Page 55 of Wandering Wild

She glances over the edge, her voice shaking as she answers, “I don’t mind.”

The lie is clear to see—as is her fear—so I wrap the rope around myself the way Bentley demonstrated, and say, “I’ll shout once I’m as far as I can go, but keep an eye out in case the water is too loud for you to hear me.”

“Are you—Will you—” She swallows, then tries again. “You’ll wait for me before you continue climbing down?”

I wish I could give her a comforting hug without her wanting to shove me away. Instead, all I can do is say, “Of course I’ll wait for you. We’re in this together, Charlie.”

She swallows again, and this time it looks painful. But then she nods and says, “See you soon.”

I truly hope that’s the case, since it will mean Bentley’s no-harness rappelling technique has worked and neither of us has plummeted to a watery grave. I don’t say what I’m thinking, though, and only offer a slight smile—the best I can manage—before I shuffle in reverse toward the cliff, then slowly lean my weight out over the edge.

It’s an entirely new kind of terror, relying on the rope to hold me while knowing I’m not clipped onto anything. But I force my breathing to remain steady and my mind to stay clear as I work my way into a horizontal position perpendicular to the rock face, not allowing myself to think of the panic attack I had during our last rappel, since one here would be disastrous. The water is gushing only a few feet away from where I’m hanging, the spray like little icy daggers spearing my skin, but that’s not my only concern. I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to keep my hands from slipping on the rope and my feet from sliding on the wet, mossy sandstone. It takes all of my concentration just to keep lowering myself safely, my muscles straining and body screeching as the rope digs into my flesh. Hawke wasn’t wrong about his “nut cracker” warning, and when I finally reach the end of the rope and find a narrow ledge to rest on, I grimace and wonder if I’ll ever be able to walk properly again.

“I’m clear!” I shout up the waterfall. “Your turn!”

I don’t think Charlie hears me over the roaring, but I can see her head peeking out at the top of the rock, and I wave my arms to indicate I’m free of the rope. She disappears, and the next thing I see is her tangled up like I was and leaning backward over the edge of the cliff.

My heart is in my throat as I watch her, more nervous now than when I was navigating the descent myself. If she loses her grip—if she slips—if anything happens to her?—

Every part of me is tense as I wait for something awful to happen, but Charlie is rappelling like a pro, and she soon sets her feet down on the ledge, trembling but safe.

“Let’s never do that again,” she says, freeing herself from the rope and pressing her back against the sandstone, moaning when she sees how far we still have to go.

“Hawke was right about the hand- and footholds,” I say, trying to keep positive. “See? There are heaps of places we can use to climb down.”

What I don’t mention is how little confidence I have in those hand- and footholds, given the crumbly nature of the sandstone. And that’s ignoring the slippery moss and lichen covering the rock, the water spray making everything more perilous.

I realize we’re both stalling as we glance down at what’s ahead, so I stand taller and say, “We’re committed now. As you said before, let’s just get it over with.” Her throat bobs, but she doesn’t argue when I add, “I’ll go first again; stay close enough to watch what I grab onto.”

With that, I lower myself down from the ledge, searching with my boot for a hollow in the rock wall, then a place to grip with my hands. Carefully, ever so carefully, I begin the downward climb, uttering a warning to Charlie whenever I encounter a crumbly or slippery hold. It’s slow going, and my shoulders feel like they’re tearing out of their sockets, but I finally land on another ledge that’s large enough for us to pause and rest, with her joining me a moment later. We’re both panting and sweating despite the frigid spray hitting us, and I take a second to massage my arms and neck, seeing Charlie do the same.

When our breathing returns to normal, I peer out over the ledge in search of the next foothold, my stomach sinking when I see that the nearest one is going to be a stretch for me, and there’s no way Charlie will be able to reach it with her shorter legs. I keep looking for something else that might work, but there’s nothing in range. There’s only one solution I can think of, and I already know she’s not going to like it.

“I’ll have to lower you down,” I tell her, showing her how far away the foothold is. “It’s our only choice.”

Her eyes widen and she backs away from me, before stopping quickly as she remembers how narrow the shelf is that we’re standing on. “Nuh-uh.”

I knew that would be her response, but her lack of faith in me still stings.

“You can trust me,” I tell her encouragingly.

“No, I can’t.” The words are instant, like she didn’t even have to think about them.

They feel like a slap in the face.

“Charlie,” I begin slowly, “I?—”

I’m unsure what I’m going to say, but she interrupts me before I can figure it out.

“I can’t trust you, Zander. I don’t. Iwon’t,” she declares, her voice unyielding. “I know you want me to, not just with this”—she waves a grime-covered hand toward the rock wall beneath us—“but also with everything else, and it’s just not going to happen.”

All day, I’ve been trying to find the right time for this conversation, and if ever there was awrongtime, it would be while we’re resting precariously halfway down a waterfall. But even so, I can’t help the response that leaves me. “Maybe if you’d give me a chance to explain?—”

“No, we’re not doing this.” Charlie gives a sharp shake of her head. “I know there’s some big secret you think will help make everything magically better between us, but I don’t want to hear it. As I said, I don’t trust you. And more, I don’twantto trust you. Not after what you did.”

I jerk backward, stunned—and hurt—by her candor. But she’s not done, everything she’s bottled up until now streaming out in its own toxic waterfall.

“You made a selfish decision, and you could have killed someone,” she states, her expression as hard as her words. “That’s inexcusable. Any explanation you have for it won’t change anything—and it certainly won’t absolve you. And while some people might be able to ignore it or forgive it, I’m not one of them. So let’s just do what we must to get down this cliff and make it to that helicopter tomorrow, and then we can be done with each other. Agreed?”

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