Page 75 of Entwined Hearts

Jake huffs a sigh. “Let’s just climb, okay?”

His words have the effect of snapping me back to where I am and what I need to do. But as I set off, connecting the footholds with the long, thin crack just wide enough for my fingertips, my brain keeps looping back toI wish it was just going to be you and me.

Suddenly, I remember Colby is in the meadow below us, most likely watching with binoculars. Kabir and Jo should be here by now, too, and other friends will be keeping an eye on us. My arms start to shake, the muscles fatigued, though I don’t know why—the crack is perfect. I shouldn’t be pumped already.

I force a series of full breaths into my lungs, shaking out each arm. My most recent piece of protection, a #3 cam wedged delicately into a slot in the rock, is five feet below me and the last bit of safety I’ll have until I reach the bolt at the belay station.

From down in the meadow, what do Colby and the others see? A girl moving confidently or a girl with faltering confidence? Part of me wishes they weren’t watching at all.

I force myself onwards, trying to block any unwanted thoughts from my mind.Focus. My feet float upward, finding holds I can only sense. The end of the crack looms, and my last handhold feels so tenuous that I have to fight back a moment of panic. Below me, the wall falls away to emptiness. I know I shouldn’t look—it’s just a long, blank slope, like a vertical slide ending in tiny green trees and a white-blue river that looks stagnant from this vantage point. Because of a slight bulge in the face just below me, Jake is hidden from view. Suddenly, I feel alone and exposed.

I gulp a breath, attempting to calm my racing heart.It’s okay, I tell myself. I’ve climbed harder pitches. Much harder. It’s just the exposure that has me rattled. I shake out my arms again, add chalk to my battered fingertips, then move from the crack onto the face. The rock is cold, still untouched by the sun, and feels as smooth as porcelain. Because nobody’s climbed this route in ten years, there are no chalk marks from other climbers to lead the way. The pitches we practiced will have them, but this pitch isn’t one of them. I didn’t think it would be difficult. But it is. I’m shaking, my mind cloudy with doubt and fear. I force myself to focus on my breathing, hoping for calm, for my technique to renew my confidence.

Slowly, I make my way up, knowing I have to trust my feet to stick even though it feels like they’re going to slip from their tiny holds any minute.

Breathe.

I think of Colby and my friends watching from the meadow, but it’s too much.I cannot fail.

My fingers crimp a tiny hold, an edge jutting from the rock the width of a dime. My shredded skin throbs. As I reach up with my right hand for the next hold, I hear something.

A muffledpopfrom above me.

“Rock!” Jake yells.

I try to stay calm, but I have nowhere to go. I can’t even glance up.

Pop, snap. The rock bounces closer, louder.

“Anya!” Jake’s voice cries from below.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a moving object a fraction of a second before it slams into me, then I’m slipping off the hold.

A cry of alarm rips from my throat as I try to regain my footing, but everything breaks free at once. Searing pain erupts somewhere on my leg. Sliding off the face, I plummet into weightlessness. I’m falling, falling, falling so far that my mind has time to comprehend how terrible this is. My fingers scrape granite as my arms windmill, trying to grab anything. Then the rope tightens against my waist. Flinging my legs out, I stop my crash into the wall. The last piece of protection I placed holds, breaking my fall, and I gulp shaky, fast breaths to recover. Or try to. I’ve taken lead falls before, but never one like this.

“You okay?” Jake calls from below me. I still can’t see him.

I close my eyes and lean my forehead into the granite, but it doesn’t help. My ankle throbs. Finally, I get the guts to look at it.

Not good. Carefully, I cross my calf over my left thigh until my ankle floats free. I rotate it—thank goodness it still works—but it’s bleeding from a nasty gash over the bone.

I use the edge of my t-shirt to put pressure on the wound, wincing at the pain.

“Anya?” Jake calls again.

“I’m okay.” I’m still breathing fast, and my head feels light from the terror of falling that far. I’m lucky I didn’t hit anything on the way down. I’m fortunate that #3 cam held.

Anya Templeton doesn’t need luck. I groan because he’s surely just watched the entire thing play out. Everyone has.

When I get down, I’m going to write a testimonial for the company that manufactured that cam.

This little hunk of metal saved my life.

“Did you get hit?” Jake calls.

“Yeah…”

“Bad?”

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