I shake my head. “I’m pumpy.” I turn over my forearms. They’re swollen from the hour of climbing; my veins stick out like a mountain range on a topographical map. “I’m going to switch to bouldering till I burn out. Will you call out holds?”

Jane rolls his eyes. “You know you don’t need me.”

He’s right. I rarely ask for input on routes. But I brought him to get him out of his head. I let my lip wobble.

He smiles. “Fine. You big baby.”

We take off our harnesses and stash them in the cubbies in the benches flanking the bouldering area, then take a seat to wait for a space to free up. A buzzing rattles the bench. Jane’s hand darts to his back pocket. I cross my fingers it’s something from Charles, but my watch vibrates with an incoming message a second later. It’s Andrea, to both me and Jane: an invitation to cover the door at Jazz Night. Jane’s shoulders fall.

He slides his phone back into his pocket. “Mind if I take it?”

“She’d rather have you, anyway,” I say, standing as a problem on the wall opens up. I grimace as I approach. Yeesh. The route starts with a brutal overhang. But the footholds are placed well; success will rest on whether my grip can last. I sit down at the base, flexing my fingers with an unsettling crack.

Behind me, Jane lets out a gasp.

“Have a little faith,” I complain, and place my feet, reaching for the well-worn holds above eye level. Instinctively, I angle my body in and pull myself toward the wall—sweetbabyjesus, my forearms are on fire!

With a grunt, I get my body clear of the inversion. Yes! I secure my feet, pushing myself up higher—

“Sorry I was too chicken-shit to call,” says Jane, his voice dull.

“What’s that?” My hand trembles with the effort as I reach for the jug hold above me.

“The message I received from Charles,” he says, barely audible.

“Wait, what?” Cold prickles up my spine. “Charles?”

“He says he’s sorry.” Jane’s voice is choked. “And that it’s over.”

The two words jolt through me. “What?” My hands give out and I drop from the wall, landing in a stumbling crouch. I shake it off and jog over the padded floor to Jane.

He holds up his phone, showing me the screen. “What do I do?”

“I—I don’t know. What—” I take the offered phone and read the text in full: I’m sorry. It’s over. Things are too complicated right now. Sorry I was too chicken-shit to call.

My heart gives a painful squeeze. Jane’s breathing has gone shallow. He shakes his head, not blinking. “What . . . what did I do?” His voice is tortuously thin.

I hand back the phone. “Jane, no—”