9. Hartley
CHAPTER 9
HARTLEY
Standings after leg 3, Argentina
1. Alaska Girls (Stephanie and Marcail)
2. A Team (Mitchell and Kennedy)
3. Wise Guys (DeAngelo and Big Mike)
4. Old Bay (Haylee and Kadeeja)
5. Kick Asspen (Treva and Boyd)
6. Bombshells (Gianna and Alexis)
7. Us
8. Niles (Padma and Bobby)
9. Loudmouths (Oscar and Janessa)
“ N o way! Hartley, did you know that?”
I look up from my notebook and find a handful of wide-eyed faces staring back at me. It’s the beginning of leg four and also the first equalizer, meaning no matter how many hours ahead the Alaska Girls were in Argentina, we all have the same itinerary to Queenstown, New Zealand. We’re currently at a layover in Sydney and I’ve been drawing to pass the time while everyone else has apparently been gossiping.
“Know what?” I say to Kennedy.
“That your ex-boyfriend”—she points to Court, who’s sitting a few chairs down from me—“is from the same town that Raquel Ezra and Sienna Diaz live in.” Now she’s pointing to the tarmac, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the direction of Tennessee.
“Court never mentioned it when we were dating.”
“No, this happened after you two broke up. I just figured you would’ve made the connection.”
Suppressing a wry smile, I say, “I’ve pretty much spent the last six years actively not thinking about Court. And who are Raquel Ezra and Sienna Diaz?”
Jaw hanging open, Kennedy grips her skinny metal armrests and leans forward. “Are you kidding me? They’re only two of the most successful, amazing, gorgeous actresses of our time.”
Ah, that explains it. “I don’t watch much television.”
“They’re movie stars , and I’m their biggest fan. I’ve literally seen every film they’ve been in at least fourteen times.” To Court, she adds, “Do they hang out in town? Can we come visit you after the show airs?”
“Easy there, tiger.” Mitchell gently eases her back into the uncomfortable airport chair. “Acting like a crazed fan isn’t going to earn you any invitations to Green Valley.”
They move on to a game of six degrees of separation while I go back to drawing in my notebook. I’m just glad they’re not talking about what happened last night. Or maybe it was two nights ago now that we’ve crossed the international date line?
Anyway, when we got to the airport in Argentina, the Bombshells and the Alaska Girls were swooning over Court’s display of muscular mayhem (their words, not mine) which invited a few questions from the teams that weren’t out with us. I gave a six-second rundown of the events and assured them it wasn’t worth any more of their time because I’d already moved on from it.
Except that was only partly true.
Once we were back at the hotel that night, I’d given myself an hour to sit with my anger and indignation because nothing about what that asshole did was okay. But since then, my thoughts keep drifting back to Court. Why did he feel the need to defend me? How far would he have gone if the security team hadn’t intervened? Would he have done the same thing if it’d been Kadeeja or Haylee or the Alaska Girls? Thirty-six hours of traveling later, I’m still no closer to an answer.
“That’s really good.”
This time when I look up from my notebook, I get an eyeful of Gianna’s midriff. The Bombshells made a big announcement about taking a “sink bath” in the restroom and apparently that involves perfume, fresh makeup, and thirty percent less clothing. But in their defense, they do look and smell amazing.
“Court said you were an artist, but I didn’t realize how talented you are,” she continues.
“For real.” Alexis comes around to my left for a better look at my close-up sketch of Court’s fists gripping the asshole’s shirt. “The details are absolutely incredible.”
What’s happening right now? This is the most they’ve spoken to me in... ohhh . Of course. If I’d been drawing anything else, they would’ve walked right past me. Still, I don’t want to be rude, so I smile and say, “Thank you.”
“For what it’s worth, he couldn’t take his eyes off you that night,” Alexis says.
“He reminded me of a sad puppy. You know, the cute ones you find on the side of the road and end up taking home?” Gianna adds.
And just like that, thirty-six hours of confusion transform into clarity.
“You’re more than welcome to take him home. I don’t think he’d mind.”
They exchange a glance and then Alexis says, “We got the vibe that he’s not over you.”
Now I snort laugh. “He was over me the night he paraded his new girlfriend in front of me, and he recently told Paul I need a personality transplant, so...” I let my sentence die off as I rip the drawing from my notebook and hold it out to Alexis. “Thanks for the conversation though. It’s been enlightening.”
