Page 67 of Missed Steps

I must have crashed hard. Did I dream the conversation between Mark and Chris? No, though I’d barely been awake. What else did they talk about? It’s not like I have deep, dark secrets, but there have certainly been a number of embarrassing moments that Chris could let slip.

“I heard you gossiping about me,” I say.

Mark’s smile fades, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Chris told me about what happened when you were small. Now I understand why he acts more like your dad than a brother.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” I muse.

“And I understand why you adore him.”

“Adore is a strong word.”

“And accurate,” Mark points out.

I don’t dispute it.

An aromatic scent fills the air; my stomach rumbles in response. “Is that salmon?”

“Yes.”

I sit up and swing my legs over the end of the couch. I half-stand and yelp, weight falling to the side.

“Whoa.” Mark catches me. “You okay?”

I sit down, my heart racing after being jolted to alertness. “Forgot about my leg,” I say.

“Forgot?” Mark repeats, amused, as he retrieves my prosthetic.

“It happens at least once a week. I’ll wake up, half asleep, and only remember after trying to walk. I actuallyfeellike my leg is there and I’m moving it when it happens,” I explain. Mark attaches my prosthetic as I talk.

“I read about that,” Mark says. He stands up and offers me his hands. I take them and walk with him to the kitchen island. Chris stands at the stove frying fish fillets with three plates heaped with vegetables and rice set up near him. “Do you ever get phantom pains?”

“Yeah. A few times a day.”

Mark startles. “A few times aday?”

“It’s not bad,” I explain. “Usually a few seconds of shooting pain and then it’s over. That’s normal,” I add when I see his worried expression.

Chris serves the dinner, and Mark’s expression brightens as he takes a bite. I grin. “Good, right?”

“Amazing,” Mark agrees wholeheartedly.

As we eat, my gaze drifts to Chris. “Do you know what your plans are?”

“For?” Chris asks.

“Work.”

“I’m having other experienced climbers take over my planned hikes for the upcoming year, and I’ll take over the workshops and training camps they were scheduled for. At most, I’ll need to be away for a week or two for training camps,” Chris tells me. “There’s one next week. I’ll have to fly out for five days.”

I don’t tell him to go on the hikes or insist I’ll be fine if he goes. No matter what I say, I know he won’t go on any month-long climbs. And he’ll probably never take out the months-long guided trip he did this summer ever again, despite how much money that netted him.

“I’ll train you on the accounts during the summer,” he continues. “If you still want the job. And have you ready to go full-time by the end of the season.”

A part of me relaxes at his statement—hearing that my future plans are already factored into his gives me a strong sense of security. My friends from school used to talk about striking out on their own, but nothing would make me happier than working with Chris.

“What is it you plan to do, Mark?” Chris asks, gaze sliding from me to him.

“I have a job lined up for when I graduate.”