Page 17 of Free Fall #1

Sejin

“W hoa, dude, you look rough,” Gage says, appraising me before returning to mopping up a spill by the door to the patio. Caramel macchiato by the looks of the mess.

I run my hand over my unshaven face. I don’t have a ton of stubble, but what I do have just makes me look like there’s flecks of dirt on my chin and cheeks. No sexy morning growth for me, alas. Thanks, genetic lottery.

“Yeah, I had a long night.”

Gage snorts. “Uh-huh. Gay guys. Man, you dudes have it all.”

I quirk a brow, curious what he means by that given the fact that gay guys do not, in fact, ‘have it all’ in a lot of really important ways.

He flushes and says, “Never mind.”

“Girls have casual sex too, you know.”

Gage glances toward the counter where Celli is helping a customer. “I know.”

He’s mumbling now, indicating he’s not going to say much more than that.

Which is fine. I don’t really want to see him dig his own grave with me or with Celli.

I’m quite sure he’s getting plenty of action from her, but straight guys always think queers are getting sex right and left.

But Gage knows I’ve been hard up for months now, and all I can think is that he’s horny right this second and frustrated about it.

Given the fact that Celli is wearing a cute sundress that makes her look like a sweet snack, I guess I can’t blame him. Poor dude. She’ll probably blow him in the back, though, if she gets a chance. Those two can’t keep their hands off each other.

Speaking of the back, there’s a full-length mirror so employees can check their uniforms and once in front of it, I check myself out as I pull on my extra Papa Bear shirt.

I keep it stuffed in my locker in the break room for emergencies.

It’s old and faded and has a stain on the back from where Celli dumped a mug of strong Turkish brew on me by accident, but it’ll get the job done.

Wow. I do look rough. Gage wasn’t kidding.

My hair is up, per the health codes, but it’s heavy and still wet from the damn cold shower I’d scrambled through back at the campground. It can’t have been much warmer than the waterfall Dan had mentioned. I know my hair will still be damp when I let it down later. It takes forever to dry.

My jeans are the same ones I wore last night, and they smell just so-so. I hadn’t done anything strenuous in them before arriving at Dan’s van, but the kinda sexy, sweaty funk of the vehicle’s interior has permeated the fabric, making me feel like I still have Dan all over me.

My eyes shine in a delirious way, like I’m sleep deprived—I am—or hopped up on drugs—hopped up on sex, more like—and the dark circles under them aren’t very attractive.

I look exhausted, but I feel wide awake. Cold showers will do that. I’m surprisingly warm too, like the jolt of icy water woke up a furnace inside me, and now it’s in overdrive. My head, hands, and feet tingle with heat.

I’m just about to head out to start my shift thirty minutes late—thank goodness Pete isn’t in this morning—when my phone pings.

My heart jumps and a dizzy rush of anticipation hits me. Is it Dan?

Martin talked to his dad today.

No, it’s just Leenie.

He thinks Uncle Buck is lonely. Sejin, you really ought to call him.

I swallow hard. A flash of irritation rises in me, and I put the phone in my pocket without replying. My dad has my number, plus he’s the dad. He can call me if he’s lonely. And he will. Won’t he? The nagging doubt is almost as irritating as Leenie’s text.

When Mom was alive, my calls with Dad consisted of him picking up the phone, recognizing my voice, and saying, “Let me get your mother.” It was always Mom who called and texted, and I always talked to her about my life, plans, and problems. Dad has never participated in that kind of parenting.

He was always busy at the chemical company and too exhausted when he got home.

We don’t have a lot to say to each other.

Martin and his dad have a different relationship.

They’re tight. They talk every week. It’s just the way they are together and always have been.

When I was a kid, I thought it was weird how much time Martin and his dad spent with each other because Dad and I weren’t that close.

But now I know that different people have different relationships with their parents, and I don’t appreciate Leenie, or Martin, or Uncle Verny making me feel like there’s something wrong with mine.

Or to be specific, with the way Dad and I don’t talk.

But as I go about my day, chatting with Celli, fielding her intrusive questions about who I’m hooking up with, serving customers, bussing tables, cleaning messes, mopping, sweeping, pouring coffees, and checking supplies, Leenie’s texts linger in the back of my mind. If Uncle Verny says my dad is lonely…

What if he is? He and Mom were married for twenty-eight years before she died. She handled everything relationship-wise, including friendships and family. Dad doesn’t know how to do any of that.

During a break, I step outside to stare up at the vibrant blue sky and listen to the birds chirp. I tug my phone from my pocket and send a brief message.

