CHAPTER FIVE : OVERDUE FOR A REVIVAL

TULSA, OKLAHOMA

JAVI WANTS HER TO STORM CHASE AGAIN.

To him, it's clear: she would be the heart of the experiment, the one who could make it all work. He frames it as if she'll be its great savior.

I think we need someone who knows storms like you do, Will.

It's as if fate has found her, right after she cursed it all to hell and told it to fix her if it wanted to so bad. Then, there suddenly is Javi, its willing messenger, there to pull her back into a world she swore off, delivering her destiny in the form of a request. He waits, expectantly, on the edge of his seat, for her to say anything, to acknowledge his words of desperation.

"So..." Willow hesitates, her nails tapping against the grain of the table. "You just came here after all these years to recruit me?"

"No," he attempts to assure her while shaking his head. "I missed you, Will, and when we brought Storm Par here, all I thought of was you: how you would know the chase better than any damn PhD I could get on the team. I got meteorologists out the ass, but not one like you—not one who can navigate and track a storm like it's nothing, who knows the equipment like it's the back of her hand. No one who would drive straight into a funnel if no one stopped her."

"I ain't really like that anymore, Javi," Willow mutters in response, her voice low as she shakes her head. "I ain't chased since that day. I don't even know if I still can."

"Cause you spent the last three years in front of a camera?"

She lets out a sharp breath. "Because it killed all of our friends."

Javi's gaze drops to the table as if he's searching its worn wood grain for the right words. "Will, I know that. I was there, remember?" He lets out a slow, shaky breath, then lifts his eyes to meet hers. "You don't know how many times I've replayed that day. I've thought about what happened a million ways, how I could've maybe done something, anything, to realize that thing was shifting faster." His jaw clenches. "I thought y'all were gone until I drove up and saw the EMTs working on you and Kate. They wanted to stitch up Kate's leg, but you wouldn't let them touch her. You were still clinging to each other like the damn storm hadn't ended. I had to help them pry you apart." 

Willow looks away, the pain and memories flooding back in waves. His account is not a memory she shares with him, most likely too deep in shock to even truly remember, but there are plenty of things that she can recall that make her want to dig a hole to crawl and die in. "Why are you bringing this up now?"

"Because it's not just about getting back out there," he tells her, swallowing her, the words thick with conviction. "It's about finishing what we started, about finally getting it right. Trying to make up for what I couldn't do that day."

"Javi, you didn't-"

He cuts her off gently, a sad smile on his face. "Maybe I didn't, but it doesn't change what I carry." The survivor's guilt; stronger than any of theirs maybe. "I know it's a big ask. Hell, maybe it's the last thing you want. But if there's anyone who can do this, who can get back out there and face it down..." His eyes flicker with a mix of pain and hope. She may just burst into tears. "It's you, Will. It's in your blood. You were made for this."

Her heart thuds, racing with a mix of fear and something that seems all to similar to the hope in Javie's own eyes. Just hours ago, her therapist had nudged her to find her old self again, but she hadn't expected it like this, not with Javi, who knew just how close she had come to never making it out.

"What about Kate?" she whispers, her voice barely steady. "I can't do it without her, Javi. You know that."

He nods, no hesitation in his reply. "I know. Kate's my next stop if you're in."

"What if she says no? She'll probably try to talk you out of it."

"Maybe," he shrugs "but you aren't and that tells me you're still crazy enough to want back in it." He watches her closely, his hand reaching across the table to find hers. His fingers are rougher now, calloused from the years they spent apart. She looks down at his hand, and for the first time, truly sees how the years and that storm had aged them both. "We didn't survive that storm just to walk away, Willow. We still have to change the game."

Those words; the ones that she kept as her mantra in the storm-chasing days with a measuring tape right next to all her achievements as a chasing meteorologist. The very thing that went down the drain and forgotten in the pipe the moment her world had been torn through by an EF5.

So much loss and tragedy for one single experiment and nothing to show for it except two, matching scars separated in the world.

Willow has never felt so small. Beneath the quiet ache of her memories lies a constant want—the pull to chase again, mixed with the raw fear of what might happen if she did. She glances down, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just don't want to feel like it was for nothing anymore."

"Me too."

It is silent for a moment, nothing but the sounds of dishes clanging around them, and the occasional honk of a car horn on the busy downtown street. Willow stares down at the makeshift experiment blue-print he laid out with the shakers and bottles, thinking of the promise of theory. The last remnants of her resistance begin to crumble. Here, in this small bugger joint, dishes clattering around them, her best dance partner practically pulling puppy-dog eyes at her...

She thinks she might say yes.

Willow purses her lips together and folds her hands on top of the table. "I assume you're wanting to chase through this outbreak, then?"

"Yeah," Javi replies, "it's our best shot."

"Okay," she finally agrees, her determination settling in. "Yeah, okay. Call me when she says yes. Only if she says yes." She gives him a pointed look. "And I get to play with the PARs before we put them in the field," Willow adds, a glimmer of her past self peeking through again.

