Page 22 of Wild Like Us

And I’m on the way to Montana. To Yellowstone Country.

My dad and my mom have no clue.

It’s fucking killing me.

I don’t think I’ve ever lied to them. Growing up, they’ve been my best friends and being “rebellious” feels like a suffocatingly tight swimsuit. It crushes my ribcage. Cuts off my circulation.

To circumvent the guilt that gnaws, I’ve been busying myself with rechecking supplies and mapping out the first few climbs. With winter approaching, I need to knockout several major climbs in Yellowstone before bad weather hinders what I can do.

Tablet on my lap, I scroll through some of the popular climbing forums and focus on various areas around the Yellowstone region, including south Montana (aka Yellowstone Country), Wyoming, possibly Grand Teton.

If I filled my dad in on this trip, I think he’d be at least glad I’m not hitting the most difficult climb first. California—Yosemite National Park—that pit stop is dead-last. Possibly evenoffmy radar. The Yosemite Triple Crown, three cliff faces, were the hardest climbs my dad ever free-soloed, and I can’t imagine climbing those behemoths without safety gear.

I know what I’m capable of with the time I’m given to practice. Yosemite—I’d needyearsto master those rock walls. Research is a big part of climbs, and I’m not going into this blindfolded.

I’m also not going to Montana alone.

Banks mans the wheel and chews on a toothpick, while Akara messes with the air vents in the passenger seat. They’re broken…again. The Jeep is old, and normally, I’d just roll down the windows, but paparazzi are still trailing us.

I’m used to the muggy, too-warm feeling from winters at indoor heated pools, but Banks and Akara are noticeably sweating.

“Hey, Kits,” I call up to him. “I swear if you rub the dashboard and whisper to the vent,you’re not a piece of crap,three times, cool air will come out.”

Akara glances back. “You’re fucking with me?”

Banks nearly smiles. “Sounds legit to me.”

“It’s workedalmostevery time,” I assure.

“I’ve been with you almostevery timeand I’ve never seen you do that,” Akara refutes.

“It was in private,” I say. “She’s shy.”

“What’d you name her?” Banks asks me. It’s not the first time we’ve all ridden in the Jeep together, but lately, she hasn’t had as much attention as family gossip.

“Wait for it,” Akara tells Banks with a wiseass smile. Kits was there when my sister and I coined the nickname. Plus, he’s heard me use it.

“I named herBooger—said in love,” I add quickly while they both break into laughter at my green Booger Baby.

I find the nearest thing to throw, a pair of old dirty hiking socks and I chuck one at Banks and one at Akara.

They laugh more.

“She’s going to break down if you keep making fun of her,” I point out.

Banks strokes the wheel. “I’ll fix her real good.” He’s touching Booger more than he’s ever touched me. The thought sinks my stomach.

Fuck that—my car isnotmore attractive than me. But Booger is hot old metal.

Akara scoots closer to the vent. “You’re not a piece of crap.” He rubs the dashboard, trying to cage laughter. “You’re not a piece of crap. You’re not a piece of crap.”

We wait in silence.

And then cold air blows out.

I smile. “Told you. She just needs some reassuring.” I’m about to return to my climbing research, but Akara looks disturbed.

“How did that happen?” he asks Banks, probably since Banks is a skilled mechanic and understands cars.