CHAPTER FOUR : SITTING IN A CORNER I HAUNT

TWO WEEKS LATER

TULSA, OKLAHOMA

HER EXISTENTIAL CRISIS IS ONGOING, BUT SHE'S BECOME TOO SKILLED AT PUTTING IT ON PAUSE UNTIL BREAKS. It is as if a countdown in stark red numbers lights up in her mind from the moment their esteemed director starts twirling his finger for her to wrap it up. Her performance ends when she ends her report on the approaching storm with a signal back to their lead anchors and the cameraman swerves the lens to the news desk.

It begins to crumble from there.

Willow tugs off her mic pack, gently but quickly enough to free herself from the device that has become all too constricting within seconds. Her heels bite into her toes, a blister throbbing on the second, and the tension makes her jaw ache from too much smiling. Every movement, every sensation felt like a weight pressing on her skin. Thirty steps from the office, twenty-four if she takes longer strides, and then she can dart out for her allocated hour-and-a-half break for therapy and a sad, convenience store lunch.

But Joel stands at the end of the sound stage, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual, waiting for her. Of course, he is there, a constant presence when she can least tolerate it.

"Great work, as always," he compliments as he sidles up next to her. Willow does not slow her pace- never does- but the typical tight-lipped smile she offers in thanks feels hollower, emptier.

Joel never notices the difference.

"What you said about the outbreak," he begins casually, keeping up with her as she tries to out-pace him, "do you really think we are about to hit one?"

"The NWS is dragging their feet on it, but it is highly probable," she replies quickly, her tone clipped with impatience festering in her.

"And what will we do once they do?"

"Once they make the call, graphics will need to prioritize sheltering and safety visuals for the next two weeks," Willow says flatly, already trying to end the conversation. "Something we can focus on later."

Joel takes her dismissal as something to smile at. "I understand; prioritize our breaks first," he thinks he responds in agreement. Willow counts step thirty and crosses the threshold of the office. She is quick to slip out of her heels into the pair of slides she hides under her desk and reaches for her bag.

"Hey, what if I took you out to lunch today?" Joel cuts through cheerily. Willow jumps at his voice- not realizing he followed her inside. "I never got to treat you like I wanted and I really want to ask you about your storm-chasing ventures."

Her heart stutters. Willow freezes mid-step, a cold wave of panic washing over her. "What?" she asks, sharper than intended, her eyes blown wide with her back facing him.

There is no way‒ no fucking way‒ Joel, a man who cannot even get her coffee order straight, is the one to unearth the deepest, darkest depths of her past. It is her most well-kept secret; the only slip had been two weeks ago, a mere suggestion that she wasn't much of a storm-chaser anymore, and one that will never happen again for all the trouble it has caused her heart.

"You know," Joel answers, teasing, absolutely clueless to her spiral, "over the conference weekend when you met that old school chaser. You never told me-"

Tyler. His name flickers in her mind. There is no relief in knowing her assistant only continues to fall for a story she spun in the arms of a lover. No relief in knowing he only referring to the persona she created for Tyler. Instead, it's more of a punch to the gut.

Ever since that conference, everything feels off. No, worse than off. It had never been entirely right in the first place, but for years, Willow accepted her life for what it was‒ hollow, but manageable. She surrendered without much fuss, to this mute contentment, accepting her defeat with a television smile. Then her storm-chasing cowboy shows up with that easy smile and ability to break through every single defense of hers.

Damn fate all to hell for dropping that man in her lap, for breathing life into her, for making her feel something, to want something again, only to force her to cut ties and run.

With a taste of the life she could have, discontent gnaws at her every day, but she remains unable to move forward, unable to return, only stagnant in this terrible, awful, performance with people who think they know her but the only one to truly see her in years probably hates her because she could not be all of what he wants her to be‒

She's stuck.

Absolutely fucking stuck.

But for at least an hour and a half, she will pretend she is not.

"I actually have an appointment," she mutters, cutting Joel off before he can say anything more. She doesn't make eye contact when she pushes past him in the door frame and does not even look back at him. "Excuse me."

She leaves no Joel with an opportunity to push‒ it is the first time she ever does.

◆ ◆ ◆

THE WINDOW IN DR. ROBINSON'S OFFICE IS QUITE THE DISTRACTION. Especially as the wind picks up and the tops of the trees begin to rustle against it. It is subtle at first, just a breeze, but she can tell it's building.