“How so?”
“I’ve had a few things on my mind and you’ve both really helped with that.”
Specifically, how Court coming to my defense was all an act. I mean, how else is he supposed to look like an emotionally wounded knight in shining armor in front of the Bombshells if there’s no dragon to slay?
“Oh. Well in that case, you’re welcome.”
They give me a quick wave and go back to their seats (you guessed it, right next to Court). He smiles when they flank him and then I hear Kennedy ask whether they know Sienna Diaz and Raquel Ezra.
As they launch into a lively discussion about visiting Green Valley, I flip to a fresh page in my notebook and start sketching a knight sitting in an airport chair surrounded by heart-eyed fair maidens.
Meeting an Olympic gold medalist in speed skating? Ten out of ten, would absolutely recommend. Going against her Olympic-gold-medal-winning time in a five-hundred-meter race? That’s a different story.
After landing in Queenstown, we went to the Basket of Dreams for our first clue and the Below Zero Ice Bar for our second. From there, we chose “Speed” over “Spice” and got our asses handed to us at the ice rink. The only upside was watching the A Team struggle too. They’ve dominated much of the race so far, so seeing them lose to the Alaska Girls was extremely satisfying. So was watching Court eat it when we first got on the ice, but I digress.
A gust of cold air greets us when we head back outside. We open our clue and find a solo challenge.
Who can Hackett at the Playground?
“Hackett,” Court says. “Is that what people in New Zealand call an ax or a hack saw? Maybe we’re building playground equipment?”
“ We’re not doing anything. I already told you in Argentina that the next solo was mine.” I unseal the card, which says:
Go to the AJ Hackett Bungy Center and board a bus to Nevis Playground,
where you will complete a 134-meter bungy jump to receive your next clue.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no.
I read the clue again, but this time my brain translates it to:
Go to the AJ Hackett Bungy Center and board a bus to Nevis Playground ,
where you will hurl yourself off a stationary object and plunge head-first to the ground. If your tiny rubber band doesn’t break and you survive, you will receive your next clue.
An invisible vise squeezes my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe or think or remain upright. To avoid footage of me passing out on the sidewalk, I zombie-walk to a nearby bench and collapse onto it.
Sighing, Court follows and crosses his arms. “What are you doing?”
“Trying not to have a heart attack.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t do this.”
“Weren’t you the one who made a big deal about doing the next solo challenge?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think there’d be any bungee jumping this season since they did it last season in Africa. I don’t even know how much life insurance I have. And how do they get bodies back to the US? Would they embalm me first or send me in one of those refrigerated boxes? And why does New Zealand spell bungee differently?”
Court wholly ignores my panic in favor of checking his watch and counting on his fingers. “We started with an equalizer, and we only know for sure that we’re ahead of the Niles and Old Bay. We can’t afford a three-hour penalty if we switch, nor can we afford to waste more time while you relax on a bench.”
“Clearly, I’m not relaxing,” I say, sweeping a sweaty hand over my borderline-hyperventilating body.
“But you are wasting time. You can fall apart in a taxi on the way there.” He hoists me up by my backpack strap and practically drags me to the curb.
“Your compassion and ability to encourage others are astounding. If your career at the chop shop doesn’t pan out, you should get into motivational speaking.”
In case you think I’m acting like a baby, allow me to present the following:
The personal information card they give you at check-in is called a “customer toe tag.”
The bus driver played a song called “We’re All Going to Die” on our drive up to the platform.
Said platform (you know, the one in which I’ll jump to my death) is an enclosed metal-and-glass pod that has been SUSPENDED BETWEEN TWO MOUNTAINS in the Southern Alps. As in, I’ll be dangling over the Nevis River while I’m connected to something that’s also dangling over the river.
Oh! And the only way out to the platform is via a cable car, which means...
So.
Much.
Dangling.
AND.
They don’t even give you a helmet. Probably because literally nothing will save me, so why waste money on extraneous equipment?
“Hartley!” Kennedy shouts as her cable car approaches the last piece of solid ground I’ll ever stand on. A staff member unlocks the gate and unclips their carabiners from the safety cable so Kennedy, Mitchell, and their crew can exit.
“That was amazing ! I wish I had time to do it again.”
Her cheeks are pink and her bright white smile takes up the entire lower half of her face, but knowing she didn’t die is little comfort.
