Page 33 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
Ian places a hand low between my shoulder blades, joining the ghost of Friday night’s contact, and the other just above the waist of my shorts; also a repeat visit. Welcome back, guys!
“Keep looking up the rope. I’m going to guide you a little, and on three, pull with your arms and lift your knees.” He’s close enough that I catch that same hint of cinnamon I noticed last weekend. Is it his toothpaste? Gum? “When you no longer feel me, just stand.”
“Gotcha.” My hands have started sweating.
“All right. One, two, three!”
He presses against my lower back, controlling the range of the resulting backward tilt with the hand at my shoulders, and I hike up my knees and pull myself as high as I can. Then Ian’s no longerholding me, and I stand. I have to loosen my grip as I rise, sliding my hands up the rope, but when I’m at my full height, I’ve managed to get myself higher off the ground.
Like,considerablyhigher. I stare down at Ian, who smiles. “Whoa.” I turn wide eyes on Alistair and Diego, who’ve finished wheelbarrowing and are clapping for me.
“Well done,” says Ian. “Think you can do that again on your own?”
A recently familiar thrill hums in my chest, thenow what?gearing up for an outlet. “Think you can catch me if I fall?”
“You’re not going tofall,” he chides. “But also, yes.”
“Then, yes!” I repeat the motions, not getting my feet as high as I did with Ian’s assistance but covering more distance on the rope than I was when we started. “I did it!” And this one was all on my own. My smile is huge, the humming in my chest extending to my arms and legs. My roommates whoop; both raise phones, recording.
“Great!” cheers Ian. “You have another one in you?”
We find out together: yes, again!
I survey the gym from my higher vantage point. I’m only ten or twelve feet off the ground, but it’s exhilarating. Back squats havenothingon this. I feel like I could fight crime! I look down at Ian, standing on the cushioned mat he situated below the rope “just in case.”
“Now, I have to get down,” I say, realizing it as I articulate the thought.
“Do you remember those steps?”
“Get the rope on the outside of my knees,” I recite, shifting the rope, “loosen up on my feet—” I loosen too much, relaxing myhands at the same time, and then I’m streaking down the length of rope. I don’t even have time to scream before I hit the mat with a grunt.
No, not the mat: I’ve been caught by Ian. “You okay?” he asks in a rush, a gust of cinnamon rustling the hair by my ear. His remarkable eyes are wide with concern. I have a death grip on his shoulders, like I’m trying to climb him. Man Mountain. How fitting.
“How are your hands?”
It takes another second for the question to register, and I release my hold. My nails have left tiny crescents in the fabric of his shirt. Still too stunned to speak, I raise my palms for inspection.
“A little red,” he determines. “Not too bad.”
This close, I pick up on a rattling sound as he speaks, like he has something in his mouth. “Are you eating?” I blurt.
He frowns, attention darting from my face to my still upraised hands and back. After a moment, he works his jaw, and I watch, rapt, as his lips part. Between his teeth is a bright red candy.Cinnamon.
“Ah!” I say, appreciating the resolution to the mystery of his spicy scent. His tongue darts out to draw the candy back in, which is fascinating.
My focus stays on Ian’s lips as I regain the rest of my senses. Primarily touch, as I register the hard heat of his chest against my entire right side. I’m being held bride-over-the-threshold style, which is a first and a thing I like very much. Like Ian’s chest hair! And muscle soreness. I’m learning all kinds of things about myself these days. And—“I just climbed a rope!”
Ian laughs. “Yeah, you did.”
“That’s so cool!” I am awash with adrenaline and pride. It’s dizzying. Though that could be the pheromones.
“Oh, shit.” Ian lifts the arm behind my knees to raise my lower legs. A dark pink line about two inches long angles over the sliver of shin between the sleeve and the top of my shoe. A smattering of crimson beads blossom within the pink.
“Abraded,” he grumbles. He lowers me to the floor, keeping a hand at my side as I find my feet. “I’m so sorry. I should have gone over that descent one more time. We’ll get that cleaned up.”
I’m in my car a few minutes later, admiring the Band-Aid on my shin, when a text populates in the roommate group chat. Diego has wasted no time editing and distributing the footage of my rise and fall, and I watch the replay. I grin, getting another hit of that heady, buzzy high. I really did that. Me and my busted body did that.
I watch the clip two more times. And then I call my mom.