Javi bursts out in a laugh. He stands from his spot in the booth, nearly knocking off bottles and shakers to reach across the table towards her. He cups her face and smacks a wet kiss against her forehead. "Will, you magnificent woman, thank you."

As he pulls back, Willow feels a warmth spread through her, and she feels more at home than anywhere she has been in the last five years.

◆ ◆ ◆

IT'S 4 AM SHARP, TWO DAYS REMOVED FROM THEIR LAST MEETING WHEN JAVI'S EXCITED VOICE BURST THROUGH WILLOW'S PHONE. She is already awake, curled up on her sofa with her tablet and coffee, checking the radars before she sets out for the station. He can barely contain his excitement when he tells her, each word rushing out in a breathless stream.

Kate agreed.

Kate actually agreed.

He recounts the story with so much joy, punctuated by the absurd detail that Kate is somehow also a blonde now. Willow smiles, wrapped in the warmth of her throw blanket, listening to him sound young and excited again, it's near infectious.

Kate's flight will come in on Saturday and she's promised an entire week of chasing; only if Willow is there too.

Willow assures Javi she will be and submits her last-minute PTO request the moment she gets in the office.

When it's approved without much fuss and word spreads, it is the first time she sees Joel in any other emotion but happy or quiet defeat. He comes storming into her office, no knock nor invitation, his dark hair disheveled as if the news hit him harder than anyone else at the station. Willow places her hands flat on the desk, waiting for him to drop whatever rant he has planned for her.

"What am I supposed to do?" is the first thing he asks and probably what she should have expected the most.

"It's a week, Joel," she attempts to assure him and hopes she is not coming off as bored as she is. "The data is practically spoon-fed to you by the NWS, all you have to do is report on it. You will even have some support from the weekend team here for the radar readings."

"But you predicted it yourself, Willow; we are in an outbreak. How am I supposed to handle an outbreak?" Joel says in more of a panic than before.

"By stepping up," Willow puts it evenly, pushing her blue light glasses to the top of her head. Joel looks at her pitifully.

"This isn't the time for you to leave," Joel tries to argue. "I can't do this without you."

It echos Javi's words; a desperate plea to tug her in the other direction from him, more hidden behind his words. And for once, it feels starkly clear. His words aren't just about the station; they're about her, and maybe, what he feels for her.

Willow is quick to dismiss the thought of Joel loving her, but it becomes hard to deny by the day. Even the most oblivious person at the station can see he worships the ground she walks on, much to her dismay. She'd almost prefer his resentment; he knows her only as the polished version of a shell, the weather anchor who rattles off reports with practiced charm, a persona she can hardly stand.

And maybe if she truly was the woman he thinks she is, this prim and perfect reporter who wears blinding smiles and curls to sensible bars with coworkers who never felt the call of the storm, who got into meteorology to simply report on it, they could work. Only then could they truly be equals; she could fall into his safe arms and turn mild contentment into something akin to happiness.

But Willow cannot be her; not while it is all a pretend, facade that slips off the moment she returns to her empty apartment, that drowns in memories of failure, sometimes wishing to return to the chaos of before even after all it took for her. It is what she is doing now, isn't it? Preparing for a desperate attempt to wash away the failure and feel something again.

Joel looks at her, still pleading, but there's no tug at her heart, no regret as she thinks of the looming outbreak, a chance to finally change the game.

"Joel," she says, keeping her voice steady. "You'll manage. The station won't fall apart."

"It's not just about the station, it's—"

"It's just a week," she interrupts, unwilling to hear whatever confession he's about to make. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Yeah, okay," Joel mutters to himself. He turns on his heel to leave but stops in the doorway. "Actually, there's one more thing."

Willow feels her patience wearing thin. "What now?"

"Well," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck, "the producers want us to keep working on your storm-chasing feature since it's been so active lately. They working on making some connections with out-of-town chasers."

Willow frowns, not looking up from her laptop. "Why are they suddenly so interested in storm chasing?"

"They think it could bring in a lot of views," he replies, attempting to sound professional. "But it's not just any storm chasers: it's the Tornado Wranglers." He watches her face closely, gauging her reaction, as if the name should entice her to stay.

Finally, Willow looks up, blinking at him with a deadpan stare, wondering if the name is supposed to mean something to her. She's kept herself out of the storm-chasing loop for a while now; any significant names in the game ring no bells. The Tornado Wranglers—whatever that means—are unknown and insignificant to her.

"The ones from YouTube? They just live-streamed from Catoosa today," Joel tries again, his tone hopeful.

Willow barely registers the idea, turning back to the radar with a shrug, still disinterested. "I'm sure they're an interesting bunch, Joel, but I'll be on vacation starting tomorrow," she says with a light laugh. "It would be a great opportunity for you, though. Feel free to take the lead on the piece."

Joel looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds back, glancing down at his shoes. "Alright, yeah," he finally concedes, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it with a polite smile. "Enjoy your vacation, then."

