“I am.”
“And why is that?”
“Because if you fall, I’m going in after you.”
She remains silent, her mouth in a tight line, as she rights herself and reaches her other foot, which was still on the plank, out for the next ring. Her knuckles are white as a ghost as she grasps the top rope around her.
When her open foot finally does meet the next ring, it sways harder. Wind kicks up off the water. A spray of salt water hits her bare legs. But she maintains her balance.
I’ve almost breathed a sigh of relief when she misjudges the distance, and her foot lands half on the top edge, making the ring jerk violently from underneath her.
Her body pitches forward, making her scream in fear. Arms flail.
My pulse detonates.
“Lyla!” For half a second, I’m ready to fuck the rules when she manages to steady herself again—barely. Her breathing is ragged, her body shaking.
This is torture more for me than it is for her.
“I-I can’t see. Oh, god,” she yells in terror.
“I know, baby girl. But please listen to me. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Silence falls between us. The producers whisper behind me. I can feel cameras angling for the moment.
“This is bullshit,” she says under her breath.
“Just keep going. You’re almost at the end.”
Her head tilts slightly toward my voice. “How do I know you’re not screwing me over?”
What is she talking about? “If I was, why would I be trying to help you cross?”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Sweetheart, you think I’m an oblivious idiot?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Arguing with me will only keep you where you are. If you want off, you’re going to have to trust me to get you across.”
Perhaps seeing my point, she takes in a deep frustrated sigh. “Fine. Tell me what I need to do.”
Thank you.
“Move up slightly forward and then to the left. Your left foot should touch another ring. Make sure your foot is centered on the ring before you put your weight on it.”
She nods but slightly hesitates. “Tell me when my foot is hovering over it.”
“I will.”
Moving slowly forward, she does what I ask as I verbally guide her to where her foot is centered on the rope ring.
I give her my next set of instructions. “In your next three steps, you’ll come to a beam. It’s wide enough to plant your foot on it.”
“O-okay,” she replies.
She makes quick work toward the beam, gaining momentum. I let myself breathe a sigh of relief when the beam tilts under her weight.
Shit.
Lyla tries to balance herself but overcorrects.
