Brady
I don’t thinkI’ve ever seen someone so petrified.
After a long walk up to the top of the waterfall, Addison has decided she can’t jump off. It doesn’t matter that a line of people have already gone before her, including a twelve-year-old. She’s refusing.
“No worries,” I tell her, as she bites her lip and peers over the edge. “Are you okay walking down by yourself? I want to jump, and then I’ll meet you along the trail.”
She looks at me in alarm. “I don’t want you to do it either,” she squeaks.
I laugh, and then when I see the look on her face, my laughter stops. “Addison, it’s going to be okay. I promise. See all those people down there?”
She looks over the edge at the people milling around.
“Yes.” Her voice is tiny.
“They all jumped already. And they’re fine.”
The sounds of another splash float up to us. We both watch as the jumper surfaces, laughing and hollering, and swims to the shallow part of the water.
“See?”
Addison nods. “Can we go together?” Her tone is hopeful.
Oh, man. This is going to make her say no. “It’s safest for one person at a time,” I admit, carefully leaving outwhyit’s safest for one person to jump at a time. There’s a window of space where it’s deep enough to jump, and that windowmightbe big enough for two people. But it also might not. Body size, force, distance, and probably other things factor in. Bottom line: no.
“Let’s just get in line. I’ll go first, and then you can decide. If you don’t want to, it’s not a big deal. I’ll meet you on the trail, okay?”
I grab her hand and pull her into line behind someone who’s probably thirty years older than us. He’s shirtless and ultra-tan, the kind that can only come from a bottle or a booth, with a coating of back hair.
Addison wraps her arms around me and buries her face into my chest. She makes an incoherent sound, like a little yell, into my skin.
She hides her face and I move us forward in line as a unit. When it’s my turn, I tap her on the shoulder. She looks up at me.
“I’m up, Addison. Unless you want to go first?”
She shakes her head back and forth quickly. I brush my lips across hers and turn around, locating the spot in the water where people have been jumping.
I let out a yell, maybe I’d even call it a holler, because it’s loud and full of vowels. For a brief time I’m suspended in the air, and then my body slips into the water. It’s colder than I anticipated, and I break the surface as quickly as possible to show Addison I’m okay.
I look up and see her face, tiny from this distance, peering over the edge at me. I wave a thumbs up in the air and turn sideways, treading water and watching Addison.
She’s going for it! She yells too, more of a terrified cry than a delighted whoop, and sails through the air. Changing directions, I swim back and watch her hit the surface and then pop back up. She draws in a loud breath and says, “It’s so cold.” She swims to me, and I pull her into my chest. We’re both kicking to stay afloat, so we can’t stay attached for long.
She swims first, probably to generate warmth, and I follow.
We get out and sit in the sun, letting the rays permeate our skin.
“Fun?” I ask, running my fingers up her arm.
“So fun,” she agrees, her body bouncing excitedly. “Can we do it again?”
I chuckle, planting a kiss on her wet hair. “My little adrenaline junkie.”
“Let’s go,” she urges, standing and pulling me along with her.
We walk to the top and jump again. And again. And again. Finally, I have to be the first to quit. It was only this morning that I hiked for hours, and my legs are beginning to scream at me.
Addison pretends to pout on the way back to my truck. “What are we going to do now?” she asks, pausing in the open passenger door.
