Chapter 50 Alec
Alec
It’s only seventy meters down. A piece of cake compared to the storm I was stuck in on Thursday.
Seventy meters. I repeat it under my breath as we reach the granite base, early sunlight warming the back of my neck. A few teams are already set up, helmets clipped, ropes threaded, anchors checked twice. One of the safety leads marks arrivals on a clipboard.
Clem and I are next.
Her hand squeezes mine when I slow. “We’ve got this.”
My stomach is tight, but she’s right.
We’d practiced enough that my body knew the rhythm before my brain could catch up. Knots by the fire until my fingers cramped. This isn’t the unknown. It’s muscle memory.
I shrug off my pack and line everything up the way I always do: harness, rope coils, helmets, gloves.
Clem hums some half song under her breath as she steps into her harness, tugging the waist belt snug.
She doesn’t need me to check, but I do anyway, tightening a strap and tugging the buckle.
That’s the thing about us, we know when to let the other fuss.
“Good,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She grins. “Didn’t doubt it.”
When an anchor frees up, we move forward together. I thread the belay device, clip the carabiner, say the steps out loud even though she already knows them. Saying it steadies me.
The safety tech checks our systems and tugs the ropes. “You’re good to go.”
“I’ll be down there waiting for you. Remember, knees bent, feet shoulder-width, don’t choke your brake hand.”
“I know,” she says with a smile.
I clip in, pinch the rope, back toward the edge until my heels hang in the air. My pulse quickens, but the system holds. It always does.
“On rappel,” I call.
“Hastings, you’re clear,” the tech shouts back.
I lean back into the rope, weight shifting until the wall takes me. Trust the anchor. Trust the system. Push off. The rope feeds smoothly through the device, brake hand steady at my hip. My eyes scan the rock for edges that could cut, my feet finding solid holds on the granite.
The ground comes up faster than I expect, even though I keep the pace controlled. My boots touch down firmly. I ease the rope through, lock it off, then unclip quickly, swinging clear so she’ll have space at the bottom. Walkie in hand, I call up, “Off rappel. Your turn, Fox.”
Her reply crackles back almost immediately, “On rappel!”
I tilt my head, eyes locked upward, every nerve strung tight until I see her clear the lip. Exactly the way we drilled it. I don’t breathe until her boots hit dirt.
She pops off the wall at the last meter, landing lightly, and before she can steady herself, I’m there. I catch her around the waist, hauling her in against me.
“Talk about falling for a guy,” she jokes, and I kiss her. “Okay, we’ll have time for this later. Let’s go fucking win this thing.” I nod, grab her hand, and we take off.
Without another word, we sprint toward the two wooden poles that have a Wild Trails banner bridged between them. For a heartbeat, it’s just us, no crowd, only our lungs burning in sync, her hand hot in mine.
We cross the finish line hand in hand.
For months, I’ve lived with the weight of what I couldn’t fix, every mistake, every silence, every summit I chased instead of showing up. Guilt made a home in my chest and whispered that I wasn’t worthy of anything steady. I thought the mountain was penance, proof that I could carry pain alone.
But she’s here. Still here.
And her hand hasn’t let go of mine once.
And when I look at her, I see the same fight written across her. The girl who thought she had to buy her way out of emptiness, who thought shopping could fill the ache inside. She’s here too, stripped bare by this climb, and her eyes say it clearer than words—she’s not running anymore.
We made it this far.
Not by outrunning what hurt, but by turning toward it together.
I feel something uncoil in me, something I’ve been holding too tight. I’m not afraid of what comes next. Because it isn’t about conquering the mountain or outracing ghosts. It’s about choosing her. Every time.
“We did it,” I whisper as I haul her into my arms. My fleece on her smells like river and sun and her.
She presses her face into my neck, breath hot and shaking, and when she looks up, her smile is wet and certain.
“We did,” she says.
The officials are shouting, the scoreboard flickering, but none of it matters anymore.
I kiss her again. “Let’s go find everyone.”
And together, we do.