Chapter 37
Alec
“You done hiding behind chores?” Finn asks the moment the back door closes and the motion lights flicker on. His wheels thump across the floorboards as he follows me to the railing.
“I wasn’t—” The lie tastes sour before I even finish it. “I wasn’t hiding.”
He scoffs. “Please. I’ve been here four days, and you’ve spent more time hiding upstairs than looking me in the eye. You’re acting like I’m some rookie at base camp you don’t trust with your gear.”
“I’ve had stuff to do.” I stare at the inky black lake, wishing for a moment I could sink beneath its depths and avoid this conversation.
“Sure,” he says. “Because God forbid Alec sits still long enough to use actual words.”
My thumb rubs along the porch rail. The ornamental cabbages Clem planted by the steps catch my eye—stubborn little things, frosted at the edges and still hanging on.
She told me once they don’t know the difference between dying and surviving.
They just keep pushing. She’d tell me to stop stalling.
An owl calls from somewhere in the trees. The silence it leaves behind is worse.
“You want words?”
“Would be hella nice right about now.”
“You remember Patagonia?” I ask. My voice comes out rough, safer in old stories.
“You mean the story I just told at dinner? Yeah. I was there.”
“You looked…happy.”
“So did you. We were eighteen. Didn’t even know how to be unhappy yet. We just kept moving.” Finn sighs. “Man, will you look at me?”
My blood runs cold, but I turn to him. His hands are in his lap, and he’s staring up at me. Gone is his usual grin, replaced by dismay.
“I—” I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. I’ve had weeks to think about this conversation, and still, I don’t know how to start it.
“Come on. I know I’m the talkative one, but fuck, dude, you did not just pull us away from our women to not talk. So, move those lips.”
I start with the truth. “I—I can’t look at you without seeing K2.”
“Not this again. I’m doing fine. Got custom wheels.” He runs a hand over the prayer flags strapped to the back of his chair. The same ones we carried up every mountain.
“Your lips were blue,” I whisper, needing him to understand that this wasn’t like every other climb.
Not like any other accident. “I didn’t know if you were breathing.
I keep seeing it—your body under the ice, me yanking you out of the crevasse, not knowing if you were alive and—” My voice cracks.
My chest burns. I bite it back, but it doesn’t stop the shaking.
Finn’s brow furrows. “You’re still blaming yourself.”
“I pushed us too far.”
“There it is,” he groans. “Alec the martyr. Starring in his own guilt opera.”
“I’m not—” My hand fists the railing until the wood bites my palm.
“Alec. We never pitied each other. Don’t start now.
Every second you pity me, it’s like we should’ve died on that mountain.
And I’m not dead. Neither are you.” His words burst out of him.
“When you told me about Wild Trails, I thought—finally. He’s moving on.
And then Clem. Man, I was happy for you.
But you’re still here spiraling. So, what’s the real problem? ”
“Finn.”
“Stop dragging your damn feet. Say it.”
My mouth’s as dry as dust. But I force it out. “I’m not done climbing.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets it hang. The pause is worse than shouting.
“Okay. So climb.”
“What?”
“Don’t stop fucking climbing, dude.”
“But you said we were done.” The words rip out, loud and ugly.
“In that hospital bed—where I sat beside you for weeks—you said you were done. We were done. And you made me promise.” The words grind up my throat, jagged.
“I sat there watching tubes run into you, watching machines breathe for you, and you made me swear I wouldn’t drag us up a mountain again.
I said yes because I thought you were dying. ”
Finn almost laughs. “I was higher than a kite on morphine, man. I barely remembered my own name. What I meant was, we’re done with eight-thousand-meter suicide missions.
That chapter’s closed.” His eyes find mine, steady.
“But climbing? No. Not ever. Yura thinks I’ll walk again.
Soon. And when I do, I’ll be back. Not Everest. Not K2.
But Denali. Rainier. Something sane. Because I still fucking love the mountains. ”
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.” Finn shrugs, but there’s steel under it. “I don’t need glory anymore. Don’t need sponsors or summit photos. I want a home. But I don’t want to be done.”
“So, you won’t be mad if I say yes to Iceland?”
He shakes his head. “I’d be mad if you didn’t.”
“We always did climbs like that together.”
“And now you’ll do one without me,” he says simply.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know. But you will.”
I look at him—scar above his brow, tremor in his hand—and I hate it. “I hate the idea of getting to the top and not seeing you.”
“You’ll hate it more if you never get there,” he says.
“So you’re good with me climbing Vatnajokull.”
“You were always gonna say yes.”
My teeth grit together. “Feels like saying yes to Iceland means leaving you behind.”
Finn slams a hand on my back. “Alec. You were my best friend when we were five. You’ll be my best friend when we’re eighty.
You can’t leave me behind. Even if I’m not on the rope, I’m still in your corner.
Always. And maybe, if this hip ends up doing what Yura swears it can, I’ll be back next to you again. But you don’t need my permission.”
I shake my head, the words burning. “It’s not about permission.
It’s about…” My chest locks. But I force it.
“I thought I’d lose you. If we weren’t doing the big climbs, if we weren’t planning the next summit.
That’s who we were. It’s what we did. And if we weren’t doing that together, then what were we?
I thought—” My voice breaks. “I thought I’d lose my best friend. ”
Finn stares at me. Really stares. “Jesus, man. You’ve been carrying that around? For weeks? Months? You could’ve just talked to me.”
“I don’t know how to. Not about this. I’m learning. Right now.”
“Looks to me like you’re doing a damn good job.
Saying it. Finally. But you’ve got to hear me to—you don’t have to climb for us to be us.
You don’t have to bleed on a mountain to keep me as your friend.
I don’t care if you never strap on crampons again—you’d still be like a brother to me.
Always. I told you at five that you’ll never get rid of me. ”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I didn’t know how to separate it. Climbing, us. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Then learn,” he says. “Because I’ll tell you something. I’ve got friends. I’ve got Yura. I’ve got my dad and your family. But I’ll never have another you. You’re my big buffoon of a best friend. Nothing changes that.”
I stare at him. Twenty-seven years of jokes, stupid dares, and shared flasks of whiskey at three a.m. when we couldn’t sleep. I’ve held back his hair when he was sick from altitude, and he made me laugh when my head felt like exploding.
“You won’t resent me?”
“Resentment doesn’t stick. Not with us.” His voice roughens. “Now hug me, you big idiot.”
A broken, wet laugh spills out before I can stop it. I press my hand to my face because I don’t want him to see my eyes glass over. “I missed you.”
“I never left,” he says quietly. “You just stopped letting me in.”
No blame in it. Just the truth folded plainly between two people who’ve climbed and crashed and kept climbing anyway. It cracks me open in a way that’s both awful and the only kind of salvage.
“I love you, man.”
“Wow…I think that’s, like, the third time you’ve ever said that to me.” He punches my leg.
“No, it’s not.” It probably is. Saying I love you got harder over the years, like each death stripped the words from my chest. It’s easier to say goodbye to people that way.
“Alec Hastings is capable of love!” he screams out to the lake, cackling.
“You’re scaring the bats, dude.” I roll my eyes.
“Love you too, man.” Finn tilts his goofy grin up to the sky. “Look at us. Still touching the stars out here.”
Something shifts in me. A weight rolling off. An ice block finally breaking free after years jammed tight in my ribs.
For the first time since K2, I can breathe.