Page 76 of Entwined Hearts

I check the bleeding. It has stopped, but my ankle is throbbing. “No,” I lie. If I admit I’m hurt, he’ll pull us off the climb. There’s no way I’m quitting.

“Want me to lower you?” he asks.

“No!” I say because if he sees this, he’ll want to swap and lead this pitch while I take care of the wound, and I don’t want that. I’m not backing down.

“That was fuckin’ freaky,” he says.

I ignore this, using the rope to leverage myself back onto my left foot and insert my fingers back in the crack. Gingerly, I rotate my right foot into the crack and twist until it jams inside. The resulting rush of pain steals my breath.

“Hey, are you bleeding?” Jake calls.

Damn. I must be dripping. “Only a little,” I say, trying not to reveal the level of pain I’m experiencing. Have I shattered my ankle bone? “Climbing,” I say, tears springing from my eyes. If I’ve broken something, we’ll be off the Norway climb. No film. No “girls kick ass” project to be proud of.

No, please, I beg the universe. That can’t happen.

“Climb,” Jake replies, his voice sounding relieved.

The pain gives me something to fixate on while my fingers and toes repeat the moves I completed only moments before I fell. Somehow, it’s easier this time. My discomfort leaves no room to stress about anything else—Colby, Jake, my friends watching, snippets of conversation and images from the last few weeks that have been tumbling over and over in my mind. All of it falls away.

By the time I move onto the slab for the final push, I shove back the fear I felt earlier from the exposure. I fell once and survived. If I fall again, I’ll survive it, too. My ankle feels stiff on the slab section, and my shoe feels too tight. I wonder if we have tape. Would it even help? I should at least cover the wound.

The moves connect seamlessly, but my breaths are fast and shaky. I reassure myself that I can do this. How does Colby sing at times like this as if it’s some carefree walk in the park? I can’t remember a single song to save my life.

And then I do. “Looking for Love,” Colby’s serenade on the top of that boulder. I almost laugh aloud as I try to shake off the goofy lyrics, but the song sticks.

Hold by hold, I advance until I can see the silver bolt affixed to the wall above me, glinting in the sun. The sun! I reach for another hold, unweighting my right foot.Looking for love, Colby croons in my head. As I climb, the sun coats my head, neck, and shoulders until I’m entirely bathed in warmth. The final handhold is blessedly solid, allowing me to switch my feet with care and step from the last foothold to the bolt. I quickly build the anchor system. After I clip my rope through it, I relax into my harness, gripping the line for support, and breathe.

By the time Jake reaches me, my ankle has swollen over the edge of my climbing shoe.

“Shit,” Jake says. He unlaces my shoe for me, then cradles my foot in his hands. “How’s your range of motion?” he asks, squinting.

I roll the joint, then point and flex. I don’t hear anything grinding or popping, thank God.

“You wanna call it?” he asks, still holding my foot.

“No,” I say, though my ankle is now throbbing.

Jake places my foot gently back against the rock, then hauls the gear bag up the lines. I slip on the more comfortable approach shoes, the memory of Jake’s touch unsettling me. I’d almost forgotten how tender he could be.

“That was quite the whipper,” Jake says, eyeing me carefully.

I press my lips together. Lead falls are part of the deal. No need to make a fuss.

“Were you singing?” he asks, frowning.

“Uh, maybe?” I hadn’t meant to out loud. A flash of memory from when Colby and I sat on top of the boulder, gazing out at the twinkling lights of Bishop, takes over my thoughts. Part of me wishes I was back there, feeling so safe and free from everything.

I dig into the first aid kit, then swallow a clump of Advil before removing the tape and gauze. It’s soon apparent there’s no way to bandage the wound without restricting my movement. I do manage to clean it somewhat. My fingers, too, which are stained red in long lines where the blood dripped between them. Jake watches while sipping from his water bottle.

Anotherpopsounds from above, and we both shrink into the wall. But the rock is barely bigger than a pebble, and it zings by freely. I sigh in relief.

“You looked good that second time, Anya,” Jake says as I pack away the first aid supplies. “Confident.”

Compliments from Jake are rare. “Thanks,” I say, averting my gaze.

During the long pause that follows, Jake double checks his system, then he’s unclipping from the anchor. After our signals, he climbs past me.

Two pitches later, I’m sweating through a tough section involving a lot of tricky footwork. The force on my ankle is extreme, and that tunnel-vision-pain-focus returns. Only this time, I can feel my strength failing. It must be my ankle swelling. Beginning to fantasize about plunging my ankle into a cold bucket of water, I make plans to stop at the river after we hike down.Fuck! The hike down,I think, wondering if Search and Rescue will have to retrieve me from the top. I can hear the chopper blades now.

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