Chapter 25 #2
Caleb bites his lip and looks away with a sigh. Maybe that was a bridge too far. I’m talking about his beloved uncle, who took him in when no one else would. Caleb’s version of Sonny is the one that makes sense, and is the same one I thought I knew.
“None of us are perfect, Eden. And the Sonny you knew and the mom you knew weren’t fiction. They were just flawed.”
I walk toward the mural, noticing new details.
The smile lines around his generous grin, his right ear that flared to the side, and the freckle on his temple.
Sonny’s warmth jumps from the surface. Mom always knew how to capture a person in paint.
I haven’t asked her about not being able to paint anymore.
That, too, would hit too close to my own pain.
It’s another land mine we can’t approach.
“I know it. I just don’t feel it yet.”
I hear shuffling beside me, and then Caleb’s arms are around my waist. He pulls me to him, and I’m hit with a wall of heat. “Yet,” he says. “I like that.” He kisses the top of my head before leading me back onto the trail. “C’mon. This isn’t what we came for.”
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” I follow him around the volleyball court and past the archery range.
“Yes.”
But he doesn’t, and I groan. I understand Caleb better now; he’s not the asshole I initially thought him to be. But he’s still a brat.
Finally, he comes to a stop by a small storage shed made of weather-beaten wood and coated with dust and spiderwebs.
“I may like you now, but I still don’t want to get stuck in there with you.”
He inserts a key into the padlock before swinging the door open. I lean against an adjacent tree, worried that he brought me here on a work errand. What a way to spend our stolen time together, completing his to-do list while I’m stalked by difficult memories.
He crouches in the shed and hoists a box into his arms, nodding for me to follow, and then it clicks, a long-stuck key sliding into place.
“No,” I say when he drops the box beside the tallest tower of the ropes course.
“No?” Caleb crosses his arms. “You told me you always wanted to try it.”
Admittedly, this is sweet of him to remember, but also presumptuous. “When I was a child, yes. Now, I’m an adult who prefers her feet to be on solid ground.”
“Hmm.” He untangles the harnesses, setting two aside. “I seem to remember you saying you regretted spending your life afraid of falling.”
His gaze lands on mine like a laser. How dare he use my words against me. Maybe I was right all along—maybe he is an asshole.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I wave aimlessly over the equipment as he riffles through it. I’m not even sure what I mean by the question.
“I do, in fact, know what I’m doing. I have a certificate to prove it.” He places a helmet on my head, testing the fit before swapping it out for another.
“Why now?” I ask, stalling some more.
“I have a crew coming out on Monday to add another zip line to the course. It’s going to be closed for construction until summer.”
“Isn’t this course designed for children? Will it even support me?” Despite my protest, I secure the helmet when he finds the right size.
He smirks and places the harness on the ground in front of me. “It hasn’t collapsed under my weight yet.”
“‘Yet’ is not a comforting word, Caleb.”
“It’s up to you, of course. I just thought you’d like it. You know, because of your quest to rewire your brain with better memories and all those chances you weren’t able to take before.”
Why does he have to be thoughtful and considerate?
I glance at the tower, noting the narrow metal footholds along the side.
I squint against the sun to spot the top.
Looking up makes me dizzy, and the punch of blue sky encircled by towering trees is disorienting.
I imagine making the vertical climb with nothing but a wire to prevent my free fall.
I remember standing in this exact spot, summer after summer, cheering on my cabinmates as they faced their fears and returned to earth triumphant.
They’d rehash their terror as if it were the highlight of the season, often overtaken by emotion with tears or laughter.
As a kid, I sat in the audience in real life so I was safe to soar across center stage.
And as an adult, I watched my life unfold from the balcony because I was too fragile to fly at all.
“You promise to keep me alive?” I ask.
“Cross my heart.” He mimes the movement.
I close my eyes and exhale all the air from my lungs. “Can we start on the low course?”
I’m startled by the press of his mouth and open my eyes to find him studying me, his head cocked to the side to avoid my helmet.
“Anything you want.” His scent catches in the wind and wraps itself around me, and he grabs my hand to lead me to the start of the course.
The sun is bright overhead when we ascend and cross the footbridge, a series of wooden planks stretched across rope.
I pause in the center of the bridge, steadying myself and taking in a lungful of pine-scented air.