Willow tracks the changes in the sky, noting the way the clouds were gathering, their dark edges sharpening to form a pale grey horizon. The cells are weak now, only initially forming in the Oklahoma skies. It won't be much more than a few strikes of thunder and lightning, but once it sweeps toward Arkansas, the cap may break and make it a cell worth chasing.

Old habits die hard, she guesses.

Willow wonders if he knows it is heading in his direction‒ she's been watching the radars since the morning, curling up around the radar with her morning coffee as if it were the morning paper. If he is setting out for its path with that truck of his, noticing those same patterns and feeling that pull.

("If you feel it, chase it, baby," the phrase echoes in her mind throughout the days of their venture, each time bringing that bubble of laughter up her throat.

They resurface again‒one final time‒as his finger brushes along her cheek, in the afterglow of what neither of them knew would be their last night together. He touches her with such tenderness, never treating her as fragile, but always with care, as though she's the most important thing in his world. It makes her ache with the want, the need to stay, to let him fall in love with her the way she is starting to love him.

In another life, without all the tragedy, maybe he would say it to her again, in a bar or out in the field, or at yet another conference. Their eyes would meet, and it would be instant and cosmic, and she would chase him to the ends of the earth.

In another life, she doesn't decide in the morning the only solution is to slip away without a goodbye. No quiet kiss to his hair as he slept, no silent tears shed as she meets her Uber down the road.)

"Willow?" Dr. Robinson's voice cuts through the silence. Willow finally blinks from her daze and finds the woman across from her, studying her carefully. "You seem lost in thought."

"Sorry," she responds, lightly shaking her own self out of it, "what were we talking about?"

"I asked if you are actually taking your time off seriously," her therapist repeats, head tilted slightly to the side, pen paused mid-note against the page of her file. "Remember, we talked about no longer using workloads in place of healthy coping mechanisms. Have you been doing that?"

"I have..." Willow trails off in response. "Totally been doing that."

Dr. Robinson knows it is not the entire truth‒it never is with Willow. "In what ways?"

"I haven't taken on any extra public appearances in the past two weeks," she clarifies her half-truth, the easiest part of her work to begin denying since it is the one she hated the most.

"That is progress," Dr. Robinson concedes, jotting the note down upon her file, "but..."

"I still watch the radars," Willow admits, more sheepish than she wants to be. "But I would've done that regardless of my job. It's part of my routine."

Dr. Robinson hums, though Willow isn't sure if it's in understanding or mild disapproval- she'll pretend it's the former rather than the latter. "Anything particularly special?

Willow shifts slightly, the familiar buzz of storm anticipation sneaking into her words despite herself. "The data suggests that these storms could lead to a real outbreak," she says quietly. "Like, historic levels. I had to decide if I should start reporting on it."

"Like in 1996?"

"Yeah, like 1996," she confirms with a sigh, her shoulders sagging. Another historic storm season, a mirror of the stories she grew up on.

(Willow knows every little detail about those days in the field‒ the thrill, the danger, the endless skies. The stories manifest mostly with the crew, Rabbit and Dusty being the most vocal about the heroics of her aunt and uncle while they assist her with her math homework.

But it is Jo who tells it like no other, more than happy to trade out picture books for field stories for bedtime. A storm-busted red pick-up, an experiment to change the game, and somehow falling in love all over again through the winds and rain.

Bill hangs in the door frame, listening and watching as stars form in his little girl's eyes, how she hangs on to every word of the first accounts. She imagines herself there, in cargo pants, running a team with a stubborn, iron fist, a mirror to her aunt, saving lives, changing the world.)

But that mirror isn't for her now, doesn't hold a reflection she recognizes anymore.

"Sounds like an opportunity to reach out to Jo," Dr. Robinson suggests softly. "Maybe get some quality advice."

"I've already figured it out myself," Willow mutters, forcing a casual shrug. "No need to call and bother her."

Dr. Robinson's gaze is steady. "Willow, if there's ever a time to reach out to Jo again, this might be it..."

"Oh, so she can say 'You hate your job? I told you so'?" Willow scoffs, a flash of frustration crossing her face. "Yeah, that sounds like an awesome conversation."

Dr. Robinson takes the hint; therapy always becomes tense when it comes down to Jo, it is easier to test the waters and then always shove her in that do not discuss pile. Instead, pen will scratch against paper, so deafening in the quiet room, until her therapist finally looks back up with that expectant gaze.

