"Come on. The sponsors put together a dinner tonight, and you're coming with me."
Austin had changed clothes. He looked at the two gear bags hanging from my hands and frowned.
"Leave the bags in the car. You can't show up to a dinner dressed like that. Run over to the mall next door and buy a dress to change into."
He held out a credit card.
I didn't take it.
"I'm not going. I need to get home and check next month's supply list."
His hand stopped midair, and his face darkened.
"Beatrice, today is the day I landed a top-tier sponsorship." He lowered his voice, fingers pinching the back of my neck. "Don't ruin the mood."
"If the dress thing is bothering you, I'll have my assistant buy you a couple tomorrow."
"Just don't pull a face in front of Julie. She'll read into it."
I lifted my head and looked at him.
His features were the same ones I knew so well, but they were full of an arrogance I couldn't make sense of anymore.
He was certain I was jealous. Certain that a few soothing words would settle me, and I'd go right back to being the most invisible stepping stone under his feet.
"I'm not bothered." I shouldered the gear bag, and the strap pressed its mark straight into my collarbone.
"I really do have to go back and check the list."
Because I was going to settle the part that belonged to me, once and for all.
Austin stared at me for a few seconds, then took the card back, his tone going cold again.
"Suit yourself. Go to bed early. Don't wait up for me."
He turned and walked toward Julie, and the two of them left the backstage area side by side.
I stood where I was and watched them disappear at the end of the hallway.
I lowered my head, took out my phone, and changed Austin's contact name from "My Safety Rope" back to "Austin."
It was already ten at night when I got back to the apartment.
I didn't turn on the main light, just left the little wall lamp by the entryway on.
I went out to the balcony, dropped Austin's gear bag on the floor, unzipped it, and started taking everything out, piece by piece.
The worn main climbing rope needed re-waxing. The tip of the ice axe needed filing down.
For the past three years, all of this had been my work.
Austin said his hands were for climbing and couldn't be dulled by rough chores like these.
I believed him.
From maintaining his gear, my hands grew thick with calluses, and in winter they split open in cracks that never washed clean.
I pulled out a frayed accessory cord.
Last year, in the blizzard at Camp Two, I'd used it to strap myself to two oxygen tanks and climbed up with them on my back.
My altitude sickness was severe then. Every step felt like knives carving up my lungs.
But I didn't dare stop, because Austin was up there waiting for the oxygen.
When I finally reached the camp and handed him the tanks, a sweetness rose in my throat, and I coughed up a mouthful of bloody spit.
Austin was busy treating a scrape on the back of Julie's hand right then. He didn't even turn around.
I looked at the cord, and without hesitating, I picked up the scissors and cut it through the middle.
The severed nylon fibers scattered across the floor, and I swept them into the trash along with the file.
At half past midnight, the lock turned.
Austin walked in reeking of alcohol.
He took off his coat, tossed it onto the couch, and pressed at the spot between his brows.
"Pour me a glass of warm water. Add some honey."
He gave the order out of habit, without even opening his eyes.
I was sitting on the rug, sorting through a cardboard box. I didn't move.
"Beatrice?" He opened his eyes, his tone carrying the lazy slur of drink and a thread of displeasure. "Didn't you hear me?"
He came over and saw what was in the box.
A few books on meteorology, an old thermos, and some changes of clothes.
"What are you fussing with in the middle of the night?" A note of irritation crept into his voice.
"Packing," I answered calmly.
Austin paused, then let out a soft scoff.
