She leaned back on the mat and looked up at the ceiling, legs crossed and hands behind her head.
“But living in a van together, climbing together full-time...you can imagine how hard that would be for any couple. At the beginning, the fighting was even worse. We’d go to bed so mad at each other. We’d wake up and keep fighting and our days would just be ruined. So one day, we agreed to never go to bed mad. We always worked it out before going to sleep, no matter what, and it made things so much better, because we’d start each day happy and loving each other. We found that there’s nothing that can’t be resolved with full honesty, with ourselves and with each other.” She closed her eyes. “It’s what saved our relationship.”
“I see.” My mom had said something similar to me before—she’d told me to never leave the house angry. Whoops. “So...where’s your husband now? Is he still chasing crags?”
“He died.” She smiled, but when her eyes opened, they were full of tears. “He was such a good climber, he regularly sent 5.13.” She paused, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “But he got careless and just...rappelled off the end of his rope.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” I awkwardly patted her leg, unsure of what else to say or do. This was the most about herself that Lina had ever told me.
“So again,” she said, sniffling and wiping her tears away to give me a meaningful look. “What are you doing here?”
◆◆◆
I arrived home to find no one there. I called Anna’s name. No response.
I walked past the ruined area rug. The mug was still on its side on the floor, as if the fight had just happened instead of over two hours ago. I strode past and into the bedroom. Froze.
Her stuff was gone, just vanished into thin air. She must have packed up fast and called a friend to help her take her things away. I could guess which friend, and the thought made my jaw clench.
I tried to call her, but she didn’t pick up. I left her a voicemail, then texted her too, asking her to call me back. After ten minutes of no response, of aimlessly pacing around in my apartment, I tried calling Cassie.
“Hey, what’s going on?” she asked, after picking up on the second ring.
“Did you talk to Anna today?”
“Anna? No. We were supposed to do our weekly Sunday call but she didn’t pick up. What happened?”
I told her about our fight.
“Shit. I don’t...she didn’t call me. I’ll try to reach her again. I’ll let her know that you were looking for her.”
“Thanks, Cassie.” I hung up, just in case Anna was trying to call me.
I sat down on the couch and stared at my phone.
I shouldn’t have lost my temper.
I shouldn’t have said those things to her.
I shouldn’t have left. Or let her leave.
Never again.
With deep sighs of regret, I put my head into my hands and waited.
After a few agonizing minutes, I stood and prepared to drive over to her old place to look for her.
But before I could, the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I accepted the call and said, “Hello? Anna?”
Five minutes later, I was out the door and headed to my car.
◆◆◆
My dad was a good man. Had been.
My mother had found him face down on the floor and unresponsive. The paramedics declared him dead on the way to the hospital, likely from a heart attack. I’d pushed past the speed limit and driven over as fast as I could to meet her at the hospital an hour and a half later, where I found her so much more broken and fragile than cancer had ever made her. We held each other and cried for him, for ourselves, and for each other. We cried until our eyes were swollen and it physically hurt to cry anymore.
I took her home and tucked her into bed, then sat in the living room downstairs.
Then I thought about nothing and everything...but of course, mostly about my dad.
My dad really had been a good man.
He’d lived an unglamorous life as an HVAC technician. It was hard, physical work, and he often came home with gashes and bruises on his hands. Once, he’d even come home with a black eye because a coworker had accidentally dropped a monkey wrench off a ladder and onto his face. He’d been angry at first, but when he told the story to my mom over dinner, he just laughed at his terrible luck. While his temper had always been quick to flare (a trait that I’d inherited), he was so good natured, and he forgave so easily. A good man.
And he’d always been there for me. Despite having to drive around to installations, he’d always made time to come and watch my tennis matches. Looking back behind the baseline and meeting his eyes, finding his steady encouragement, always calmed me before each serve. He’d trained me too, on the weekends, when he could’ve been at home relaxing. My dad was always good at sports, no matter what sport it was, so even though we’d started playing at the
