“OK.” I breathe, trying to talk myself into this. Rock. Holds. Momentum. Think of it like a jungle gym, I tell myself, or a flight of stairs. A flight of perilous, invisible stairs. “And how do I get down?”
His face creases in a smile. “I’ll talk you through it when the time comes.”
I’m thinking that time will come sooner, rather than later.
Reeve takes up his position, feeding his end of the rope through a metal loop, and I slowly edge over to the bottom of the rock.
“You can do this — I promise,” Reeve adds when I linger there without moving. “Just break it down: one move, then another.”
The rock feels cool and damp against my palms. Taking a deep breath, I step up onto that first easy ledge.
“Great job!” I hear Reeve’s voice, but don’t dare look around. “Now reach up with your left hand. There’s a ledge right there.” I follow his instructions, running my fingers over cracks until I find a crevice large enough to grip. “Then put all your weight on your left foot and find a new hold.”
It takes me another moment to actually do as he says, but after scrabbling at the rock with my toe, I find another ledge. Shifting slowly, I ease up onto it and grab at a new nook with my fingertips. Now I’m balanced on the tips of my toes, my whole body flat against the rock.
“You’ve got it!” Reeve sounds way too enthusiastic. After all, I am still only five feet above the ground: I could jump down without a problem. But something about the certainty in his voice makes me feel stronger. I keep going.
Left foot, left hand; shift weight; right foot, right hand; shift weight. With Reeve yelling out suggestions, I gradually move up the rock, feeling muscles I never knew I had strain under the unexpected weight. But the higher I go, the more my stomach lurches in terror. Don’t look down, I tell myself, staring at etchings and moss just inches from my nose. Just don’t look down.
I shift sideways along the wall, following a seam of easy footholds until I’m out on the far left. But the seam ends. I’m stuck.
“Reeve!” I call down. “I can’t see anything!” There are tiny pockmarks and cracks but nothing I can get a toe or hand into. “Reeve!”
“Hang on. Let me look. Er, I think you’re going to have to come back.”
“Back where?” Without the momentum of my reach-and-shift routine, I start to feel my weight pull. I have one foot jammed up to the side and the other lodged in only a toehold, gripping tightly with my fingertips in one single crack. I begin to panic. “I don’t know what to do!”
“Try sliding along and up,” Reeve calls. I hear him pacing closer to the rock. “There’s a ledge just out of your reach, on the right.”
I tentatively let go with one hand and grab for the ledge. “It’s too far!” I quickly cling back to the crack in front of me. My hands are aching, but I don’t dare ease my grip. “I can’t go anywhere!”
“Shh, it’s OK, Jenna. Just breathe.”
“But I can’t move!” I take a gulp of air. It doesn’t make me feel any calmer. “Reeve?”
“Do you want to get down —?”
“Yes!” I cry before he even has time to finish.
Reeve laughs, calm and reassuring. “OK, you’re going to need to let go of the wall and lean back. Just hold on to your harness and walk down backward.”
Let go? Walk backward? Just?
I stay frozen in place, fear washing over my body in a cold shiver. I should never have tried this; I should be safely on the ground. Bad things happen to people who think they can cheat gravity: things involving falling, and pain, and bloody bone-shattering death.
And then I look down.
“Oh, God,” I whimper. “I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not!” Reeve insists. He would. He’s on the ground. All the way down there.
“Maybe not die. Maybe I’ll just break my neck.”
“You need to move, Jenna. Just take a breath and lean out. I’ve got your rope; you can’t fall.”
We both wait.
“OK, how about plan B?” Reeve still sounds relaxed. “Hang tight — I’m coming up.”
“But what about my safety rope!”
“I’m securing it — don’t worry.”
I don’t hear anything for a while but scrapes and scrabbling. I’m starting to get a cramp in my calves. I don’t want to think about what will happen when my legs give out.
“Hey.” I hear Reeve’s voice, breathless, just beside me. I force myself to turn my head, resting my cheek against the cool rock. He’s climbed a different route and is about five feet away from me, just out of reach. He looks over at me casually, as if we’ve accidentally run into each other. Because I’m always running into sweaty, shirtless climbers halfway up a rock. “So, what’s up?”
I make a garbled noise, equal parts laughter and sheer terror.
“OK then, let’s see if we can sort you out.” He looks at my position. “Are your feet comfortable?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I can see a ledge right by your foot. It would help stretch you out.”
I stay frozen.
“I want to move,” I explain miserably. “And I think about moving. But when it comes to actually moving . . .”
“That’s OK.” Reeve’s voice is soft and reassuring. “Take your time.” Gathering every last ounce of courage, I force my foot to move, just an inch. “Nearly!” Reeve promises. “Just a bit more.” I grit my teeth and push a tiny bit farther. “There! You feel that? Shift your weight.” I do as he says, and right away, the pain in my legs starts to ease.
“Thanks,” I say in a small voice. “And, I’m sorry about this.” I feel completely useless.
“It’s OK,” he reassures me. “I’m sorry, too. I mean, I promised this would be fun.”
“It was!” I gulp. “Kind of. Before I lost all control over my limbs and had a major panic attack.”
He laughs again, and the sound is weirdly soothing. “What do you want to do now?”
“Umm, I have options?” I take another breath. “OK, maybe, if I just stay here a while, I’ll un-freeze and be able to move again?”
“Then we’re staying put.” Reeve shifts to a more comfortable position. I wish I had the luxury. “So, how are things going?”