Page 79 of Entwined Hearts

I blink.

“I felt so helpless, Anya. What if they’d hurt you? I’d never have been able to forgive myself.”

I frown, not sure what to say. Maybe I blamed Jake for putting us in danger since he insisted we stay another night even though I was spooked. But to hear how he’s held onto the guilt surprises me.

Wiping his face with the back of his wrist, he sniffs hard. “Nothing like a little near-death experience to rattle a guy, huh?” he says, trying to laugh.

Okay, now I’m genuinely confused.

“Should we get off this rock?” He smiles, his cheeks smeared with grime and tears.

“Ready when you are,” I say, still unsettled by his outburst. In the four years since I met Jake, I’ve never once seen him cry. Anger…joy…stoicism…those emotions I’ve seen, but never this.

When we set out again, there’s a stillness between us, as if we don’t need words to communicate.

My thoughts tumble. Jake loves me, and he feels guilty. Why hadn’t he said it before? I go from angry—we needed a near miss for him to confess this?—to compassion because I can’t stand the thought of him carrying this weight around. Yes, I wanted to get off that wall, but that’s no guarantee the bandits wouldn’t have caught up to us anyway. Would Jake have tried to stop the men from hurting me? I realize they would have killed him if he had.

Thankfully, the last two pitches are the easiest. I’m amazed when I think back to this morning. Have we come all this way in just one day? I review the pitches, the frustration, and the elation that comes from unlocking a complicated sequence and finding my flow as I had on the crux. Wearea good team.

I lead the final pitch, which ends at the juniper we used as part of our top anchor all week. Feeling the glow of satisfaction radiating through me, I set up the anchor one last time then quickly peel off my tight shoes. I signal for Jake to climb, then reel him in until his shadowed face appears over the curvature of the wall. His grin lights up everything around him. He rushes to me, his chest heaving, and yanks me into his arms.

We rock side to side as a flood of emotion crashes into me like a tidal wave.

We did it,I think, laughing. Jake does, too.

Everything feels so good, my body humming with a current of happiness and triumph, but there’s also a feeling of relief. Soon, there will be a touch of sadness because it’s over, and all that preparation and focus no longer has a home inside me. But, for now, there is only pure, bright joy.

Jake pulls back, and our eyes connect. His dirty-smudged, smiling face shines with exhilaration. And then my stomach drops because his eyes soften.

Before I know what’s happening, his lips are pressing softly into mine.

Twenty-Three

Colby

I’ve been following Jake and Anya’s progress since they were two tiny white lights on the black wall, floating like fireflies—together, then apart, then together as they leapfrogged leads. After the sun rose, I grabbed my binoculars, then moved to the meadow across from the river that serves as the peanut gallery. I spied two other climbing parties spread out on separate routes, both to the east.

Nobody has climbed Widow’s Walk since two climbers died there ten years ago. The Park Service closed it for a while, but sections of it provide essential connections to other routes higher up, so they finally caved and reopened.

What the hell is so important about this climb that Anya is willing to risk her life over it? I shake my head. It’s not like I didn’t try to talk her out of it. Does it have anything to do with what happened that night in Bishop? Or her breakup with Jake? I get that she pushes herself hard, but this risk feels unnecessary.

If only she’d let me hold her last night. I just wanted to be near her, inhaling her sweet scent, feeling her softness against me. All week, I’ve been thinking about her. The turmoil of being separated from her for so long creates an ache.

It’s late afternoon and they’re still beneath the section that broke off ten years ago and that still sends occasional bits of rock down the face. Several other onlookers have joined me, spread out in the meadow. A small group dressed in brightly colored coats and woolen hats—climbers, though I don’t recognize them—huddle around a scope at the far end.

One set of bystanders, a couple in their sixties, the man dressed in jeans and white leather sneakers, the woman in khaki pants and a loose-fitting windbreaker, settle into camp chairs with a set of binoculars. I wonder if they’re the parents of one of the other climbers. I pause for an instant, picturing my father here watching me, and what that might feel like. Or Anya’s mom, here by my side with binoculars. I snort. Both images are a fantasy. I get another dose of anger when I remember the way Patricia eyed me like I was a treat in a vending machine, and all she had to do to claim me was to push a button.

I’m watching Anya move carefully up a thin crack when out of nowhere, a chunk of rock careens past her. My heart leaps into my throat when I see Anya fly into space. Her fall lasts all of two seconds, but it might as well be hours. I’m on my feet, ready to run to her, though I know there’s nothing I can do from the meadow.

As if in slow motion, I watch the bright green rope go taut, stopped by the piece of protection she placed in a crack on her way up. Anya swings into the wall. I wait, holding my breath, willing that piece of protection to hold fast. A moment passes, then another. It holds.

I say a silent thanks to whoever might be listening upstairs. That was a significant fall. Her pro could have pulled out or its tether could have snapped.

Tossing the binoculars into my chair, I pace, rubbing my forehead. Fuck. Why can’t I be a bird right now, so I can swoop in and pluck her right off that face?

I pick up the binoculars again, sweeping them back to see Anya still hanging from the rope. I scan to where Jake is braced at the belay, looking up. His mouth is moving. It’s killing me that he’s up there with her. Why did she choose him? Following the rope back up to Anya, I realize she’s hurt. She’s wrapped the edge of her t-shirt around her ankle, as if there’s blood.

Why am I even watching this? It pisses me off there’s nothing I can do. That incident so easily could have had a different outcome while I was stuck here, powerless to stop it. I imagine that piece of protection ripping from its crevice, sending Anya down another ten feet. She could have been seriously hurt by that fall. If the rest of her protection failed, or if the rock bouncing down the face had hit her somewhere else, either could have been fatal.

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