"Where did you go just then, if you don't mind me asking?"

The question is not much easier, but it is what made her so desperate for her appointment in the end. Willow does as she always does, she hesitates, then digs her nails through satin to meet her scar. "Joel brought up the conference," she admits, "made me get in my head."

"About Tyler?"

Tyler.

Of course, it comes back to Tyler.

It feels like that's all she's done these past two weeks—resent her career and pine over her cosmic fling. She wants to hate how much space he has taken up in her thoughts, how empty her bed feels. She cannot seem to shake him- every glance at the radar, every song on the radio, brings her back to him, to the way he looked at her like she was a perfect storm to chase.

"I probably seem a little obsessive," she mutters, her answer confirmation enough, before peaking back up with a questioning glance, "don't I?"

"You connected with someone like you haven't in a long time, Willow," Dr. Robinson explains to her. "It is entirely valid for you to think of him and mourn that relationship however brief it may have been."

"I know you think that's my fault, though."

Her therapist does not agree nor disagree‒ she simply states what she considers factual, "You engage in self-sabotaging behaviors as a way to protect yourself."

Willow scoffs at the suggestion. "I left for him, not me."

"Willow..." she gives her a pointed look, neutral but still firm in disbelief.

"Dr. Robinson," Willow shoots back, mirroring the look, though her voice much less steady than the professional, "you know as well that I couldn't give him what he wanted."

"And what do you believe he wanted?"

Willow exhales heavily. "Look, I know it wasn't just about storms for us," she tries to make herself seem reasonable, "but you weren't there to see how excited he was to ask me, how hurt he would have been if I had said no. I think he built me up in his head and was going to keep pushing about it and I couldn't-" she stops short, blinking back tears. It seems so absurd to get so emotional over a weekend fling; no greater woman would let it hold so much power. "I couldn't steal his life from him."

Dr. Robinson purses her lips together thoughtfully. Another scratch of pen against paper echoes throughout the room before she fills it again with a question. "Is that what you think being with you would have done to him?"

"I can't chase anymore," Willow responds lowly, "and I have all this emotional baggage that even if he says he wants to hear, I know-" she cuts herself off with a sigh, the weight of her thoughts crashing down on her, "I can't ask him to be with half a person when he deserves someone whole who can match him."

"So, yes, I 'self-sabotaged' for him," she clarifies, trying to make her voice sound strong, sure, "because it is easier to let him down now before he dug too deep and realizes it isn't enough."

Dr. Robinson looks to her with sympathy this time, her lips pulled tight in some sad defeat. It takes her a moment to find the right words. "I think you do a disservice to Tyler assuming his interest is that conditional."

Willow averts her eyes away, ashamed. It isn't- deep down she knows it isn't, but the fear of seeing him unhappy just to love her seems worse than heartbreak she gives herself.

"Let me ask you another question," Dr. Robinson leads again. "What would have happened if you had said yes to him?"

"I can't-"

"Can't or won't?" Dr. Robinson asks, her tone soft but firm. "You keep saying you can't go back out there, but have you tried? Or let yourself even really consider it?" The silence is heavier than it ever has between them as she lets the words settle upon her patient's shoulders.

"I'm not dismissing what happened to you, Willow, but this avoidance‒this constant refusal to face what scares you‒isn't protecting you; it's trapping you. You've convinced yourself that staying away from storm chasing is preservation, but it's really punishment. You blame yourself for what happened, so you cut yourself off from the parts of you that thrive in it."

Willow's voice is barely a whisper. "I don't even know if I could do it all again, though- be her again."

Dr. Robinson leans in slightly to address her. "Tyler reminded you that part of you is still alive‒you just have to take the final step towards her." She pauses, giving Willow a moment to take in what she implies. "Whether or not you stick to chasing again, the important thing is that you can try, but only when you're ready."

The timer on the side table rings out, signaling the end of their session. Willow stands before Dr. Robinson, quick to leave the conversation that feels as constricting as her mic pack on its worst day. Her therapist does the same, only after watching her with a soft sigh and one last note in her file.

"Baby steps, Willow," is her final advice at the door, the same one she has been walking her out of for the past two years. "Find someone you trust to chase with again and then maybe when you get it figured out," it is the first time Dr. Robinson wears a hopeful smile that session, as if she is rooting for her, "find Tyler on Instagram."

◆ ◆ ◆

WILLOW FORGOES LUNCH. Her stomach is in shambles and the relief her therapy was supposed to provide her only sends her into an anxious turmoil.

