It’s not a disaster yet, not according to my three-strike disaster theory anyway. My theory, which I developed from listening to far too many disaster- and survival-themed podcasts, is that it’s never one, or even two, things that go wrong that cause a disaster, but a series of at least three failures or misfortunes that cascade. The Titanic disaster didn’t just happen because of a collision with a giant hunk of ice. There weren’t enough lifeboats for everyone on board, and there wasn’t another ship close enough to pick people up. The water was also fucking freezing. If any one of those strikes hadn’t occurred, the Titanic would not have had the number of casualties to inspire an entertaining ’90s flick.
I know I’m a scrappy survivor, and I will continue to be a survivor if I don’t panic before things turn into a complete three-strike disaster. In any situation that I get myself into, if Ican keep the number of misfortunes low, I think I have a pretty good chance of staying on the side of the living. Right now, strike one was choosing Dave as a climbing partner. Strike two was that Dave had dropped the rope. Strike three will be if I lose my grip and fall to my death. I’m not quite there yet. I just need to get him to pick the rope back up.
My fingers start to ache. I breathe through the pain. “I didn’t want to assume. I didn’t want to treat you like a piece of meat, you know? I value you as a climbing partner.”
Nothing.
“But now we’re on the same page, I think we should spend the rest of the day getting to know each other.”
Still nothing.
“Did you bring condoms?”
Dave clips the belayer device back into his harness. Ah, condoms. The magic word. The rope tightens so beautifully, tears come to my eyes.
“Ready to lower.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as hoarse to him as it does to me.
“Lowering.”
I rappel down, my legs shaking until they touch the flat ground. “Off belay.” I give myself two seconds to freak out, then I shut that off. It’s a victory. I’m winning this game. I am down to one strike now—I can still get out of this.
My flirty smile is ready when I turn toward Dave. “Ready to pack up our gear and head back?”
Dave’s jaw relaxes. He looks relieved. “Hell yes.”
My mind races as we clean up the staging area at the base of the canyon wall. I have to get away from this psycho. Physically overpowering him isn’t an option. I am strong; my arms frequently stir envy in the hearts of gym bros. Butunfortunately, so is Dave.
I’ll have to rely on cunning then. He already thinks of me as easy; I’ll use that.
I know how I came across, how Ialwayscome across. People can somehow sense that I’ve made mistakes in the past. I don’t know what it is—a vibe, an invisible mark on my skin, a scent. But no matter how much I try to present myself as a good girl, they somehow know. I shouldn’t be surprised that Travis said that about me—who would believe otherwise from a girl like me?
I don’t have too much time for self-flagellation. The walk back to our campground is very short. I have to make it seem like I’m not a flight risk.
“I can’t believe you let go of the rope like that,” I say, playfully bumping his shoulder with mine. “What would you have done if I’d fallen, huh?”
“You had nothing to worry about. You’re such a good climber,” he says confidently. “I just wanted you somewhere you couldn’t run away, like you did yesterday.”
Oh, fuck this guy. Dave has gone climbing with me twice. Also, still fucking dangerous, even if I am the best damn climber in the world.
An intense desire to commit homicide rushes through me, but I once again tamp it down. Disaster prevention is the goal here. I can make a little voodoo doll of Dave to stick pins into when I am well away from him. Not that I have ever sewn a voodoo doll before, but it could be a fun project.
We approach the campground where my van is parked and his tent is pitched. “I’m going to go wash up, and I’ll come out to you when I’m done wiping myself down,” I invent.
He places a hand on my shoulder. I resist the urge toshudder. “We don’t need to wash up,” he protests.
I raise my eyebrows at him and cover his hand with mine. “You don’t want us to wash up first? Ugh, but we’re so dusty and sweaty. I’m kinky, but not that kinky,” I tease. I take a step toward him and run my fingers along his pecs.See? I’m into this too. You can leave me alone for a few minutes, I try to press into his mind. “I wanted to give you a blowjob, but…”
His eyes darken. “Never mind. Let’s wash up.”
“Great. Give me a few minutes to get sexy?” I give him a wink, then turn toward my van.
Please go, please go. I mentally beg him. After a moment of hesitation, I hear him walk toward his tent. Thank god. My hands shake as I lock the van door behind me.
I dump my climbing gear into the passenger seat. “Well, time to go, Clunker.”
Clunker, my Ford Club Wagon camper van, is older than I am by about five years. She provides me with a home, a way to travel, and an occasionally terrifying crash course in vehicle maintenance and mechanics.
Clunker sputters with indignation as I turn the ignition. I pat the dashboard comfortingly and slowly edge out of my campsite. In my rearview mirror, I see Dave running out of the tent, shirtless, his jaw dropped in confusion, as I pull out of the campground and onto the freeway.
