Page 53 of A Certain Appeal
I blow him a kiss and get back to the climb, jabbing my thumb into one of the skull’s empty eye sockets to secure my grip. It’s been weeks since I’ve come to the gym. The walls have been reset and my performance has been unimpressive. While I’ve gotten the rust off over the past hour, Pink Skull and his buddies are giving me more trouble than I’d like.
After a particularly graceless scramble, I get to the last hold and call to Jane again. “Take!”
“I’ve got you!” He tightens the rope. “You ready to come down?”
“Bring me home, baby.”
“Go ahead.”
I let go of the wall and descend, Jane smoothly feeding the line through his brake. When I reach the floor, I squat down for more slack, then straighten. “Off belay.”
“You’re off,” he replies, and we release from the rope. “Sorry about earlier. That’s such a no-no.” He sighs. “I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me. He’s busy.”
I nod, holding back what I know he’s thinking: no one is too busy to send a text.
Saturday afternoon’s call included a warning that Charles was going to be swamped for the coming days. Texts tapered off to nothing, with only a short check-in call on Sunday. Jane, being Jane, has taken it in stride, but after two days of silence I know it’s weighing on him.
I try not to hold Charles’s delinquency against him, but the man’sinattention has derailed what started as a perfectly lovely week for Jane and me. After almost a month like two ships passing, we’ve finally had time to hang out together. Saturday’s show was a blast, and I tagged along for Jane’s after-hours performance with the band. We had brunch with Ming the next afternoon, where she theorized on the many ways that she suspected the Twins and Wickham enjoyed one of the bathrooms during Saturday’s set break. Technically, it was only one theory with several interpretations on positioning, but she was thorough. And foul. Jane and I bought mimosas for the tables within earshot. At $3 a pop, we figured it was the least we could do for folks unprepared to wrap their weekend with the phrase “nightmarishly elastic” attributed to a human’s pelvic region.
Evenings, I spent any free time working on my designs, with Jane giving input over episodes ofDrag Race. But last night, when Charles missed their tentative phone date, Jane switched from Mama Ru to documentaries, getting in two episodes ofBlue Planetbefore turning in. I’m trying not to read into it, but the slip into informational viewing sets off warning bells. Jane was deep-diving nature programming when I moved in. He was at theRiver Monstersstage of depression when I tasked him with showing me around Manhattan. I proposed climbing tonight to take his mind off things, but after his belay fail, I’m wishing I’d come up with a lower-risk activity.
Jane flexes his chalk-dusty fingers. The joints crackle and snap. “I think I’m done climbing. I’ll still belay if you’d like.”
I shake my head. “I’m pumpy.” I turn over my forearms. They’re swollen from the hour of climbing; my veins stick out like a mountain range on a topographical map. “I’m going to switch to bouldering till I burn out. Will you call out holds?”
Jane rolls his eyes. “You know you don’t need me.”
He’s right. I rarely ask for input on routes. But I brought him to get him out of his head. I let my lip wobble.
He smiles. “Fine. You big baby.”
We take off our harnesses and stash them in the cubbies in the benches flanking the bouldering area, then take a seat to wait for a space to free up. A buzzing rattles the bench. Jane’s hand darts to his back pocket. I cross my fingers it’s something from Charles, but my watch vibrates with an incoming message a second later. It’s Andrea, to both me and Jane: an invitation to cover the door at Jazz Night. Jane’s shoulders fall.
He slides his phone back into his pocket. “Mind if I take it?”
“She’d rather have you, anyway,” I say, standing as a problem on the wall opens up. I grimace as I approach.Yeesh.The route starts with a brutal overhang. But the footholds are placed well; success will rest on whether my grip can last. I sit down at the base, flexing my fingers with an unsettling crack.
Behind me, Jane lets out a gasp.
“Have a little faith,” I complain, and place my feet, reaching for the well-worn holds above eye level. Instinctively, I angle my body in and pull myself toward the wall—sweetbabyjesus,my forearms are onfire!
With a grunt, I get my body clear of the inversion.Yes!I secure my feet, pushing myself up higher—
“Sorry I was too chicken-shit to call,” says Jane, his voice dull.
“What’s that?” My hand trembles with the effort as I reach for the jug hold above me.
“The message I received from Charles,” he says, barely audible.
“Wait, what?” Cold prickles up my spine. “Charles?”
“He says he’s sorry.” Jane’s voice is choked. “And that it’s over.”
The two words jolt through me. “What?” My hands give out andI drop from the wall, landing in a stumbling crouch. I shake it off and jog over the padded floor to Jane.
He holds up his phone, showing me the screen. “What do I do?”
“I—I don’t know. What—” I take the offered phone and read the text in full:I’m sorry. It’s over. Things are too complicated right now. Sorry I was too chicken-shit to call.
