Climbing Her Fake Girlfriend's Grip

The gym’s fluorescent lights still burned behind Riley’s eyelids as she shoved open the door to her apartment, the latch clicking shut like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Sweat plastered her sports bra to her ribs and ran in thin rivers down the groove of her spine. Jenna followed close, shoulders squared under the same damp chalk-dust haze, her laughing breath still hot from the wall. Three months of this—fake dates, fake hand-holding at family dinners, fake soft smiles whenever anyone asked how long they’d been together—and tonight the air between them felt thick enough to choke on.

Riley dropped her chalk bag by the door and kicked off her climbing shoes. The rubber squeaked against hardwood. “You almost dropped me on that last dyno,” she said, voice rough from yelling beta across the bouldering cave. She peeled the tape from her split fingertips, watching Jenna’s reflection in the dark window.

Jenna’s grin flashed white. “Almost. But I didn’t. Your ass looked too good hanging there—figured I’d keep you vertical a little longer.” She yanked her own shoes off and flexed her toes against the floorboards. At twenty-eight she carried the easy confidence of someone who argued million-dollar contracts before lunch and still found time to crush V7s after. Riley, four years younger and built like a coiled spring from teaching newbies how not to die on plastic holds, felt the familiar pull low in her belly every time Jenna looked at her like that.

They’d been doing the fake-girlfriend dance since Jenna’s little sister—Riley’s best friend since college—had begged them to shut the family up about “settling down.” It had started as a joke over beers. Now Riley couldn’t stop picturing Jenna’s mouth whenever she belayed her. She scrubbed a hand through her short damp hair and headed for the kitchenette, pouring two glasses of water that neither of them really wanted.

Jenna leaned against the counter, hip cocked, tank top dark with sweat between her breasts. “You’re quiet. Usually you trash-talk me for at least ten minutes after I flash your project.”

Riley handed over the glass. Their fingers brushed. Static. “Maybe I’m saving my breath.”