But now Richard has asked to see me. I’ve had a feeling this was coming ever since he texted from Atlanta about a week ago. He was in his hotel room after the memorial service, feeling grief-stricken and alone, even though his wife was there. At least it seemed like she was. I didn’t specifically ask, and Richard didn’t specifically say anything—don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s a surprisingly effective strategy for making inconvenient realities—like a devoted wife—disappear.
Avoiding Richard’s wife wasn’t the only reason I skipped the service. My being there would have been presumptuous. And I could tell everyone else felt the same way. At first, there was a single group chat after the climb, which included the memorial service details and other specifics about the accident’s aftermath—whether there would be an investigation, what True Altitude had to say. But soon, the climb chat petered out, the final messages suggesting that it was being picked up elsewhere, probably on their college group chat, which had existed long before they met me. I understood, but it still made me a little sad. I didn’t belong in their shared grief, but that left me all alone with mine.
“Richard just wants to talk,” I continue after we stop laughing. “He’s upset about the memorial service. He needs a friend.”
“A friend, right.” Noah nods thoughtfully. “Listen, you know I’ve got my opinions about Richard and—”
“You haven’t met him.”
“You’re right, I haven’t. But I have met you, Frankie.”
“So you know better than anyone how unusual this is for me.”
“But maybe that’s a sign you should, you know, inquire about why?”
“You’re saying it’s not real.” My voice catches in a way that seems to prove his point.
“Your feelings are real,” he says. “Of course they are. Real and important. I just don’t know if he’s worthy of them.” He squeezesmy hand until I look at him. “I love you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
His eyes are so soft and sympathetic, it makes it even harder to breathe. Noah knows the extent of my damage, the depth of my carved-out core. And so he makes me feel safe and understood, but also ashamed.
“I think it might be too late for that.”
***
When my bag finally tumbled out of the luggage carousel in Tanzania, I exhaled. Relief followed by a little dread. Losing my luggage had been my very last exit ramp. As I stood there waiting, I had decided that I wouldn’t be able to climb this mountain if I didn’t have my sleeping bag, or hiking shoes, or Gore-Tex this or poly-insulate that. A not-so-tiny part of me was looking for a way out. This wasn’t unusual. It was the same right before I embarked on another marathon. I loved the sign-up and the training and I loved the being done. But right before, I panicked a little. And while I grew up hiking the mountains of Colorado, the highest altitude I’d ever been was just shy of eleven thousand feet and that had been skiing in Vail with a rich friend’s parents. Summiting a nineteen-thousand-foot peak was another story entirely.
But here I was, about to do exactly that.
And the timing did feel perfect. After so many years of working my ass off, I wassucceeding,at least in terms of my reputation. Last year I’d won an award from the Pollock-Krasner Foundation that guaranteed my first major solo show—my paintings would be going up soon at the Pearson Gallery. If it went well, I’d finally make some real money. Enough to put me in an entirely new echelon. That was the thing about being a visual artist—you could be a “hot up-and-comer” for a very long time, long enough to fizzle out before you ever arrived.
And so, even though there were no guarantees about what would happen with the show, I’d decided to bet on myself and blow the last of my savings account to pay for the trip to Africa. Itwas time to clip that ill-gotten safety net. And what better way to do it than by climbing a mountain,thismountain?
Everyone hiked in Leadville, Colorado, where I grew up. And my dad had been an excellent climber once upon a time—rock, ice, mountains. He’d always dreamed of tackling the seven summits before he traded in his adventure cape for life as an accountant with a new family in Denver. And so I’d quietly decided long ago to steal his dream of the seven summits and make it my own someday. I’d even gotten a small, poorly done tattoo of the number seven below my clavicle that had never really looked like a seven. Of course, climbing the seven summits was easier said than done as a struggling painter in mountainless New York City, even one with a secret savings account.
But then along came the show. And this suddenly felt likethemoment. Spend the last of the blood money, climb one of the seven summits—killing so many angry birds all with a single stone.
All my friends—also devout nontraditionalists—applauded the idea of me making a fresh start, especially if it meant I’d stop dating so many young, aimless men. As for thehugemountain–climbing part? They thought that was crazy. My friends were not exactly athletes. I, on the other hand, on top of my early hiking, had been running ever since—well, ever since that night. It started as a coping strategy, but these days it was just a great way to clear my head. Thalia had been the most vocal about her concerns, which extended beyond the physical. What if I was stuck with people I couldn’t stand?
I reached forward to grab my bright-orange duffel bag, forgetting how heavy it was with all my gear, much of which I had no idea how to use. Luckily a VIP porter took pity on me, helped haul it off the belt, and gestured toward the carts. It took a couple more minutes to make my way through customs, and then the automatic doors snapped open, depositing me out into the humid Tanzanian night. I rolled my cart toward a circle of guides holding signs, searching for my name orTrue Altitudeon one of them.
“Ms. Callahan!” a friendly voice, slightly accented, called out just then. When I turned, a short, sturdy Black man dressed head to toe in khaki was already reaching for my backpack. “You made it. We were beginning to worry.” He took the handle of the luggage cart and started to roll it away, cutting through the crowd as I hustled to follow. “I’m Bakari. The others are right over here.”
As we passed through a narrow break in the bodies, I saw a group of four men, and only men, up ahead. Mid-fifties, at least. The tallest one had his back to me.
“Here is the rest of the group,” Bakari said, indisputably motioning toward them. “Right up ahead. They’ve been waiting for you.”
“This is…everyone?” I chirped, aiming for cheerful but leapfrogging directly to shrill.
“Yes, you are just five,” Bakari continued. “A smaller group is better.”
But they’re all men!I wanted to yell, because clearly he’d overlooked this detail. It wasn’t that I was intimidated. If nothing else, the art world taught you how to deal with being the only woman in any room. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. Besides, I’d been prepared for all couples. Now I wasn’t just the weird single lady—I was theonlylady.
“Okay, great!” I managed, forcing a smile.
The man with his back to me turned. In his leather hat, perfectly tailored khakis, and a loose-fitting white linen shirt, he had an aging Indiana Jones aura. But it was his blue eyes that were transfixing. All I could do was stare back at him.
This was a possibility I had definitely not accounted for.