Find someone she trusts to chase with again? A near-impossible task when the only team she has ever known is either six feet under or scattered across the world in places unknown. To find someone new would feel like betrayal‒ chasing is only chasing with her other half there calling the storms to chase, with her dance partner defending her machine with his life, and her friends, her precious friends...

(It's Praveen she sees most often in her nightmares‒the promise to teach him more, to guide him deeper into her world left unfulfilled, lingering in the silence as he slips away with no one there to hear.

Addy appears when it rains‒a flicker of blonde hair drenched to the bone, twirling in the storm's grasp. She's close, almost within reach, before disappearing into the downpour.

Jeb haunts her less often; he's likely spending his time with the girl of his dreams, as he always would've. But on the rare times he comes, it's from behind the lenses aimed at her, his laughter echoing from somewhere beyond. She wants to tear those cameras down, watch them shatter into silence‒)

Fuck fate. Fuck every cosmic thread holding it together. If destiny insists she belongs with her cowboy, then it is up to it to fix her‒to drop the opportunity into her lap, to give her her family back, to give her the piece of herself she left out there, somewhere in the storm.

Willow pushes open the doors to the newsroom, her nerves still raw, barely holding herself together as she steps back in. It feels like a slap to the face to return with only more exhaustion and she just wants a moment to breathe before she is on screen again, maybe curl up in her office and watch the radar for those two hours with no disturbance.

But Joel's voice cuts through her thoughts like a blade.

"Perfect timing," he starts, swooping in with his tablet in hand. "The producers just arranged a last-minute meeting‒"

"No," it comes out sharp, mean enough for his ready-to-go easy-breezy smile to crack with hurt and she cannot bring herself to take it back. "Joel, I need a minute."

"But..." Joel stutters out, "It's this storm-chasing start-up company; it'd be an amazing segment."

"Then meet with them yourself."

Without waiting for his response, Willow high-tails it for her office, closes the door behind her, and plops down in her desk chair. She presses her forehead to the cool wood of her desk and lets out a hefty sigh, wishing it could be a scream instead. She wants to let it rip out of her, something curdling and screeching to the point she could never make another sound. The remnants of her therapy session refuse to let go, the last bits of conversation mulling over and over, another pressing weight on her chest, topping off that of her job and her cosmic fling to test what little breath she has for life.

There is a knock the sounds at her door. Willow curses under her breath‒ the moment she sits down to catch her breath and that idiot is there, ready to push her to her limits again. She stands and swings the door open.

"For the last time, Joel‒"

Except, it isn't Joel. Not even close. Her words die on her lips as she takes in the sharp suit, almost throwing her off but those dark curls, even trimmed short, and the freckles scattered across the bridge of that nose are unmistakable. Nothing could hide the warmth in those familiar eyes or the smile that always had a way of grounding her.

"Hey, Will," the man greets, the slight tremor in his voice betraying the calmness of his smile. His shoulders are tight, awkward, as if he isn't sure if she is going to deny him or welcome him.

Willow freezes, her irritation melting away into disbelief. Her lips part in shock and she breathes out his name. "Javi...?" She is not sure what to do, not with joy and relief and grief all flooding her chest at once.

There is a pause before suddenly, Willow darts forward to him, her arms wrapping around his neck when she hits his chest. Javi lets out a huff when she collides with him, still catching her and enveloping her in a hug. Willow can feel the tension slip from him as she nestles against him, both letting the solidness of their presence ground the other. Willow cannot help the tears that form in her eyes. It's been four years, but in that moment, none of that matters; not when it feels like there has never been a moment of time or space between them. Javi presses a kiss to her head, nose buried in her hair.

When she finally pulls back, eyes a little red, a genuine smile beaming towards him, she goes to cup his cheeks. "Lord, look at you," she praises, her messy, wild best friend suddenly this clean-cut man. "What the hell is with the get-up?"

"My get-up?" Javi lets out a water laugh and tugs at one of her pristine curls. "Will, look at yours. I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress."

She rolls her eyes at him, matching his laughter with her own. There is a moment where they just look at each other in disbelief; unsure if it is real that they are there or if all the pain has finally made them lose their minds. "How did you even get in here?" She finally asks.

"I'm your 'last minute meeting'," he admits with a casual shrug. "Had to fib a bit to get in the door. Apparently, you're so important these days that I've gotta get vetted just to see you."He gestures toward the door with a mock-seriousness. "That Joel guy? Practically grilled me."

