Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

rights. So I get kitted out and locate a group heading up into the wild highlands. It starts out as a fairly relaxing day hike out of Cerro Providencia, but quickly gets more challenging as we begin the ascent. I’m no novice at climbing, having summited Everest twice, so this climb is child’s play compared to that.  
    For me, the climb proves to be too easy, not really providing any thrills, aside from the one time my grip on my ice axe slips and I have to scramble for stability while hanging onto the edge of a cliff using my crampons and a second axe.  
    As we hike back to town at the end of the day I know I need more of a challenge. I’m approaching my thirtieth birthday and I want to feel something, a buzz, anything that will give me the adrenaline rush I crave.
    The next day I hitch a ride north to Copiaopaó and find a group with a decent guide who are headed up the Ojos del Salado volcano. None of my companions on this climb speak much English, and I only speak a smattering of Spanish—which I don’t think these fellas speak, either. I used a translator to make the arrangements, and they made it clear I had to keep up or be left behind; they weren’t going to haul my ass up the peak or wait around for me.  
    Fine by me. I’ve never asked for help. I’ve never accepted a handout in anything, with the single, notable exception of living off dear old Dad’s money. I’m pretty goddamned sure I can handle this volcano. Of course, I didn’t say that to them. I just agreed, signed the waiver, smiled, and bought a couple rounds.  
    As we finally approach the marshalling area I look around…and up. This is what I’m talking about. It’s barren land—wind-swept and cold. A true wasteland—no greenery, no vegetation. The highlands are an endless wilderness strewn with rocks and boulders.  
    Merely getting close to the base camp area of the volcano was an adventure requiring an experienced, daring driver who provided us with some intense white-knuckle moments. But then we arrive and the mammoth volcano—the second highest peak on the continent—rises like a massive monument to an unknown god. Made principally of volcanic stone and rock, Ojos del Salado reaches into the dizzying blue bowl of the sky.  
    We quickly grab our packs and listen to some last-minute instructions delivered in broken English. I’m positioned in the middle of the hiking group, three ahead of me, three behind. The translator is immediately behind me. Everyone is chattering to each other, shouting jokes back and forth, laughing, and scampering up the incline like fucking mountain goats. I don’t understand a damn word they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter. I’m focused on the climb, focused on the sky above, and focused on this massive mountain under me, above me, and all around me. I’m focused on soaking up and storing each moment.
    Remembering each moment.  
    Savoring each second.
    Live every minute as if it could be the last, because for me, it very well might be.
    I am so focused on the climb, head down, putting one foot in front of the other, that I almost miss the moment when we summit.  
    Which is a fucking joke, of course, because that’s the theme of my whole goddamn life: Focus on the journey, don’t think about the destination.
    I feel a slap on my shoulder. “Hey. American. Look up.”  
    I straighten, and look around. “Jesus Christ.”  
    “Is very something, no?” He’s a little younger than me, German, maybe, with shaggy black hair, a sparse beard, burly, wearing expensive gear and lived-in boots.
    I can only nod and soak in the vista of the world spread out around me, a wide endless expanse of rock and sky. Even at daylight, this high up, the stars are visible in their countless millions. Breathing is hard in the thin air, and my heart is knocking so hard I have to sit down.  
    I could cry.  
    This is it.
    This is why I live.
    My chest is tight, my heart—the metaphysical one—is full. I’m