“Are you so excited?”
I laugh (a little maniacally if I’m being honest) while Court nudges me forward, where I learn that instead of standing on a solid floor, I get to ride out to the jump pod on a metal grate with guardrails.
Who is AJ Hackett and why is he this cruel?
Kennedy gives me a thumbs up and a far-too enthusiastic, “You’re going to have a blast!” as the cable car starts its return to New Zealand’s highest bungee jump, AKA: the world’s third-highest bungee jump, AKA: what in the actual hell am I doing right now? A fresh wave of terror rolls through me, forcing my hands to white-knuckle the frigid guardrail while I focus on not puking.
“Damn, this is a beautiful view,” Court says.
I wouldn’t know because I closed my eyes as soon as we started moving.
“Hey.” He pokes my side. “You’re missing out.”
“I’ll see it plenty enough on the way down, I’m sure.”
Did I mention I’ll freefall for eight-point-five seconds? SO MUCH FUN .
“On the bright side, we’re officially ahead of three teams. The Bombshells just got to the cable car platform.”
“I’m about to jump to my death, Courtney. There is no bright side.” Especially considering they’ll feel bad he doesn’t have a teammate, so he’ll join their team and they’ll win the race, become a throuple, and live happily ever after.
Or maybe that’s the bright side he’s referring to, in which case I’ll haunt his ass out of sheer spite.
“Are you really that scared?”
My eyes pop open so I can glare at him because seriously? “You’re just now figuring that out?”
He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. “I kind of thought you were being dramatic.”
Un-freaking-believable. “Contrary to what your idiotic pea brain thinks, not everything I do is about you. This”—I make a trembly circle around my head and chest—“is about me and how I feel. Which, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is really fucking terrified .”
My tirade is just gaining steam when we reach the jump pod. An employee opens the gate and unclips us, but Court holds me in place.
“If you want to take the time penalty and go back, I’ll respect your decision. But I also know you can do this.”
Hot tears prick my eyes as I shake my head. “I don’t think I can,” I whisper.
He lifts my chin and cups my face in his hands. The gesture is oddly calming, and I feel myself pull in a deep breath.
“I know you, Hartley. You don’t half-ass anything. Even if we took the penalty and still ended up winning the race, you’d kick yourself for the rest of your life for backing out of this jump. Nod if I’m right.”
I let out a watery laugh when he moves my head up and down for me.
“How about this. When you get back on the platform after you’re done, I’ll let you kick me in the balls.”
I wait for the “just joking,” but it never comes.
“You’re serious? I can kick you in the balls?”
“Yep.”
I turn to our crew. “Did you get that on video?”
Our camera guy nods while subconsciously covering his groin.
“I accept your offer, but we need to make this official. Raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
His lips hint at a bemused smile, but he does as he’s told .
“I, Court Mueller
Do solemnly swear
To let Hartley Billings
Kick me in the balls after she bungee jumps.
So help me New Zealand.”
The fact that I’m genuinely smiling by the end of our makeshift oath gives me hope I can do other impossible things like surviving a one-hundred-thirty-four-meter freefall into a canyon or even just another two and a half weeks on Xtreme Quest with Court.
Before I lose my nerve, I lead the way into the jump pod. Court and our camera crew stand behind a railing along the back wall while I’m guided to a chair in the front that resembles something I’d see in a dentist’s office. A chair, mind you, that’s all of three feet from the edge. If I lean to my right, I’d fall over and roll right out of this damn pod.
Why do people think this is fun?
An employee who looks like he’s barely out of high school kneels at the base of the chair to fasten padded straps around my ankles. “What’s your name, champ?”
“Hartley.”
“Nice to meet you, Hartley. I’m Oliver and I promise you’re in good hands, so don’t worry. Is this your first time jumping?”
I will absolutely worry because I’m in the hands of a child. “Yes, this will be my first and last jump.”
“Then I guess we’d better make it worthwhile.” His lips curve into a flirtatious smirk that’s about ten years too late and one hundred thirty-four meters too high.
“As long as you make it to where I’ll survive, I’ll be happy.”
“What are you talking about? This is going to be the best sixty seconds of your life.”
Not even anxiety can keep me from looking at Court and saying, “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Excuse me?” One brow rises slowly, and his jaw kicks out to the side. “You were supposed to wait until after you jump to kick me in the balls.”
