The crew set me up with one of the easy routes, one apparently used mostly by kids and pre-teens. But I watched said kids climb when we first came in, and those little buggers were fast and fearless.
I, on the other hand, feel dizzy just looking at the first set of grips, let alone the top where the bell hangs.
“You’ve got this,” Greg says, moving in a little closer, his voice low and rumbly in my ear.
I almost shiver, almost let out a pathetic little mewl, but then I see his hand winding back from the corner of my eye.
I turn, catching his wrist in one hand and pointing the index finger of the other right in his face. “Don’t you dare smack my ass again.”
He laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s good luck, I swear.”
I flick him off, which earns me another laugh before he’s stepping back and giving me space.
It shouldn’t be this easy with him.
Why does it feel so easy with him?
I still a breath, eyes trailing the wall once more as I shake off any thoughts trying to creep in. I need to focus — mostly so I don’t break myself climbing a damn kid route.
“Here goes nothing,” I mumble to myself, and then I step up to the wall, reaching up to grab the first grip.
I knew this would be a workout for my arms. I knew my legs would burn. I knew it’d be hard. But I didn’t expect it to be so much pressure on my fingers.
The first few climbs aren’t too bad, and I actually think I might be able to do this. I curl my fingers in the grooves of the grips, holding on tight as I assess the next move. Then, I pull, reaching for the next marker as my foot finds grip on one below me.
But the higher I climb, the more my fingers ache, especially when I have to pause a moment to figure out what move to make next.
“Gah, my fingers!”
“Use your legs more to hold you while you figure out the next move,” Greg yells from below. His voice sounds so soft, so… distant.
And that’s when I make the mistake of looking down.
When I was focused on climbing, I was only looking at the grips above me and the wall in front of me, nothing else. But now, looking down at where Greg watches me from below, I realize how high I am, how far away the ground is.
Panic.
Fast and furious, my heart begins to race, my ears going fuzzy, vision swaying and crossing as I grip as tight as I can to hold on.
Greg must see it, the fear sparked by looking down, and he holds up his hands, trying to calm me. “You’ve got this, Amanda. Focus on what to do next. One grip at a time.”
“I can’t,” I almost squeak, so quiet I’m not sure he can hear me. “It’s too high. I’m too heavy.”
That makes Greg grit his teeth, and even from this high up, I can see the muscle in his jaw flex hard. “You’re not too heavy. You’re a strong, badass bitch.”
I choke on a laugh. “You just called me a bitch.”
“It’s the good kind of bitch.”
“Can you two stop with the cursing, please?” one of the employees interrupts, giving us a look. “There are kids here.”
Greg and I share an embarrassed smile, and then he claps his hands together. “Come on. Keep going. You’re strapped in, remember? You’re safe. Just get to the top.”
I turn back toward the wall with a deep inhale, setting my shoulders square and my brows in a furrowed determination as I plant weight into my right foot and reach up for the next grip.
My arms ache, fingers crying out in protest, legs shaking from how high I continue to climb, but I don’t stop. One foot up, then a hand, then a foot, then rest and assess, then another hand, another foot.
And the strangest thing happens…
The higher I climb, the more emotional I become.
Every push of my quad, every pull of my bicep pricks my eyes with tears. My nose stings as the wave washes over me.
And I think of Josh.
I think of how hard I had to fight just to clearly see the situation I was in with him, the abuse and the addiction, the co-dependency that had me imprisoned.
Even once I figured it out, once I decided enough was enough, I had to face his rage, his attempts to break me and make me feel like I was the issue, his gaslighting and narcissism.
For two long years, I’ve fought to free myself of that man.
And when I look up at how close the bell is, it feels just like that freedom — close enough to touch, but still distanced by hurdles I have yet to overcome, hurdles I know won’t be easy.
I close my eyes, blowing out a breath through pursed lips.
“I can do this,” I whisper.
And then I push.
One step at a time, my fingers and arms and legs aching, I climb the rest of the way up the wall. Tears blur my vision as I do so, but I ring that bell with all the enthusiasm of a show girl at a carnival.
“I did it!”
“Hell yeah, you did!” Greg hollers back up at me.
The employee narrows her eyes, but Greg quickly apologizes and then turns back to me and mouths, “Fuck yeah.”
I chuckle, using one hand to wipe the tears from my face as I look down and get weak in the knees again. “Now how do I get down?”
“Hold onto the rope at the base of your harness and kick back off the wall.”
“So, you’re saying, just fall?” I mock, shaking my head.
Greg laughs, and when I catch his eyes, the laugh slips, the smile going along with it.
I don’t know if he can see it from all the way down there, how my face is shining with the remnants of the tears I let fall, or how I’m shaking, how that climb meant more to me than just accomplishing something physical.
But there’s something in his gaze, something deeper than him just telling me it’s safe to rappel off that wall.
It’s like he’s saying it’s safe to fall into him.
I tear my eyes away, reminding myself that’s the furthest thing from the truth as I grip the rope, close my eyes, and kick back.
Just as he said, the suspension catches me, helping me rappel down nice and easy. Before I know it, my feet are on the ground.
At least, for a split second, until Greg scoops me up in his arms like I weigh half of what I actually do, and spins me as much as he can with me still being attached to the wall.
“I told you,” he says cockily when he drops me back to the ground.
My body slides along the length of his as he sets me down, my arms gripping his, our chests pressed together. For a long moment, he holds me there, his smile leveling out as I struggle to catch my breath — both from the climb and from being in his arms.
I glance up at him through my lashes, and suddenly he’s breathing heavy, too.
But as quickly as the moment happens, it disappears, Greg releasing me and clearing his throat as I step back with a furious flush.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s see if you have that same smirk on your face when I make you get a pedicure,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood and ignore the fact that his sweaty body was just touching mine.
Greg makes a face, but before he can retort, his phone buzzes loud from where we stashed our stuff in a nearby cubby.
I work on releasing myself from the harness, thanks to some help from the employee who seems less than amused by our first climbs, all the while watching Greg’s face as he reads a text message on his phone.