I’m acutely aware of the cameras focused on us from down by Geoff at the bottom of the rocks. I’m wearing a mic, and have been since Emily and I agreed to this plan to have therapy administered by Monroe—who I’m a little worried is going to torture us in retribution for making her wear a helmet.
Everyone in this camp (and soon the world) knows my business. Refusing to talk to Geoff isn’t going to change that. So much for keeping my brand intact.
“I don’t know,” I say. “She’s apparently been unhappy with me for a while.”
Admitting this to Geoff is bad enough, and we’ve been climbing buddies for a long time, even before he started working on the show. Our friendship is pretty simple. We talk about equipment. We talk about mountains we’d love to climb. We talk about all the dumb (and awesome) things we’ve done together over the years. We talk about the six month period in which Geoff had a “kick-ass soul patch” (his description) and how it looked like a ball of brown lint stuck to his face (my description) and whether it contributed to him hooking up with a cuteTV weather girl (which I maintain it actively hindered).
We don’t talk about our feelings or our relationship problems. I feel like I’m crossing a line, or maybe it’s Rich dragging me across.
“That sucks, man,” Geoff says. “You guys going to be all right?”
I finish hauling the crash pad up and Geoff scales the wall to help me drag it to the base of the next one. I’m grateful that he’s not asking me for details. I know he wants me to be happy, but he’s not going to push for anything beyond wanting to know I’m okay.
I don’t think therapy is going to be the same.
“I hope so,” I say. “I think we have some stuff to work out.”
We get the crash pad in place, and Geoff claps me on the shoulder. “You guys are awesome together. You’ll figure it out.”
I only wish I had confidence that was the case.
We’re finished with the crash pads by the time Emily arrives with the climbing shoes and helmets and chalk bags, the Not-Wives and their handlers coming up behind. I wouldn’t usually wear a helmet for a climb this easy, but I’m going to wear one today to cut down on the complaining.
I join Emily and help her sort out the shoes. Mine are easy to tell apart from the others, because my feet are a size fifteen. I have to special order them, and I do it in bulk, because I go through a new pair every couple of months.
Monroe, I notice, has her dog in his bag on her shoulder, and I give her a look.Tiberius might or might not get hurt falling onto a crash pad, but I’m still going to put my foot down about toy dogs climbing in hand bags.
Fortunately, Monroe passes her dog off to one of the handlers.The dog immediately starts to growl and whine, and I’m a little concerned the handler is going to get her fingers bitten off, but she hurries away, hopefully to find a crate for the dog to cower in until Monroe gets back.
The women all turn up their noses at the shoes—Calista refuses to put them on at all, saying that her Versace slippers are more “ergonomic,” and besides which, her chiropractor would never approve of this new fitness regimen and she intends to lie out on one of the “tanning beds.”
She’s referring, I realize, to the crash pads.
“Those are crash pads,” I say to her, and she eyes me like she’s questioning why I exist, and if I must insist on existing, why I’m daring to talk to her. “In case someone falls. If you lie out on one, they’re going to fall on you.”
“Oh, I’ll just have one of the masseurs pull it into the sun.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I need to get my vitamin D.”
“No,” I tell her. “If you pull it away from the wall and someone falls, then they’re falling and thereis no crash pad. You can’t do that.”
She blinks at me with the air of someone who has never been told no before. I think this might actually be the case.
“It’s fine,” Emily says, and I startle to realize she’s standing only a step behind me. “We have an extra crash pad in the truck. We’ll have one brought out that you can use as a . . . tanning bed.”
She says this with a lot less scorn than I would have managed, and I want to argue that my crash pads are safety equipment and not beach towels and no one will be lying out on them. But the show gave us money for equipment, and ruining a crash pad or two is well within our budget, so instead I just give Emily a look and walk away.
If Calista doesn’t want to climb and all she needs is a crash pad to keep her happy, I guess that’s one less problem for me.Though I swatted a couple of gnats while we were setting up, so I’m not sure if “lying out” right here is going to end the way she wants it to.
Emily gives me a nervous look in return, and I hope she doesn’t think I’m annoyed withher. God, isthatwhat she means by a disconnect? I believe her that I haven’t been responding to her like I should, but I’m not exactly sure what’s an example of that and what isn’t. Before last night, our relationship seemed so easy, and now I’m questioning everything. Ihaveto, because while I’ve always assumed Emily would break up with me eventually, I keep remembering her expression when she said she couldn’t do this anymore.
That’s what it looks like, my nightmare coming true. It wasn’t the way I thought it would be, but I feel like I just barely talked her out of it this time, and this might be my very last chance.
Apparently Rich and his team expected Calista not to climb, because it’s hard to divide five women into pairs. Both Destyny and Genesis somehow look shocked when it’s announced that Monroe will be climbing with Kate, leaving them to climb together. I can’t imagine how they didn’t see this coming, but the cameras all focus on them, catching the horrified reaction shots they will no doubt be using in show promos for weeks.
While the cameras are distracted, I turn back toward Emily, thinking I’ll clarify why I was looking unhappily at her just a minute ago, but instead, Kate grabs my arm.
I try not to be too rough when I pull away. Not that I brush off every woman who casually touches me, but I have enough problems right now.
“Hey, Kate,” I say. “Do your shoes fit all right? You want them to be snug but not tight, but you don’t want them sliding around on your—”