I shrug while maintaining my death grip on the sides of the chair. “We’ll count this one as a practice kick.”
“Only if you admit that you owe me twenty-seven dollars and twelve cents. Otherwise, I rescind my previous offer.”
“You can’t rescind your offer. You already took the Oath of Ball Kicking.”
“And you broke the terms of our agreement by kicking early. I think the real question now is whether your one opportunity to inflict pain on my most prized physical possession is worth twenty-seven dollars and twelve cents.” He leans forward on the railing. “How badly do you want to hurt me?”
“Very,” I say before my brain even registers the question. “Extremely. It will be my honor and pleasure.”
“I accept payment through most money-transferring apps. Also, your platform awaits.” He lifts a hand and gestures to the ledge beside me.
“I still need to get hooked—oh.” I glance at the umbilical cord of elastic connected to my harness and GoPro camera attached to my wrist. When did that happen?
“You ready, Hartley?” Oliver asks.
I wiggle my feet. “Are you sure everything’s attached properly? It’s not too loose?”
“It’s perfect. Up you go.” He extends a hand to help me off the chair before shuffling me to the platform. “See that strap at your ankle?”
I nod.
“On your second bounce up, I want you to pull it. This will release your legs?—”
“ Release my legs ? Isn’t that the opposite of what I need to happen?”
“Relax. You’re still connected at your harness.” He reaches around to my front and pats the system of cords and clips. “Releasing your ankle strap allows you to sit upright on the way back to the platform.”
“So I won’t die if I pull it?”
“No.”
“What if I don’t pull it? Will I die then?”
“Your blood will rush to your head, but you won’t die.”
“How can someone so young sound so sure about the fate of someone else’s life?”
He laughs. “I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been jumping since I was sixteen.”
Oh.
“What I want you to do now is find a target way out there in the distance and keep your eyes on that. I’ll count you down. When I get to one, you’ll take a big jump out toward that target.”
“Don’t push me.”
“I won’t.”
“Because if you do, I’ll kick you in the balls too.”
He laughs again. “You have my word. Okay, arms out like you’re getting ready to fly...three, two, one.”
My feet don’t move because my lungs aren’t working properly and now I’m going to pass out on the platform and fall over the edge and I won’t be able to pull the strap?—
“No worries, champ. Let’s try that again. Arms up high and...three, two, one.”
“I’m going to die. I’ll fall out of this harness and my body will splatter into tiny pieces in the river. They won’t find all of my parts, so my parents will get a refrigerated box that’s only half full, which is way worse than getting a box that’s completely full. I can’t...I can’t do this.”
I can’t, I can’t, I ? —
“Hartley,” Court says, except this time his voice is coming from right behind me. I carefully turn my head and see Oliver standing off to the side. When did they switch places?
“If you’re here to push me over, I’m going to kick you in the balls twice.”
“I’m going to touch you, but I promise I won’t push you.” Before I can protest, he brings his hands to my neck and kneads a path from the base of my head down to my shoulders and back up again.
I don’t mean to sigh like a woman who hasn’t been touched in six years, it’s just that my lungs and I aren’t on the same page right now, okay? But regardless of how good this feels, it doesn’t change the truth.
“There’s no way I can do this. We’re gonna have to take the penalty.”
“Forget about jumping for a minute.”
“Kind of impossible given my current view.”
“Then close your eyes.”
“Fine. Now what?”
“Do you remember the night you described how your muse works?”
My bedroom door opens and a pair of upside-down, denim-clad legs come into view.
“Let’s go grab some din—uh, what are you doing? Is this a new technique?”
“It started out as a way to get a different perspective. Now it’s just a state of surrender.”
“I see.” Court joins me on the mattress and mirrors my position, resting his feet at the head of the bed and dangling his head over the bottom edge. “And how long have you been lying like this?”
“Long enough to know there’s no hope for my future. I’ll be the only person with an art degree who can’t actually create art.” I wave my hand dramatically at the blank canvas on my easel. It’s supposed to be a painting of me and my muse, except that bitch took a permanent vacation and didn’t bother telling me. “Maybe I’ll submit this and call it Washed Up .”
“I don’t think it’s time to throw in the towel just yet.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’ve been staring at this damn thing for two weeks and it’s due tomorrow.”
