Page 52 of Winging It with You

No, I’m not going to let this irrational fear of mine be the reason we miss out on the prize money. “I…I just need a minute.”

“Of course.” Asher keeps his hand on me, and it’s unnerving how much I like it.

“How much farther ahead is everyone else?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he says, craning his head up the wall to where our competition is. “We’re fine. But while we wait, why don’t you tell me about your mom?”

His question catches me entirely off guard. “What…why?”

“Come on,” he pries. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of your mom?”

Flower pins.

“I guess she would always wear these pins on her jackets. Flowers,” I share, easily picturing the different fabric florals she’d adorn her outerwear with.

Asher smiles. “What else?”

It dawns on me that my mother will eventually be seeing this play out when I stare directly at the camera mounted on Asher’s helmet. The last thing I want to do is make it appear like I don’t want to talk about her. I try to hide the twinge of annoyance I feel toward Asher and the fact that he’s decidednowis the time to bring this up. On television. “She’s a simple woman,” I say, adjusting my grip on the rope. “Simple but timeless and one of a kind.”

“Take a step with me,” Asher says. “Take a step and tell me what makes her one of kind.”

Oh. He’s distracting me.

And weirdly, talking to him—about this, of all things—is working.

I take a step and so does he. “I guess it was her quiet stability. Her guiding hand that led me to grow up in a home with someone I could count on,” I add, taking another step. He mirrors me.

“That’s really special,” he says, not breaking eye contact.

It really was. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that like most parents, her everyday sacrifices went mostly unnoticed by all of us. Her vintage and well-worn style wasn’t because she genuinely enjoyed sifting through the piles at our local consignment shop like she’d said. She’d done that so my sister and I could start each school year with the new clothes we thought would help us fit in.

“Come on, take another step with me.”

Or how on every first morning in January, she’d declare that this was finally the year she and my dad would take that belated honeymoon to Europe they’d been talking about since 1987. But each year like clockwork, Elise would discover a new, and expensive, hobby, or I would outgrow my basketball shoes. One of us needed braces or wanted to vacation with a friend.

“It was special. She used to say she was happy to live a small life so that we could live a big one,” I say, a small lump growing in my throat. “And it took me a really long time to understand what she meant by that.”

We’re moving in sync now—hand over hand, rung after rung—in an attempt to make up for the time I’d wasted.

“You’re doing so good, babe,” Asher says across the space between us, the pet name rolling off his tongue quite naturally as he continues his encouragement every step of the way. “We’re almost there.”

For the longest time, I haven’t felt like someone who needed encouragement. Hell, I haven’t let someone get close enough for them to even have a desire to encourage me. But coming from someone like Asher—smart and successful and a little all over the place in the best ways—I’m beginning to think it could mean something different.

Something more.

Like allowing yourself to need someone doesn’t automatically equate to weakness.

I glance up after a moment, my arms and legs feeling the strain of our climb, and see that he’s right, we’re nearing the top. And as much as I’d love to continue a conversation of this magnitude while strapped to the side of an oversize slab of concrete, I pick up the pace, closing the distance between us and the top of the ladder with Asher following suit.

When we reach the top—our hands finally gripping the edge—and we’re able to pull ourselves up and over, a pair of production techs comes and begins removing the tether between us. But a more permanent one just might have formed on that climb.

Some link or invisible string tying our lives together.

Me to Asher.

And I like the promise of an us.Or at least I think I could. The weight behind that word and what it would mean nearly knocks me on my ass because wanting it—wanting it so badly withhim—is really the only thing that matters right now.

Asher launches himself at me when he’s finally free, fitting himself perfectly in my arms, and I can feel his smile against my neck.

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