A Forecast of Fullness

Chapter 1

The microwave hummed like a patient animal, its orange glow spilling across the granite counter. Kait leaned into the edge of the counter, letting the cool stone press against her forearms, and she finally allowed her shoulders to drop. The last live hit had ended at eleven, and the studio lights still burned behind her eyelids like afterimages.

She reached down and found the button of her black trousers. It popped open with a soft click, and the waistband sagged forward. A long, slow breath escaped her as the pressure eased around her middle, and the fabric rolled down an inch, revealing the pale strip of skin where her blouse had come untucked. Her stomach spilled over the band, soft and heavy, and she let it.

The lasagna had been sitting on the counter since the afternoon birthday party for the sports director. Someone had left the foil tray half open and a spatula stabbed into the cheese. Kait had thought about it all through her last segment. She had talked about the cold front moving in from the northwest while the image of that cheese congealing in the pan played behind her eyes.

The microwave beeped. She pushed herself upright and reached for the door, the heat blooming against her face. The smell hit her first, tomato and oregano and that greasy, glorious layer of browned cheese. She pulled the plate out with two paper towels and set it on the counter, steam curling up into the fluorescent light.

She didn't bother with a fork at first. She picked up a cracker from the open sleeve beside the coffee maker, dragged it through the sauce pooling at the edge of the plate, and crunched. The salt and the acidity came together in a way that made her eyes close for half a second.

The breakroom door swung open with a soft pneumatic sigh.

Kait's hand froze halfway to her mouth. Sanne Bakker stepped in, her heels clicking once, twice, three times on the linoleum before she stopped beside the coffee machine. She wore the bone-white blazer, buttoned once at the waist, and a black shell underneath. Not a hair out of place. Not a line in her face. She looked like she had just stepped out of a promotional still.

"Late night," Sanne said. Not a question.

Kait lowered the cracker. "Just finished the eleven o'clock hit. You know how it is."

"I do." Sanne drifted toward the counter, her eyes moving over the open sleeve of crackers, the lasagna tray, the plate of congealing leftovers Kait had just pulled from the microwave. Her gaze settled on Kait's midsection, where the unbuttoned waistband had left the top of her trousers sagging open. She let it rest there for a beat, maybe two.

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Kait's hand went to her waistband automatically. She fumbled with the button, tried to redo it one-handed, failed. The fabric wouldn't meet. She gave up and let her hand drop, feeling the heat creep up her neck.

"There's still a whole tray of that in the fridge," Sanne said, nodding at the lasagna. "From the party. Nobody touched it after the first hour."

"I know. I took some home last night."

"Did you."

The words hung there. Kait could hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator compressor and the distant thrum of the studio's equipment through the walls. She picked up her fork, more to have something to do with her hands than out of appetite.

"When I started at the station," Sanne said, "I made a rule for myself. Nothing from craft services after eight. Not a cracker, not a candy bar, not a soda." She poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe, the stream arcing clean and dark. "You'd be surprised how much discipline on the small stuff adds up over the years."

Kait stabbed a bite of lasagna. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm sure you will." Sanne took a sip of her coffee, watching Kait over the rim. "You've been looking tired lately, Kait. The graveyard shifts are brutal. They do things to your body. Your sleep schedule, your appetite. I've seen it before."

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are." Sanne set her mug down on the counter, her nails clicking against the ceramic. "You're young. You bounce back from things quickly at that age. It's a gift."

There was a pause. Kait chewed, swallowed, felt the warm weight settle in her stomach. She had lost count of how many services she had raided this week. Two, no, three times. The pretzels in the pantry, the leftover sheet cake from Monday's producer meeting, the infinite parade of takeout containers that appeared and disappeared from the fridge with no owner attached to them.

She could feel the top button of her blouse straining against her sternum. She had unbuttoned it low in her dressing room before the last segment, just to breathe.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you," Sanne said, and her tone shifted, just slightly, enough to pull the air out of the room. "About the national internship. The one the network is offering meteorologists under twenty-five. I heard your name came up in the morning meeting."

Kait's fork stopped. "What?"

