Page 46 of Entwined Hearts

But I won’t fall.

We go through our safety check, then I step to the wall.

“Belay on,” Marisa says behind me.

“Climbing,” I say.

“Climb.”

I reach my fingertips into the chalk bag hanging from the back of my harness, exhaling a hard breath to rid the butterflies from where they are swirling around my diaphragm. Then I ascend, fingertips crimping around the tiny flakes of rock marked with white chalk from previous climbers, toes balancing on the small nubs protruding from the red-brown face. The first few moves are smooth. I pause to place a cam in a crack, then click my rope through its attached carabiner. Good, now if I fall, I won’t hit the ground. I glance up at the blank face, noting the white chalk marks left behind, then continue.

It takes me longer to find my flow. I’m hesitant and feel clumsy, my footwork taking too much thought.

C’mon, Anya, I tell myself.

Closing my eyes, I huff a deep breath, feeling my cheeks expand. I shift my weight, reaching for a hold that stretches me to my full height. It’s not stable. My feet feel like they are going to lose purchase any nanosecond. I give the new hold all my weight, and my left hand peels free. Quickly, I reposition my feet, then pump hard for the next hold. When my fingers nail it, a sensation like water flowing shivers over my skin.

“Nice, Anya,” Marisa cries from below.

I place another piece of protection, then move up. There’s a funky cup-shaped hold I have to grip with my heel and a pinch-hold too big for my small hands above it, so I have to create an awkward reverse-thumb crimp. My breaths huff against the rock. I shift my weight, reaching for a solid jug that helps me over a slight bulge in the wall, then I’m placing another piece of pro. The sensation of problem-solving and letting my mind flow clicks my confidence. I lose myself in the next series of moves, placing protection and clipping my rope as I go.

I stop hearing Marisa’s hoots of encouragement, stop feeling the breeze against my cheek, and stop focusing on the roughness of sandstone abrading my already torn-up fingers. Push Colby and Jake out of my brain. There is only the drive to move forward—to reach, extend, breathe.

By the time the crux appears, I’m fully locked in, barely registering the danger of being so far away from my last pro placement. My brain is focused on reaching the top, where a ribbon of pale blue sky awaits. I set up for the leap I have to make by testing the hold I’m gripping with my right hand—giving it a series of hard yanks, then tipping my toes just slightly forward and tucking my left knee in for more power. And then I push off—my gaze frozen on the big ledge hold marked with white chalk that I must leap upward like a frog to catch. My legs extend, the fingertips of my left hand snagging the hold. For an instant, my body dangles before I place my feet on the wall to match my hands, letting the moment sink in.

“Yew!” Marisa calls, her war cry bringing me back to the canyon.

I grin as the delight of success lights me up. Moments later, I’ve placed my last piece of protection and connect the final sequence of moves to the anchor point. After I clip in and am safely held to the wall, I plant my feet flat against the warm stone and let my arms dangle and my breath recover. Rocking side to side, I take in the glorious view down the canyon, the sun’s rays heating the top of my head.

More, I think, realizing how stupid I’ve been to avoid this climb just because of a little runout. My brain starts to download several other routes I’ve avoided because of risks like this.Maybe it’s time to revisit some of them, I think.

There’s even one in Yosemite. My mind goes to the page in the weather-beaten guidebook with the route description, which is full of warnings. It’s a page that I’ve glossed over for years. I get a vision of me taking it on.

And I know just who to climb it with.

Thirteen

Anya

That night, I go through my fridge and throw out any item containing more than four grams of sugar, then go to the store for spinach and low-glycemic fruits like blueberries plus raw almonds, eggs, and avocados. Somehow, I’d gotten out of the habit of making my smoothies. If I want to do the climbs on my new list, my diet needs to reflect my commitment.

After I make a smoothie, I take my phone to the shaded porch and call Jake.

When he answers, my empty stomach pitches, roller-coaster style. “You still looking for a partner for Widow’s Walk?”

“Uh,” he says. I’m sure I’ve caught him off guard by calling and diving right into my proposition, but I don’t care. Hasn’t he done the same to me? “Yeah, why?”

“I want in.”

After a long pause, he finally says, “Not sure that’s a great idea.”

“What do you mean?” I say, my voice sharp. “You know I can pull my weight.”

“It’s not that.” He huffs a hard sigh. “Is this about, you know…the hot springs?”

“What?” It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. “No,” I say because it’s not. Really.

“Cuz, I mean, she…”

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