"He's harmless."

Javi smirks. "That guy's totally in love with you, you know," he is the second person to realize it, "but he probably doesn't realize you're bat-shit crazy yet."

"Shut up," she fires back, slipping back into their banter as if there was never a moment away from it. Willow shakes her head at him, her grin impossibly wide. "I can't believe you're here. Why the hell are you here?"

"To see you, idiot," he says. "The real question is‒ have you eaten? I'm technically allowed two hours of your time."

"Yeah," she replies without even thinking. Willow blinks for a moment, realizing the turmoil in her stomach has settled with him there. "Yeah, I can eat."

Javi takes her to a casual burger joint downtown, just within perfect walking distance from the station. Willow nearly orders a salad until Javi pipes up with the greasiest burger on the menu for himself and her, as well as two iced ones. It makes her laugh when they finally slide into their booth, both standing out in the sleek work clothes, their favorite beers in their hands. Willow and Javi clink together at the next in cheers.

"You know, I ain't supposed to be drinking on the clock, Rivera," she teases, contradicting herself after she takes a long swig. The moment the cold beer touches her lips, it feels like a small rebellion.

Javi snorts at her. "Ain't no way one beer knocks you back now, Thornton—not with the way you used to take 'em." He takes a sip of his own beer, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I should've waited until later and taken us to a bar. I bet you can still hold that record on the bull."

"I think I'm a little rusty on that," she laughs, the sound light but tinged with nostalgia, "ain't much time for ridin' mechanical bulls when you're the weather girl."

"Lord, I still can't believe it," he says, studying her with a mix of confusion and disbelief. "You? A weather girl?"

"Yeah, some days, me either."

"I just thought if any of us would still be chasing, it would be you," he says it with so much certainty. "What's Jo say about all this?" He waves his hand up and down, gesturing to what he earlier deemed her "get-up".

"Exactly what you'd expect," she replies, feeling a familiar knot tighten in her stomach. Somehow he sees the truth of it all; the distance it's put between her and her aunt.

"You're kidding. Really? Mrs. Carter told me y'all weren't talking. I didn't believe it," Javi says, disbelief etched across his face.

"You went and saw Cathy?" Willow asks in surprise.

"I was tryna' go on a reunion tour," he explains, no doubt trying to stop by to see the other last survivor of their crew. "You ever hear from her?" There is no need to say her name; not when she is able to haunt them both as if she is a ghost herself.

"No," Willow shakes her head, "not since she left for New York."

"I tried getting in touch with her a few times," Javi says, his expression earnest. He avoids her gaze, fiddling with his beer and rolling the base against the table.

Willow's chest tightens at his words. She had always believed they were all stuck in their own worlds, each of them living in their own isolated grief. To know Javi tried with Kate—not just once but a few times—feels like a dagger to her heart. It cuts deeper than she ever expected. Each time she thought of them both over the years, after they had both left her in Oklahoma, she imagined the day they would finally come home or at least call—how she would answer without hesitation, her heart racing at the sight of either of their names flashing on her screen. She had stayed put, rooted in the memories of their past, always ready for both of them to find her again and neither ever did.

Willow tries to tell herself to be grateful he finally came at all.

"What am I, chopped liver?" Willow retorts, unable to resist the half-teasing tone to cover up her hurt, though a hint of that vulnerability slips through. Javi's expression shifts, guilt flickering behind his eyes. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, needing to bridge the distance that feels so vast. "I get it, Javi. I ain't the girl you spent years pining for."

"Will, that ain't-"

Willow scoffs and gives him a pointed look. "It was always obvious, even when you tried to hide it by flirtin' with me."

"To everyone but her," he replies, a sad smile forming on his lips. The shared memories bring warmth, but it's tinged with a bittersweet ache. Willow mirrors his smile, her heart squeezing at the thought of Kate, her other half, wandering somewhere just out of reach.

Then, Javi's next words hit her hard. "So, Bill just lets you two not talk to each other like that?"

Willow goes still. "Cathy didn't tell you?" the words stumble out. Willow realizes that she'd assumed he knew; that he'd seen the local news back then, and heard the news that made her world shatter. But as she watches his expression, it's clear- Javi doesn't know. He only frows, brows knitting together in confusion.

"He, um," she hesitates, wringing her hands together in that nervous way she always has. She steels herself, finally managing to say, "We lost him. A few years ago..."

