At twenty-nine, Parker was only two years older than me, but he was just as determined to get out of Daylesford as I was. The city was great and all, I was born here and I loved it, but nothing could change the fact that it was a local market. Yes, the fourth largest in the country, but still local. I wanted, no, I needed national exposure, especially if I was going to have any chance of...
"No direct news on the promotion yet," he began, sitting down in the equally well-worn chair across from me.
"Damn it," I said with a huff.
Why was it taking so long? I was Daylesford's leading meteorologist. Officially. I had won the local news award for best meteorologist for the last three years.
I'd even straightened and lightened my hair to an almost-but-not-quite blond, heeding the network's call to be more “boy-next-door approachable.” I was easy to work with, a team player, and I knew the studio executives all liked me.
Plus, the weather ratings were at an all-time high, even higher than the two segments preceding it. That meant that people tuned in just for the weather.
Just for me.
But I didn't have a big head about it, because I knew that most of it—no, wait, all of it—was due to Parker. The tight pants that showed off my inexplicably round ass were his idea. Waistcoat Wednesdays and Rate My Shirt Saturdays were also his ideas. Wearing a colorful bow tie every once in a while, yep, his idea too.
Even that goddamn stupid catchphrase, I'm always right, was his idea.
"Let's go through the list, shall we?" he said, looking at me as he scrunched his nose.
I could never quite tell if he did it because his glasses were falling down, or he simply shared my disdain for the things we had to do to just get ahead in this crazy business.
If people thought showbiz was tough, meteorology was ten levels crazier. The backstabbing, the cattiness, the constant reminders of the forecasts you got totally wrong. No one ever forgot a thing.
"There's a list?" I asked, settling back into the almond-colored leather sofa. It was probably as old as the station, fraying at the edges.
Parker nodded and proceeded to grab a clipboard and flip a page over.
"Let's start with net positives," he said as his blue eyes scanned the page busily. "We've got your ass."
I silently shuddered. Because, of course that would be the number one thing that people liked about me.
"It's got high approval in all the key demos: the millennials, the gays, and the over seventy-fives." He tapped his fingers along the back of the clipboard and smiled as he looked at me, as if that should be music to my ears.
"Great," I managed to say, while successfully resisting the urge to roll my eyes into the back of my head.
"Word on the street is you're a shoo-in to win Daylesford's Hottest Derriere," he said, completely not reading my face at all.
That definitely called for an eye roll. "Calling it a derriere doesn't make it any more classy, Parker.”
"Who cares about classy?" he retorted instantly. "All we care about is publicity at this point, Liam. We need your face, and your ass, plastered everywhere if we're going to have a shot at this promotion."
"I guess…" I said, looking around the dressing room.
I knew the window of opportunity was closing for me. It used to be that older meteorologists were respected for their experience and wisdom. Not the case anymore. Everyone knew that forty meant death. Wake Up America's weatherman was thirty-nine...and a half. The poor sap.
"Clothes are good, appearance is good as well," Parker continued, going through his checklist until a small wrinkle formed on his otherwise perfectly smooth forehead. I wondered if he’d had any work done.
"Ah, okay, a few minor issues. Not negative yet, but could turn that way if we don't keep an eye on them."
"What—what are they?" I asked, digging my fingers into the leather seat.
I could feel a heaviness forming in the bottom of my stomach. It was never a nice feeling to know that my appearance would be savaged, even if it was broken down into key demo groups. It didn't make the sting hurt any less.
"Hair," he said. "Could be a little longer. How did everything go at Monday's meeting?"
I sighed. "Fine. Three inches."
Yep, every Monday morning, all the male on-air talent had a hair production meeting where we got our hair measured. Viewers had gotten picky over recent years, and wanted their male anchors, sports presenters, and weathermen to have a certain look...and hair length.
Five inches was the gold standard, usually only attained by the biggest names in the business. Four inches was pretty decent and on par for local news anchors. I had been aiming for three and a half inches, since three was clearly not on.
Parker got up and walked over to me, inspected my head like he was looking at a body in a mausoleum and then sat back down again.
"Let's aim for three and a half, shall we?" he said, scribbling something down on the paper.
"We shall," I sighed.
"The tooth thing we can talk about some other time, it's not a big deal," he said, trying to gloss over it.
"Wait, what tooth thing?" I asked, gripping the couch again, even harder than before.
"Your third tooth to the right is a little crooked," he said as I ran my tongue over it. "Not a big deal, but we'll fix it before we get to Wake Up America. Heck, they'll probably even pay for it themselves."
I grimaced. I kind of liked my crooked tooth.
"Anyway, moving on...the catchphrase," he said, taking off his glasses as he pinched the top of his nose. "This one's a head-scratcher. On the one hand, your catchphrase is super meme-able."
I didn't quite catch what he said, I had still been sulking over my crooked tooth.
"Sorry, what? Did you say memorable?" I asked.
"Memorable?" Parker scoffed. "Who even has a memory these days, Liam? No, I said meme-able, because if you make something meme-worthy, it will last forever. By which I mean, at least one, maybe two news cycles tops."
"So what's the issue with the catchphrase?" I asked. Last he'd told me, it was super popular in all the key demos.
"This."
He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a bunch of screenshots of me presenting the weather, with slight variations of the catchphrase written across the bottom. So instead of I'm always right, I was looking at:
His ass is so tight
Ride him all night
I'd love to take a bite
"We made it too easy," Parker lamented. "We should have gone for something that had fewer rhyming options."
"But then it wouldn't have been as catchy...or as meme-able," I added dryly.
"I know, you're right," Parker said, putting his glasses back on. "We'll just have to monitor it to see how it progresses."
I shook my head and let out a laugh, having to remind myself that this was my actual life. Talking about hair length and memes about my ass.
Never anything real, or serious, or that I actually gave a shit about.
"You know," I began. "There is a climate change protest planned for next weekend."
Parker looked at me and scrunched his nose up again. "So?"
"I'd like to go. You know how much I care about environmental issues, and I think it would be really good for me to try to highlight—"