"It's a twelve-week program in New York. Live segments, network exposure, the works. They want one person from the regional stations. I heard Marshall put your name forward." Sanne smiled, her practiced, perfect smile. "That's a big deal."

"I didn't know about that."

"No, I don't imagine you did. These things happen behind closed doors. Your work speaks for itself. It always has." Sanne took another sip of her coffee. "The only question is whether you're ready for that kind of camera."

Kait set her fork down. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just that the network executives are different from our local audience. They're more image-conscious. They look at everything, every detail." Sanne's eyes drifted down, slow and deliberate, from Kait's face to her chest to the open waistband of her trousers, where the pale curve of her stomach pressed against the fabric. "They notice things."

The words settled in the silence. Kait felt her face go hot, then cold. She crossed her arms over her middle without thinking, the gesture obvious and clumsy.

"You're not going to want to hear this," Sanne went on, "and I know we haven't always seen eye to eye. But I've been where you are. I know what the pressure does. I know how easy it is to let the little comforts add up. And I'm telling you, as someone who has watched your career with interest, that the window is closing."

"What window?"

"The one where you can still decide what this looks like." Sanne gestured vaguely at Kait's midsection. "The camera adds ten pounds. It's been adding more than that lately. You're a beautiful girl, Kait. You have a face the network could use. But you're not giving them what they need."

Kait opened her mouth. Closed it. The lasagna sat on the plate in front of her, half eaten, the cheese cooling into rubber. The cracker crumbs clung to her fingers.

"I'm not trying to be cruel," Sanne said. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment of finding out the hard way. I've seen it happen. Bright young talent, burning through craft services like there's no tomorrow, and then one day the producer pulls them aside and tells them they're being moved to a different time slot. A smaller one. A less visible one."

"Are you telling me that's happening to me?"

"I'm telling you that people are talking. That's all." Sanne picked up her mug and took a final sip, then set it in the sink with a soft click. "You're ambitious. I've always respected that about you. So do what you need to do. Find a gym. Throw out the leftovers. Make a rule about what you eat after midnight." She smiled again, warm and sharp. "You have options. It's not too late."

Sanne reached the door and paused, her hand on the frame. She looked back over her shoulder, taking in the scene once more, the crumpled cracker sleeve, the half-finished plate, the open waistband of Kait's trousers.

"Good luck with the internship," she said. "I hope you get it."

She was gone. The door sighed shut behind her, and the breakroom fell back into its fluorescent silence.

Kait stood there for a long moment, her arms still crossed over her belly. The microwave hummed. The refrigerator kicked on with a grumble. The lasagna on her plate was cold now, congealed into a sad, greasy slab.

She should throw it out. That was the obvious move. She should scrape the plate into the bin, put the cracker sleeve back in the pantry, drink a glass of water and call it a night. That was the smart thing to do.

She picked up her fork instead.

The first bite was cold. The cheese had gone stiff, the sauce had thickened into a paste, and it was somehow better than the hot version had been. She took another bite while she still had to chew the first, packing the food in, swallowing hard. Her waistband pressed against the soft swell of her stomach, and she had to unzip the fly to get comfortable.

Sanne was wrong. She had to be wrong. Kait had been on this station for not even a year, and her numbers were good. Her ratings had climbed every quarter. The producers had never said anything about her appearance, not once, not even a hint. And she was twenty-three. She could turn this around whenever she wanted. She just needed to get through the next few weeks, the holiday season, the late nights to cover the winter storm watch.

She scraped the last of the lasagna off the plate and stood at the counter, chewing slowly, staring at the dark reflection of herself in the microwave door. Her face was clear and young, her hair still smooth from the studio touch-up. But the reflection cut off at her collarbone. She didn't have to look down to know what the rest of her looked like.

She would start tomorrow. She told herself that with her mouth full, the plate empty in her hand. She would start tomorrow, and it would be fine.

She set the plate in the sink, next to Sanne's empty mug. The door of the refrigerator held a whole tray of lasagna, and she found herself looking at it, thinking about the warm, cheesy weight of it, the way the first bite always tasted better than the last. She had told herself she would take it home tonight. She had told herself she would freeze it for later.

Her hand reached for the handle before she had decided anything.