Read How Not To Fall for Free Online

difference.
    He calls down, “Little slack.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSlack. The rope doesn’t have to be taut.”
    â€œOh.”
    I loosen the rope, and he says, “Thanks. Climbing.”
    I catch it this time. “Climb on!”
    He gets to the top in no time and has barely broken a sweat.
    â€œIt’s your big moment!” he calls then, standing confidently on two invisible chips on the wall, fifty thousand feet above me. “I’m going to say, ‘Take,’ and let go, and you’re going to lower me, just as I did you.”
    â€œOkay,” I announce. “I’m ready.” I’m locking the rope down ferociously, my feet spread wide. I keep my eyes on him.
    â€œTake.”
    He lets go—and I fly off my feet with a “ Waugh! ” until I’m tethered between the top rope and the anchor rope. Now we’re both dangling from opposite ends of the rope, which I’m still holding locked down with both hands. He’s laughing. I am not. If I let go of the rope, I fall about two feet, and he falls more than twenty.
    â€œSorry!” I call.
    â€œNo problem,” he says, smiling down at me. “Next time, brace yourself, Bridget.”
    â€œWho’s Bridget?”
    â€œI’ll explain later. Just, when I say, ‘Take,’ next time, sit down in your harness the way you sit down up here. Got it?”
    â€œGot it.” I’m still dangling between the two ropes, holding on for dear life—my own and his.
    â€œOkay, let’s try again,” he says, and he gets back on the wall— how did he do that? —and climbs enough to let me down to the floor and put a little slack in the top rope.
    â€œRight. Ready?” he says. “Sit down in the harness.”
    I do, and the top rope tightens between us, almost pulling him off the wall. “Shit,” he calls. “Not yet.”
    â€œOh my god, sorry!” If I had a hand that wasn’t occupied with preventing Charles from a thirty-foot free fall, I would facepalm.
    â€œMy fault, I was unclear.” (It so wasn’t his fault.) “When I say, ‘Take,’ keep the rope locked down and sit down in the harness.”
    â€œOkay. Ready when you are.” Rope locked. Knees bent. Anchor rope as taut as I can get it.
    â€œOkay. Take.”
    As he lets go, I sit, and he only goes down a couple of feet before the rope catches him. And both my feet are still on the floor. My heart is beating just as fast as when I was at the top.
    â€œWell done,” he says. “Now when I say, ‘Lower,’ you say, ‘Lowering,’ and just gradually let out the rope. Ready?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLower.”
    â€œLowering.” I feed the rope out, keeping the pressure as steady as I can, though the nylon is burning against my already sensitive palms. It’s a little jerky, and I slip once, but he makes it down in one piece. When his feet touch the ground, I am elated. Dr. Charles Douglas put his life in my hands, and I did not kill him.
    â€œThis is fun,” I say.
    â€œIt is fun. Want to climb another wall?”
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    We each go about five times. By the end of that, my palms are red and throbbing, and my arms feel like they’ve been turned to rubber and then set on fire. I think this might also describe the smell emanating from my sweaty, disgusting armpits. About midway through, I took off my T-shirt—a pink one that reads NICE WORLD—LET’S MAKE IT WEIRDER that my mom got me when I graduated from high school—because it was literally soaked through, like somebody threw a bucket of warm water at my back.
    So I’m there in yoga pants, a sports bra, and a climbing harness, looking . . . well. I want to tell you I look powerful and sexy, like those women in commercials for exercise equipment, where sweat beads on their toned, tanned abs as if they’ve just been Rain-Xed, but actually I look