Page 66 of Entwined Hearts

This is my job!I want to shout in glee.This is what I’m good at!

“So you and Colby are hanging out a lot, I hear,” Jake says as we set up for our first belay.

My euphoric high fades instantly, and I heave a frustrated sigh. Of all the places to have this conversation, this would not be my first pick. We could have covered this in the campground or on the approach hike. But no, we’re having this conversation two thousand feet off the deck, hanging from a nine-millimeter-thick rope attached to the wall by a metal bolt and a few pieces of steel and webbing.

A cold breeze whisks up the rock face, bringing the smell of dew and lichen. We’re so high up the sounds of the cars moving along the freeway carry no sound. They’re just little shiny dots gliding past.

“Not a lot,” I say, hiding my face as I clip and unclip, lock and unlock, carabiners. I think about the weekend in the Buttermilks, the evening in Colby’s truck, the long nights at my house.

He shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“I just don’t want you to get let down,” he says.

My hackles jump so fast they sting. “That’s funny coming from you.”

He doesn’t reply.

“You go first,” he says finally after our belay system is ready.

Yeah, because I love to climb when my head is on sideways. “Fine.”

My shoes are so tight and cold that my eyes start to water the moment I slip them on. The pitch begins reasonably straightforward with a thin crack perfect for my small fingers. But then it gets harder, my toes balancing on the tiny nubs that poke out from the rock like pimples.

As I rise from the belay station, Jake’s silhouette in his puffy coat shrinking below me, I can’t help but review his comment. What does he care about who I hang out with?

Could he be jealous?

Needless to say, my first attempt at sending the crux pitch fails. Miserably. So I lower down and repeat it, trying to clear my mind. But an hour later, I’m retrying for the sixth time. My fingers are trashed. I’ve been trying to get in my zone, but it’s no use. I’m thinking of Colby and Jake, Colby and Jake. Round and round.

Pick any other climb in the Valley, and I’ll do it with you.

I just don’t want you to get let down.

Getting past the crux requires a traverse with a delicate combination of maneuvers. The footholds are the size of peas, and the crack is at waist level. It must be clung to horizontally and in reverse. Then there’s a long reach to a hold that’s more of a slope, so it’s a leap of faith. The whole combo is dicey as hell and so precarious that only a handful of people have ever been able to do it. Including me.

My shoulders and arms start to shake as I inch my way left with my hands pressing up inside the crack and my feet connecting the series of tiny nubbins.

“You got this, Anya,” Jake offers from below, letting out rope as I advance. I’m sure he’s getting tired of waiting. He’ll probably smoke right through this crux.

I get to the part where I have to reach. My arms aren’t as long as his. Fast, heavy breaths are shuddering in and out of my lungs. The wind chills my neck. I find the balance in the pose: left toe here, right toe there, right hand filling the crack, left hand reaching up. Ugh, I need another inch. I stretch, rise onto that tip of my left toe.

“Go, Anya!” Jake calls.

I push up and grab the hold, but I don’t get enough of it. Suddenly I’m falling, swinging into space, shrieking in frustration.

I gasp hard breaths to try to recover as I sway free, letting my hands dangle. “Argh,” I growl as my pendulum trajectory slows.

Jake doesn’t like it when I get frustrated like this, so I try to swallow my disappointment and regain my composure.

“Lower me,” I say.

Jake obeys, sliding the rope smoothly through his belay device until I get back to the tiny ledge.

He doesn’t speak, just goes about the task of switching our positions.

Feeling defeated, I switch out of my climbing shoes and get ready to belay him. He’s doing the opposite. Our shoulders bump, our hands crossing.

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