“Dude, my Bon Jovi was epic,” Grady informs us.
“Yeah, epically awful.”
“Says the guy who managed to mess up ‘Black Hole Sun.’ Even Fiona did better than you!”
Fiona looks up and smirks. “Like that’s hard.”
I laugh, relaxing. For the first time since I arrived in town, it actually feels as though I belong — like I’m really part of the group. I look around happily. “So, since I got stuck singing, does that mean I get to pick the song?”
19
If I had any doubts that all my effort would be worth it, the vibe between Susie and Adam in the week after their dinner makes everything clear: from making baby eyes over breakfast to sneaking quick kisses as they pass each other in the hallway, the spark in their relationship is definitely back.
“This is all your fault.” Fiona watches them through the kitchen window, her arms folded. Adam is sanding some wooden planks but stops every few minutes to hug and kiss Susie. Fiona makes a face. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I answer breezily. “You coming on this climbing trip? I’m leaving now.”
“Nope.” She turns back, starting to pull down items from the cupboard. I watch as she assembles flour, sugar, and eggs on the countertop.
“You’re . . . baking?” I stare, confused.
“And?” She glares at me, ripping open a package of butter and dumping it in a bowl with a scoop of sugar. Wielding a wooden spoon like it’s an offensive weapon, she begins to beat the mixture into submission.
“Nothing.” I blink, watching her. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”
“You get to eat cake,” she replies, beating harder. “What’s not to like?”
I begin to feel sorry for the sugar.
I wonder for a moment if she finds it exhausting — the constant sullen sighs, the petulant disapproval. Surely it would be easier all around if she just gave it a break. I’m tempted for a moment to go look in that mountain man manual for advice on dealing with rabid beasts, but then I remember: I sent it to Olivia in my last package, along with some photos of Stillwater and a Johnsons’ Home & Hardware T-shirt. I figured my work here was done, but I guess I was too optimistic.
Fiona keeps mixing with a malevolent look, so I decide to leave her to it. It’s not like I want her to be the one holding my guide rope, or whatever it is that’s going to keep me suspended halfway up a cliff face.
An hour later, I’m not so sure. It turns out that Ethan and Grady had to stay and help out with a delivery back at the store, so it’s just me, Reeve, and a looming rock face. Moral support of any type would be kind of great right now. “You want me to climb . . . that?” I stare up at it in horror. “With my bare hands?”
“Not bare.” Reeve laughs. “You’ve got gloves, see?” He hands me a small pair of stiff, fingerless gloves. The leather is curling at the edges and stained white with old resin.
“Wow,” I say faintly. “These will make all the difference.”
We’re deep in the woods, at what apparently is the best natural climbing spot for miles around. Chunks of gray rock jut out of the hillside, covered in places with moss and shrubbery. They cast long shadows over the foliage below, bathing us in a cool, green light.
My terror must show, because Reeve pauses, taking pity on me. “It’s not so scary, really. Look, there are tons of ledges and pockets to grip. It couldn’t be easier if there were a ladder all the way up.”
“Uh-huh.” I swallow. That teeny-tiny problem I have with heights suddenly doesn’t seem so small.
“You’ll have fun — I promise.”
That I doubt. My plan was to stay safely on the ground today, but for some crazy reason, I didn’t call the whole thing off when I heard it would be just the two of us. Reeve has gone to all this trouble to set the trip up. Now that we’re alone, I can’t bring myself to back out and look pathetic.
Reeve pulls on his own gloves, completely unaware that even proximity to the rock face is making my stomach tangle in knots. “I’ll go first.” He grins, cocky. “Then you can see how easy it is.”
“Wait, aren’t you going to put on a harness or —?” Before I can even finish, he strides over and nimbly hops up onto a small ledge, about three feet from the ground. His hands are already skimming across the rock, seeking out a hold, and soon he’s crawling ten, fifteen feet up.
“See?” Turning, he calls down to me. “Easy!”
I gulp. He’s got no safety rope or net or anything, just slim canvas shoes and bare arms, but still he’s scrambling easily up the vertical drop like he weighs nothing at all. It’s like he’s decided gravity doesn’t apply to him.
“Look at my feet,” he calls. “You have to use your legs to push higher. Find tiny creases in the rock to stand in.” On cue, he lodges his right toe in a thin crack in the rock, using the force to push up and reach for a ledge. I gasp. For a few moments, his whole body is dangling by his fingertips, and then he finds another hold and swings sideways to reach it.
By the time he reaches the top of the rock, my stomach isn’t just tangled; it’s knotted tight.
“See? Nothing to worry about!” Reeve skids down the dirt path that winds around the side of the rock. Or, as I like to think of it: the sensible way up.
“You’re sure you didn’t get bitten by a radioactive spider or something?” I try and delay the inevitable that little bit longer. “Hey, wait a second while I get some general nature footage.” I busy myself taking pictures for the website while Reeve grabs a coil of rope from his duffel bag. He scrambles back up the dirt path, runs the rope through a bolt at the top of the rock, and lets both ends fall all the way down to me.
Too soon, he’s back by my side, holding out the harness for me to step into. “Ready?” He seems genuinely excited, blue eyes lit up and his whole face animated. I nod reluctantly.
I can be brave. I can be adventurous. I can climb stuff.
Pulling the harness around my pelvis, I tighten the straps and then stand awkwardly as Reeve attaches the various pulls and hooks to my body. “This is your safety rope.” He shows me, looping it securely through the front of my harness and tying a strange knot. “It goes up through that bolt and then back down to me, so you don’t need to worry at all. If you slip, or lose your grip or anything, I’ve got you.” My expression must be less than reassured, because he puts a hand on my arm and says it again: “I’ve got you.”