Thinking about you, Dad. Want to talk soon?

A read receipt flashes almost immediately, but no bubble appears. I blink and swallow hard.

Okay then. I was right to begin with. Dad and I prefer to grieve alone.

A slew of hikers and climbers, some I recognize from prior seasons, assail the coffee shop, most of them filthy from early morning outings into Yosemite, but all of them jovial.

Their voices rise and fall as we fill drink order after drink order and put together plates for their food.

The way they rib each other makes me think about Dan.

He doesn’t seem the ribbing type. I wonder how he gets along with these guys and what they think of him.

As I work, I drift closer to where they’ve congregated, having pushed tables together in the coziest corner of the shop. They’ve shoved the overstuffed chair over too. Bussing tables, I can’t help but listen in on their conversation.

“Y’all heard that asshole’s back in town?”

“Fuck, yeah, Lowell told me about him. He’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Who? Dan McBride?”

“That’s the one.”

They have my full attention now, and I start clearing tables more slowly, making sure they are extra thoroughly wiped down, and the chairs too, so I can hear more.

“I heard he’s sending some of the hardest routes and planning something stupendous.”

“He’s one of those fools who climbs like he’s got no future.”

“Some are saying he’s the next Honnold.”

“Nah, no way. He’s just a lil’ nobody.”

A guy wearing a green beanie scoffs. “Nobody? Ha. He free soloed Moonlight Buttress.”

Raspberries of disbelief are blown by a few guys and one girl too. “Who said?”

“Peggy Jo.”

“Peggy Jo? The Peggy Jo?”

That perks my ears up as well. I know Peggy Jo, and she’s a total badass. Definitely deserving of being called The Peggy Jo, in my opinion.

“Yup.”

Everyone grows quiet at that until a girl asks, “Why’s she talking him up?”

“He’s her protégé, and he’ll never spray for himself, so she does it.” Green Beanie rolls his eyes. “Proud mama.”

“Proud mama? Who’s proud when their kid free solos recklessly like that? Jesus, that’s courting death.”

“It’s raw athleticism,” Green Beanie disagrees.

“It’s insane.”

“Yeah. Well. It’s both,” a different guy says.

I stop next to them with my tub of dirty dishes. “Sorry. I couldn’t help hearing what you were talking about. What’s free soloing? And why’s it insane?”

Voices overlap at first, but finally one stands out.

It comes from a tightly-wound girl with a wide mouth and intense blue eyes.

“It’s when you go up without ropes. No safety at all.

One single miscalculation, or the rock’s a little sweaty that day, or your toe slips…

” She drops her hand dramatically and slams it on the table. “Splat.”

I jolt, the dishes rattling in my tub. “Splat?”

My mouth goes dry. Dan’s body is a work of art. The idea of it flat as a pancake with the life blown out of it crushes me.

“Yup. Typically, there’s no surviving it,” a guy with a scraggly beard and chin-length blond hair says. “Depending on how high up a person is…well, let’s just say this guy free solos walls high enough that if he fell, he’d explode on impact.”

“Humpty dumpty climbs a great wall, humpty dumpty has a great fall,” the first girl sing-songs morbidly. “Well, you get the picture.”

“So, yeah, the guy’s a maniac,” another girl with a dark brown ponytail says.

I feel a little nauseous. “Y’all sound like you kind of hope he falls.”

They gasp like I’ve just slapped them in the face, and I guess in a way I did, but they all seem way too titillated by the idea of Dan’s possible “great fall,” and it makes my stomach churn.

“Nah, man, no way. We’d never want that. It’s just this guy’s an asshole.”

I think of Dan’s awkward bluntness and can’t help but agree.

He can be a dick, but then I think of his consideration in bed, the playful way he’d called me Doc, and how he’d grinned when I’d taken up his suggestion of role-play.

He’s a young man, no more than twenty-five, like me, and being an asshole is no excuse for the way they’ve been talking about the possible end of his fledgling life.

“He’s arrogant,” another guy says, this one with curly brown hair and pale, crystal-colored eyes. “He thinks he can outclimb legends like Alex Honnold—do you know who he is?”

I shake my head.

“Look him up. He’s the greatest alive at the moment, or one of them. Adam Ondra, Magnus Midtbo, and Tommy Caldwell are some others—”

“Dean Potter!” someone else chimes in.

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah, but this Dan asshole thinks he can outclimb Dean’s record climbs. I mean, he did already free solo Astroman, and he’s planning to take on a route on El Capitan, so—”

“El Capitan?” I squeak.