Page 55 of Waking Olivia

“You made this look a thousand times easier than it is!” I shout.

“You don’t have to shout. You’re still only a foot off the ground.”

“Asshole,” I mutter.

“I heard that,” he replies, “proving you don’t have to shout.”

I go back and forth, time and again, and once I’m doing reasonably well he tells me I can start climbing up. I see now why he used to do this to get away from his problems: it requires such absolute concentration that I can’t think of anything else. I’m about 10 feet off the ground when I lose my balance and start to scream, expecting to plummet to the ground, but instead I’m suspended, and he’s standing beneath me laughing.

“I assume you’re laughingatme, notwithme,” I say sourly.

He smiles. “You’re doing great. You need a break?”

“No, dammit,” I say, looking at the distance I still need to climb. “I’m getting to the top. I don’t care if it takes all night.”

“That’s my girl,” he says proudly, and for a moment I sway in the air, stunned by how happy that statement makes me though I’ve got no idea why.

It takes an hour, and by the time I get to the top I’ve fallen repeatedly. My arms and legs are undoubtedly bruised and my muscles are shaking. I slide back down on the rope and collapse at his feet.

“What did you think?” he asks.

“I think you need to carry me to the car.”

His smile is proud and happy and wistful all at once. “But you loved it.”

“Yeah,” I laugh, “I guess I did.”

Once we’re back in the car, I tell Will he can just take me to my apartment. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

“You’re going back to my mom’s.”

“She shouldn’t have to do that,” I sigh.

“My mom loves having you over. And you’re doing me a favor.”

“How am I possibly doing you a favor?”

“Because my mother’s couch is a hell of a lot more comfortable than your front steps, and I’m sleeping on one or the other.”

I don’t even know what to say. His willingness to take care of me time and again hurts somehow.

Igoto my room that night, but I’m unable to fall asleep. No, I’m tooscaredto fall asleep. The idea of those nightmares scares me under normal circumstances but tonight they terrify me. I walk back into the living room just as he’s emerging from the bathroom freshly showered and shirtless. Jesus Christ, he should be in magazines looking just like this – tan and slightly damp and nothing but muscle. He’s so pretty that for a moment I’m scared I might make some audible noise of longing.

I move toward him, knowing I shouldn’t, unable to help myself. He stiffens as I approach. “I just want to see your tattoo,” I tell him. He’s unnaturally still as I run my fingers over his left arm. He seems to be holding his breath. “Denali?”

“I got it done the first time I climbed it. I was going to do all seven summits and get a tat for each.”

I want to move closer to him, to press myself against his damp chest. “Why isn’t K2 on there then?” I ask, mainly to have some reason to keep my hand on his arm.

“Because that was the climb where I realized I wouldn’t be climbing the other five.” His voice is stilted, wary. He moves away from me and reaches into his duffel bag for a T-shirt.

Dammit.

He pulls the shirt over his head and I use the opportunity to ogle the shit out of his stomach when he does it. “Just before I climbed it, I called home. I thought my dad might actually be proud, but instead, he told me it was time I grew up. I hung up on him like an entitled little dick and went climbing, and when I got back to base camp, I learned he’d had a stroke. He was dead before I got home.”

My stomach drops. “I’m so sorry. So you came home then for good?”

He shrugs as if the aftermath didn’t really matter. “He wanted me to grow up. It was the last fucking thing he ever said to me, so it seemed like the least I could do.”

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