Vacation. Willow suppresses a snort as he exits her office. Ain't much of a vacation if you're planning to drive into the eye of a storm.

She shuts her laptop, and for the first time, with the promise of a chase on the horizon, the walk to the sound stage doesn't feel like a death sentence.

Just a stepping stone to what's next.

◆ ◆ ◆

CATOOSA, OKLAHOMA

IT ISN'T EVERY DAY THAT A GIRL LEAVES HIM BEHIND NAKED IN BED. It is entirely worse that it is the girl of his dreams that does it—no note, no number, no last name; no possible way to reach her. No possible ways to apologize, to convince her to give him a second chance, to make her understand that he was in this for the long haul, no matter if she went into the storms with him or not.

Tyler knows it's his fault for asking her to chase. He's notorious for putting his foot in his mouth around pretty girls, relying too much on charm to mask the fact that he's a damn right idiot beneath the surface. He just thought he had most of her buttons figured out, that he knew which ones were safe to push and which ones could send her running. Clearly, he miscalculated, misread her entirely.

Her work was a clear off-limits topic—he learned that the hard way— but storm chasing felt like a different conversation, a shared passion that sparked something alive in her. He could still picture the way her eyes lit up when he shared his stories, the enthusiasm that bubbled forth as she discussed all that equipment. In those moments, he knew she belonged in the storm.

Maybe it was bringing her back home—too fast, too soon. Then again, she had never looked more free than when they rode out across the fields together, the wind in their hair, plunging into that lake without a care in the world.

Tyler cannot believe he almost told Boone no to Oklahoma; the thought of being in the place she once called home without her by his side felt unbearable. He let Boone convince him anyways, outbreak and all, and then a couple of miles across the state border, he caught his first glimpse of her again—on the tiny screen of a gas station TV: Channel 9's lead meteorologist, Willow Thornton. His weather girl.

It feels like fate nudging him forward, daring him not to let this slip away a second time.

Tyler shifts his duffel bag on his shoulder and steps into a small, dimly lit motel lobby just outside of Tulsa. He's seen plenty of places like this—air thick with stale coffee and cheap air freshener, but the perfect place for his Wranglers to camp out for the night.

As he approaches the counter, he spots the Channel 9 logo stretching across the lobby television screen. If she didn't hate it so much, he almost might owe that news station for practically broadcasting every hour on the hour, giving him that chance to find her again.

The clerk, an older man with a scruffy beard, looks up from behind the counter. "Checkin' in, huh?" he asks with a friendly smile. Tyler nods and gives his name; ready for that set of keys

"You here for the rodeo?" He gives Tyler a pointed look at his cowboy hat.

"Storm chasin'."

The clerk nods knowingly. "I get those bunches all the time. Hell, got a enough of 'em right now with the way that weather girl's talkin' about that outbreak."

Tyler's interest piques. "You mean Willow Thornton?" It's as if he summons her; the news shifts from its anchors to the weather reports, and there she is, in all her glory, those perfect curls framing a smile that never quite reaches her eyes, her posture straight and rigid.

He remembers the first time he'd seen her report just a few days earlier—she looked so tired, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. It had hit him like a punch to the gut to know that was his Willow, the girl he knew he'd wind up missin' the rest of his life, who he has been missing, reduced to the weather reporter she so clearly dreads being.

"Yeah." The clerk grins, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the screen. "Girl knows how to make the weather interesting with how pretty she looks."

"Yeah, well, she looks like she hates her damn job," Tyler mutters, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

"Heh, you're not wrong but ain't nobody gonna' complain' about watchin' with her lookin' like that," the clerk replies. "Ain't nobody know, but she used to be a chaser too." Hearing that feels like a small affirmation, that there's a stranger who somehow knows a sliver of her truth. "Checked in here all the time, chasin' around with her friends from Muskogee. I ain't realize she'd end up being the weather girl at the time, or I woulda' asked for a picture."

"Any idea what made her quit?"

"Lord if I know," he answers just as he drops the collection of keys on the counter. "Glad she did with her on the screen now." Tyler's brows furrow at the statement as he goes to take the keys. "Have a good stay."

As he walks away, he throws one last glance over his shoulder at the screen, at his weather girl stretching her arm across the radar, reporting on the remnants of the storm he spent all day chasing. He can't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—there's still a chance for them.

There has to be; he'd make sure of it.

—AUTHOR'S NOTE

HI QUICK CHAPTER TO BRIDGE THE GAP. i wanted to throw a little bit of tyler's pov in here to make it clear he AIN'T MAD AT HER. he's mad at himself for thinkin' he fucked it up but he's like imma fix it don't u worry

fate really out here tryna pull them back together one way or the other; willow just doesn't realize she chose the path that brings her back to herself too.

FEEDBACK ALWAYS APPRECIATED: ESPECIALLY WITH THE TYLER POV AND IT BEING MORE OF A SHORT FILLER CHAPTER.

warning: scott WILL flirt with willow in the next chapter with javi's approval.

thanks for reading as always! i am really enjoying this fic!

- kari