Page 55 of Loud Unspoken Memories

“Wait!” I say, gripping his arm.

He turns. “What is it?”

“Just… don’t… don’t…”

Die, I say only in my head.

“I won’t,” he says confidently, his grin skewed.

While the smile is reassuring, especially because he doesn’t often do it, I still hold my breath as he climbs, only releasing it to draw in another and hold it some more. His foot slips off a rung about twenty feet up and I scream, blood rushing in my ears.

He regains his footing and yells down, “Being a little over-dramatic, aren’t we?”

“Over-dramatic?” My hands land defiantly on my hips as I shout, “You’re the one who said not to worry, Mr. I’ve-done-this-before! So how about you don’t give me a heart attack watching you fall to your death?”

Laughter spews from his lungs as he continues his climb.

“Would you fucking concentrate?” I bellow.

He shoots me an irritated look over his shoulder. I scold myself for talking. Every time I do, he looks down, putting himself in danger. I vow to remain silent and let him do what he needs to do. Every five feet or so, he hooks a carabiner onto the side of the ladder. Though it offers me a modicum of reassurance, I question the ability of the small clips to hold his weight should he fall. Dallas is tall and sturdy. Two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

When he makes it to the top and secures himself, relief takes hold. We’re halfway there.

He brushes snow off one of the panels. Some ice must remain because he pulls a tool off his belt and starts chipping away. He moves to the next panel, and then the third, doing the same thing.

“Okay, try it now!” he shouts, looking down at me from above.

“Try what now?” I ask.

“Your phone.”

I hold my hands out. “I don’t have it with me.”

Of course I didn’t bring my phone. I haven’t carried it with me in days. Why would I? I guess if I’d thought more about whatwe were doing, I’d have brought it. But all my thoughts were centered on his safety.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Listen, buddy!” I yell. “You didn’t exactly tell me to bring it. If it was so critical, why the hell didn’t you bring yours? You’re the one who’s done this before.”

His head shakes in annoyance. He’s got no place to argue. This is his show.

“We’ll just have to—”

His foot slips. My heart jackhammers and my lungs hold my breath hostage as I watch in slow motion as he falls backward, arms flailing, searching for something to grip.

“Dallas!” I scream, fear blistering my stomach.

I close my eyes, because I can’t watch the man I quite possibly love plummet to his death. A million things go through my head all at once. Will the snow cushion his fall? What if he breaks a leg, or worse, his back? Do I remember how to do CPR? What if I lose him before I even get a chance tohavehim?

“Hello-o?”

His loud and clearly sarcastic voice instantly relieves me and alerts me to two things: he’s not dead, and he’s not down.

My eyes fly open and scan the tower, my hand covering my mouth when I see him hanging upside down, his foot trapped between the ladder and the main tower structure, the rest of him dangling dangerously. “Oh my god!”

He tries in vain to pull himself up and free his foot. After a few unsuccessful minutes, his body goes limp and he looks down. “A little help?”

“Me? How can I help?”

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