got a sixth sense for getting himself to the right spot to get his shots.
The abandoned house I had in mind sits half collapsed a couple miles down the road. Radar confirms what I can already see through my windshield—the storm is starting to spin like a top.
Wes pulls off onto the shoulder, kicking up dust as I park behind him. There’s no point in pretending we’re not both thinking the same thing, as are the chasers behind us. When they hop out, I’m thrilled to see two women, though I don’t recognize them from prior seasons.
After giving us a brief wave, they set up a respectful distance down the road, claiming a spot on the right side of the house. I’m debating introducing myself, but then I spy bright pink flowers crawling up the house’s rotting siding. Delicate, small blooms cling to the ruins of what was once a vibrant family home centered against the backdrop of the deep purple-gray sky. The pinks will pop against the darkness of the storm, but more than that, it’s exactly what I’m looking for. Growth versus decay. Beauty versus destruction.
Wes gives me a wide, goading smile. “If you’re looking for tips for the contest, you can just ask. No need to follow me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I point at the side of the house, already lifting my camera to adjust my settings. I take a test shot, glance at the preview, and adjust the exposure before trying again. “I’m following the storm. And those flowers.”
We fall into silence as we line up our shots. The storm isgorgeous, a classic wedding cake structure that has me smirking to myself. It makes for stunning photos from a distance, the distinct layers of cloud banding giving it its name. They’re also known for dumping torrents of rain, making it dangerous to get too close.
“Just can’t escape those wedding cakes, can you?” Wes says as though he’s in my head. He’s taken off his sunglasses to shoot the storm, leaving them dangling from the neck of his shirt.
“This is the best kind of wedding cake.” My mood is too good to let him get to me. “Too bad everything will be rain-wrapped if it kicks out a tornado.”
Roads will flood quickly, especially out here where drainage isn’t great. It can be impossible to know what you’re driving into over the next rise. I’m content to stay right where I am with my flowers and abandoned farmhouse as the hot, moisture-rich inflow winds race toward the storm.