She doesn't have to look at him to feel his reaction. Javi's features slip, his own set of grief adding another notch. "Will, I had no idea."

Willow's gaze drops, her throat tight, that old pain of Bill's loss sharp as ever again. She tells herself not to make another scene, not like the one at the conference, so brief but still embarrassing enough that she held that biography near sobbing. "I just kept it to myself. I didn't want to make it this whole thing," she can feel his guilt strengthening; the notion of her left behind, carrying the weight again.

She tries for levity, a weak effort to lighten the moment."Trust me, though, he would have been on us about it. He actually helped me get the assistant job that eventually turned into this."

Javi softens, seeming to catch her drift. "I didn't realize you were making a career out of it. Do you like it at least?

Willow shrugs; she knows her real answer would make the moment worse than it already is. "It's a job." She pivots to him, managing a wry smile. "What about you? I ain't heard from you since graduation, and you're shit at social media."

Javi lets the shift slide, leaning into the lighter tone. "I went back to Miami. Felt like I needed to regroup. Shit, you wouldn't believe it." Javi grows a sheepish smile and scratches at the back of his neck."I joined the military."

Willow's eyebrows nearly shoot up to her hairline. "Now you're lying."

"I ain't, I swear," he chuckles. "I was just feeling kind of lost."

She understands that now more than ever, more than he knows.

"What about now?"

Javi gives a half-shrug, hand wrapped tight around his bottle. "Well, if you thought that was a stretch, you really ain't gonna believe what I'm up to now."

"Joel said something about a storm-chasing start-up..." she starts, her eyes narrowing at him. "Was that a lie or...?"

"Not a lie," he admits, much to her surprise. "My buddy and I started up a storm-research company: Storm-Par." Willow mouths the name back to him, her brows furrowed. "My job in the military was operating a phased array radar, or PAR for short. They scan for missiles. This thing was so powerful and so fast, I could watch a moth fly from, like, a mile away," he pauses for a second, meeting her gaze, "but I kept asking myself: What if we point this thing at a tornado?"

(Willow and Kate, as designated captains of their two-man storm-chasing team, decide after their first chase they probably need more hands on deck.

Willow is the one to bring in Jeb, a physics major with a growing interest in meteorology from entertaining her many, many information dumps on the physics of tornados. Kate, in turn, recruits Javi, a party guy with enough bright ideas that he'll fit right on in.

Of course, he would be the only military man to imagine a PAR pointed at a tornado. She probably would've done the same thing.)

"Aren't those PAR things the size of buildings, though?" she asks, skepticism tinged with curiosity.

"The military, they came up with portable units, and they're small. I got my hands on a few prototypes." He grabs the parmesan and red pepper flake shakers, setting them up with their beers as he begins to sketch out his vision. "Alright, the parmesan is our tornado. When my team drives up, we place a portable PAR here."‒he points to her beer bottle, positioned nearest to her‒"It's giving me incredible high-resolution images, but they're still kind of flat. So what do we do? My team sets up two more, here and here. Now we have a..."

"A three-dimensional scan," she finishes in awe, catching his excitement. It's something beyond DOROTHY; with the PARs, they could visualize the tornado's upper reaches, maybe even see right through the cap.

"The most perfect scan of a tornado ever," he finishes, grinning.

"Javi, this is..." she breathes out. Willow looks up at him, her mind buzzing. "Does it work?"

"In theory," he admits, echoing her words from that last chase all those years ago. "Theory is just theory, though, right?"

"But why haven't you tried it?"

He hesitates, then says, "We just haven't been able to get close enough. And..." His eyes meet hers again, that nervousness from their reuniting in her office returning. "I think we need someone who knows storms like you do, Will."

Oh, fucking fate, Willow thinks to herself, sitting up straighter in the booth than before at Javi's statement.

There you are.

‒AUTHOR'S NOTE

chapter title from right where you left me by taylor swift, which is so willow's song. 

another chapter in the books- meeting javi again and seeing willow go through the process of dealing with the aftermath of tyler. let me know what you think! we won't see tyler just yet in the next chapter, but he'll be back soon for his girl without even realizing it

CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ALWAYS APPRECIATED: and if you notice anything off, let me know. i'm the writer and editor and beta reader at the moment for this fic and i can easily miss grammar mistakes. i really am loving this fic and am so excited that there's a few of you liking it as well.

lots of love,

kari