Page 10 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
I stare at the screen, my muscles tensing. I can easily imagine her petite nose scrunched up in pity, her bleached brows knitted together—just like I can imagine that if I were to tell her I was going on a trip to Paris, or London, or Italy, she’d be expressing a very different sentiment.
Why not?I respond.It’s going to be fun.
And it will be. I’m determined to make it so, to prove her assumptions wrong. Even if it’s purely out of spite, I’m going to have the time of my life.
I’m still in an optimistic mood when my parents drop me off outside the LAX gates.
“Do you see them?” my mom asks, scanning the busy area. “They said to gather here—”
“That’s them, isn’t it?” I point at the small group standing off to the side of the bag drop counters. Even through the steady streams of wailing children and tired mothers holding neck pillows and younger guys who magically all look attractive in the airport lighting, I can spot the raised blue flag with the coiling dragon printed over it. It’s the same logo that’s included in the Journey to the East itinerary I’m holding and the introductory brochure my mom’s shoving into my other hand.
“Yes. Perfect. You better go join them.” She gives my shoulder a light squeeze and steps back. “Be good, okay?”
My mom has never been one for sentimentality. Whenever my school arranged for field trips or weeklong camps, she was always the first to say goodbye while the other parents clung to their children and wiped at their eyes.
The same cannot be said of my dad, who pulls me into a fierce hug.
“We’ll miss you,” he says. I’m so tall that he has to stretch his arms to fully reach over my shoulders, but I’ve never felt safer, more at ease. “If anything goes wrong, or if you get hurt, or if you feel sad, just call us, okay? Anytime. We’ll book the first ticket there and fetch you ourselves.”
“Okay, okay, stop it,” my mom tells him, clicking her tongue. “You’ll embarrass her in front of her new peers.”
“He won’t embarrass me,” I say firmly, hugging my dad back tighter. “I’ll miss you two as well.”
When I finally let go, there’s this weird, queasy sensation in my gut, like I’m already homesick. But I don’t let any of that show on my face. I just smile and walk away and wave until I can’t see them anymore.
Until I find myself standing in front of the group I’ll be spending the next two weeks with.
There are about a dozen people here, not including the stern, gray-haired man whose faded shirt is the same shade as the flag he’s holding. More girls than guys. All my age. I take inventory of each individual within seconds, something I’ve learned from photo shoots. When you’re always meeting strangers you’re about to work with in close proximity, you have to quickly pick up on the group dynamics, who you should stick to and who you shouldn’t, who might be rude to you and who you can ask for help.
Already, a trio of sporty girls have formed in the corner, talking loudly and giggling and adding one another’s numbers to their phones. One girl is in the middle of a serious call from the looks of it; she keeps frowning and flipping through her spiral notebook and reading out long series of numbers. Another girl stands a few feet away from them, with the bulkiest carry-on bag I’ve ever seen strapped to her back. It’s so massive, especially compared to her small, scrawny frame, that I’m concerned it’s going to crush her. She looks like she’s at risk of being crushed in general; her features are soft, timid, her dark brown hair tied loosely into a ponytail that spills over her cotton dress, and she keeps her gaze lowered to the floor.
Then I turn my attention to the boys. One of them instantly catches my eye and grins at me, as if we already know each other. He has good style, which I appreciate: an oversized coat and fitted white shirt underneath, even though it’s much too hot for layers. A nice face too, with a defined jaw and nose and the kind of light freckles makeup artists like to deliberately draw on. It’s a shame I’m kind of desensitized to pretty people by this point.
There’s only one unfortunate exception, but I’ve been doing my best to forget about him since the wedding.
“Oliver Kang,” the boy introduces himself, then shoots me an appraising look. “Have we met somewhere before? You seem … kind of familiar.”
I freeze as a few of the other students stop to listen. My mouth dries. He’s probably referring to a campaign, or maybe he’s stumbled across one of my photos on social media. But for the first time in a while, I’m surrounded by people who know nothing about my history, and I want to keep it that way. I could be anybody here. Not the weird kid in class, or the girl who was expelled from her old school, or the model.
“Is that meant to be a pickup line?” I ask mildly, feigning ignorance.
To my relief, he laughs, his expression clearing.Crisis averted.For now anyway. “No, sorry. I do have a few great pickup lines though. Would you like to hear one?”
“Sure,” I say, unfazed by the flirting. It’s what most of the bolder guys do in the beginning. They tell me I’m beautiful, and then they ask to hang out so they can show me off to their friends, and then they grow bored and come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m far more fascinating when I’m an enigma. So much more desirable when kept at a distance. If they’re nice enough, I’ll go along with it, but I no longer fall for it.
“Sure?” Oliver repeats. “Hey, where’s the enthusiasm? I’m about to blow your mind. You should know that my pickup lines have aone-hundred-percentsuccess rate.”
“Right,” I say.
“Okay, tough crowd, but I can work with it. Listen to this …”
But I’m not listening. Because in the same moment, someone behind me says: “Leah?”
I spin around, my chest seizing at the voice.
Cyrus is staring at me, a thick, blue-covered novel and boarding pass in his hand. He looks about as shocked as I feel, and after a few seconds of pure, incredulous silence, he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, like maybe there’s a speck of dust caught in his lashes that precisely resembles my shape.
The one exception.Life would be infinitely easier if I were also desensitized to his solemn, dark gaze and the visible cut of his collarbone, but my pulse rate skyrockets. The magical quality of the airport lighting seems to favor him more than anybody else.