“Okay. First things first. The rest of your body needs blood.” He flips over to pull me up from the foot of the bed and I blink against the subsequent wave of lightheadedness. “Secondly—and don’t shoot the messenger here,” he adds, holding a finger up, “I maintain my stance from our discussion last week: you’re overthinking it and you need to turn your brain off.”
“My brain is all I have left, and even that’s failing me because I haven’t thought of a single way to get my muse back. Is halfway through your senior year too late to change majors? Am I gonna have to repay my scholarship?”
“I don’t know, Ella.”
My jaw drops in mock offense because Court’s sister is crazy talented on stage. “Is that your polite way of telling me I’m being dramatic?”
“All I’m saying is that she’d be proud.”
“Good. Maybe she can get me an acting job instead.”
“You don’t need an acting job; you just have to figure out what your muse looks like.”
“Which is exactly what I’ve been doing for literally fourteen days, but it’s not working.”
“Why not?”
I flop backward onto my mattress and splay out my arms like a helpless starfish. “Because she isn’t a figure, she’s a feeling.”
“. . . So, your muse is an emotion?”
“Not exactly. It’s more of a bubble or a spark or a percolation that lives right here.” I pinch my fingers together and touch the base of my sternum. “A lot of artists say they get inspiration from their muse. The two other people in my group are like that. KeriAnn did an ethereal-looking fairy that’s whispering in her ear, and Pranesh did one with the top of his head open like a box and his muse popping out. But mine gives me a feeling that creates the idea for the art. It’s the energy behind the inspiration if that makes sense.”
“And you can’t do this project because you don’t have that spark of energy to inspire the idea?”
I nod. “I know I could assign random characteristics to my muse and paint that, but it wouldn’t be an accurate representation. As dumb as it sounds, I’d rather turn in nothing than turn in something that’s fake or wrong.”
“Wanting to stay true to your heart is authentic and admirable, not dumb. ”
Gah! If I wasn’t already lying on my bed, his sincerity and validation would’ve sent me swooning to the floor. I’m about to tell him this when he ruins the moment by saying,
“Also, you’re kind of an idiot.”
“Excuse me?” My jaw drops for the second time as I yank the pillow from behind my head and playfully whack him with it. “And here I was thinking you were being so sweet.”
He laughs and tosses the pillow aside, then pulls me up and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re incredible and talented and brilliant and adorable.”
“This is better. Feel free to keep going.”
“But you’re kind of an idiot because you’ve already solved your problem and you don’t even realize it.”
I squint up at him. “Is this a psych major mind trick? I’m pretty sure all I did was explain my problem.”
“Allow me to summarize our conversation.” He extends his thumb and says, “Your assignment is to paint you with your muse, but you can’t find her and that’s giving you artist’s block.” He adds a finger. “Your muse is a feeling that lives in your chest and feeds your inspiration.” Another finger. “You don’t want to personify her because she’s not a figure that directly communicates with you.”
Well, I can’t say he wasn’t listening to me. But still. “I’m not seeing the solution in there,” I say, pointing to his hand.
His beachy eyes sparkle with amusement when he ticks off his thumb and index finger. “Your assignment is to paint you with your muse, which is a feeling that lives in your chest and feeds your inspiration. Hartley, this doesn’t have to be a self-portrait. That’s where you’re overthinking it. Don’t limit yourself to what the people in your group did. All you need to do is paint this feeling coming out of you.”
“Yes, I remember that night, but I’m not sure what it has to do with bungee jumping,” I say.
“You were ready to completely give up because you were overthinking it, and instead, you ended up creating a piece that your professor said was what?”
Despite the fear coursing through me, my lips relax enough to form a small smile. “He said it was among the best he’d seen in his tenure at Central Tennessee State.” How has Court remembered something I’d completely forgotten about?
“And that’s how it relates to bungee jumping. You’ve proven you’re capable of doing incredible things when you turn your brain off. I have no doubt this will be another one of those things. You got this.” Court squeezes my shoulders one last time and swaps places with Oliver.
“Okay, Hartley. You ready?”
I shake my head with an emphatic, “Absolutely not,” but somehow manage to shuffle forward anyway.
“Remember, don’t think, just do. Now let’s give you one more countdown.”
Don’t think, just do.
Don’t think, just do.
“Three . . .”