There are two handrails, and Caleb and I are both connected to the top wire via harness, but we’re so high that my pulse is pounding in my skull.
I look away from the forest floor—where tree needles lay inches thick, and ecosystems thrive underneath them.
Instead, I focus straight ahead, trusting that my feet know how to carry me forward on a tightrope that feels as thin as thread.
“Are you okay?” Caleb says from behind me.
“I’m good.”
From this height, I spot the outline of the town center, the high school campus, and the summit of Colibri Peak. I see a palette of wildflowers, communities of trees, and fresh air. There’s no latent sadness as I survey the landscape.
When we descend the wooden stairs at the end of the line, we head to the final obstacle. But I have to do this one alone. Caleb will be on the ground with the belay to lower me after I jump. He straps me in and goes over the instructions.
“You sure?” he asks as I take the first step up the metal footholds.
“You still plan to keep me alive?” My voice is winded as I head up.
“I got you.”
When I start the climb, I know he’s watching me, even though my concentration is on scaling this tower.
My hands are raw, and my thighs are burning, but I ascend, slow and steady.
I’m aware of the way my right Achilles tendon is tighter than my left and how I have to rotate my foot for more stability, but I know how to adapt, shift my weight, and usher myself onward.
When I reach the last rung, I hesitate, fearful for the first time since Caleb coaxed me into this delayed rite of passage.
“You’ve got it.” Caleb’s voice is far away.
I can’t visualize how to reach the summit without letting go of the handrail.
“You have to get your foot onto the last step,” he yells.
But that doesn’t make any sense because that’s where my hand is.
Until now, I’ve known what to grab on to next.
I’ll have to let go and hoist myself onto the platform without anything to anchor me.
I can’t look down at Caleb for reassurance or instructions.
And I’m too scared to look up at the cramped pedestal above me.
The closer I get, the more I doubt I can balance on it.
“Eden, you can do this. It’s just a few more inches, and you’ll be there.”
Why are the last steps always the hardest?
I reach up, searching blindly for something to grab on to, and my fingertips curl around a small notch in the wood.
I hold my breath and release my other hand, finding purchase on the wood.
With one swift pull, I get my shoulders over the threshold, and then my ribs, before I find the last rung with my foot and crawl onto the platform on all fours.
Caleb is cheering, but I can’t process what he’s saying. The air is thinner, the sky is closer, and the earth feels like a memory. I stand, registering the lax tension of the belay and the stability of my feet on the platform. There’s no spot in the distance to focus on—the horizon is limitless.
“When you’re ready, just jump to me,” Caleb says.
I summon my courage to peek over the ledge, and Caleb is barely a spec. I laugh, deep from my gut. “There’s nothing ‘just’ about this,” I yell.
“Sometimes the impossible is the easiest thing to do. Once you jump, gravity will do the work for you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“But I’ve got you.”
I jiggle my knees so they won’t lock and flex my hands, which are clammy and tingly. “Are you claiming to be a stronger force than gravity, Caleb Connell?”
His laugh must catch on the wind, because it shoots straight into my bloodstream like a stiff drink. “I guess you’ll have to jump to find out.”
I don’t count. I don’t bargain with myself. I don’t ask more questions. Instead, I lean forward, take one bounding step, and soar off the platform.
Caleb hoots and hollers, cheering as he belays me. For several suspended seconds, I am weightless and free, like I belong to this sacred landscape I’d spurned for so long.
I catch sight of Caleb, grinning as he receives me. My feet are barely on the ground before he catches me, lifting me into his arms with an infectious laugh.
“You did it,” he says. “You were fearless out there. You didn’t even hesitate.”
My vision is clouded by tears, born of the crisp wind and maybe something more earnest—the elation of leaping, the joy of finding Caleb on the descent. He brushes them away with his thumbs, studying me.
“I knew you had me,” I say.
Caleb cups my face in both hands and drags his lips across mine.
He’s all hard planes and sharp angles, but his posture softens the moment his mouth presses into mine, instantly melting into the kiss.
And this is the Caleb I like best, the one whose guard dissolves, whose softness cannot be contained.
“How long do we have?” he mumbles into my mouth.
Adelaide had a full day planned—facials and pedicures followed by a late lunch at her house. I decide I love Adelaide and her meddling.
“Hours,” I say. “How fast can you sprint back to the truck?”
Caleb rewards me with a relieved groan. “I’m taking you back to my place.”