Don’t think, just ? —
Ignoring Oliver, I push off the platform and swan dive down, down, down into the canyon, icy air whipping through my hair, heart slamming against my ribs, blood rushing to my head, throat running dry from screaming, still falling...but now I’m laughing and crying and embracing the unexpected peace that comes with this kind of freedom.
All too soon, the bungee tightens around my feet and waist, bringing me to one perfect second of stillness before slingshotting me back into the air like I’m on an upside-down roller coaster that’s gone off its track. Oliver was right—I didn’t die, and this is the best sixty seconds of my life.
It takes me a few tries to yank the ankle strap after the second bounce, but I finally manage and flip right-side up so I can enjoy the view while my circulation returns to normal.
I did it.
I fucking did it!
And to my surprise, I already want to do it again.
After my fourth bounce, my harness locks into a connector cable and I start the journey up.
Court double fist-pumps the air the second I’m back in the pod. “That’s what I’m talking about! You were awesome, Hart.”
“Thanks,” I say while trying to make sense of the weird fluttering in my chest. It’s not the surge of adrenaline I’ve been riding on—that’s still going strong—and it’s not the fear I felt earlier. This is more of a warm buzzing that’s oddly comforting. I don’t have much time to figure it out though, because Oliver makes quick work of unhooking me and then I’m on the receiving end of high fives from everyone in the pod.
Well, almost everyone .
In place of a high five, Court spreads his arms and legs and says, “I’m nothing if not a man of my word. Go ahead.”
I hear a few, “Oh shits,” and an under-the-breath, “You’re crazy,” from the cameraman, but Court doesn’t flinch.
In fact, he smiles. And it’s not a reverse psychology smile to make me feel bad so I don’t go through with it. This is his I’m-so-damn-proud-of-you smile, AKA: the one he gave me after I finished my muse painting. The warm buzzing grows extra warm and extra buzzy.
“I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but...” I step forward, snake my arms around Court’s waist, and lay my head on his chest. “Thank you.”
He remains frozen for several seconds, then clears his throat and returns my hug. “You’re welcome.”
“And you were right. I’m really glad I did it.”
He breathes out a soft laugh. “I’m glad you listened to me for once.”
I lean back and smile up at him. “Don’t go getting cocky. I don’t plan on making it a habit.”
“Duly noted. Now”—he briefly scans the jump pod—“can we get the hell out of here?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea if we want to maintain our...wait.” I tilt my head and study his face—the slight pinch of his brows, the tension on the corners of his lips now that he’s not smiling. “Are you scared of heights?”
“No, but as you’re aware, we’re in a tiny box that’s suspended about six hundred feet off the ground and that, I’ve learned, is terrifying.”
“So you’ve been pretending to be okay this whole time?” I’m flabbergasted. Bewildered. Astonished. You could knock me over with a literal feather right now.
He lifts a shoulder like it’s no big deal. “One of us had to believe in you. And besides, there’s no way you would’ve jumped if you knew I was scared too.”
Again, he’s right, but also . . . the whole time ?
“I . . . I don’t even know what to say. That’s . . .”
Any chance I had at finishing my sentence dies when Court’s gaze drops to my lips. It’s brief, a second at most, but effective given the influx of tingles climbing up my neck.
“We should probably head back,” he says.
I nod but weirdly make no effort to move.
Even weirder? Neither does he.
It’s not until Oliver unlocks the gate to the cable car that I come back to my senses and discover Court and I are still hugging .
Why are we still hugging?
And why am I suddenly reluctant to let go?
And most importantly, what the hell am I supposed to do now?
The only solution, I decide, is to downplay it by hugging everyone else.
That’s right—Oliver; the other two employees I didn’t actually speak to; our crew (which is a logistical nightmare on account of the equipment they’re holding)—they all get a hug because I’m an idiot who apparently can’t keep her hands to herself.
“Let’s get a quick confessional,” the sound guy says on the way back to solid ground.
The last thing I need is for all of America to hear a voiceover of my thoughts on what just happened, so I wave my hand nonchalantly at Court and say, “Go right ahead.”
“Nice try,” the sound guy says with a knowing smile that has me wondering what kind of footage is on his camera. “We’ll do an easy one, though. How do you feel now that the scary part of this challenge is over?”
I can’t help the dry laugh that escapes me, because jumping a hundred and thirty-four meters has nothing on the growing realization that I don’t think I hate Court anymore.
And I don’t think he hates me either.