Page 30 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Shedidhave pretty shiny hair,” I recall. “You know, I actually kind of want that shampoo now …” But the rest of my sentence screeches to a halt when Cyrus bends down before me and reaches for my left heel, his hand hovering an inch away from my bare ankle.
“Let me help,” he offers, his face angled down, sweet and pliant, his lashes enviably long, his eyes so dark that someone less careful would go tumbling straight into their depths, never to resurface again.
I keep my feet rooted firmly to the ground. “That’s fine,” I try to say, but he’s already untying the delicate straps of my shoe with quick, nimble fingers, sliding it off slowly and bringing my ankle down to rest on his bent knee. He sucks in a quiet breath when he sees the angry red blisters marring my heel, the skin rubbed raw and a short walk away from bleeding. There’s hardly any inch of skin that isn’t damaged in some way, between the mottled purplish-yellow bruises and the dark lines from where the leather edges dug in too deep.
“I know you like your high heels, and I’m not here to get in the way of that,” he says, “but do you have to wear themeverywhereyou go? Don’t you own a single pair of comfortable walking shoes?”
“It’s a habit,” I tell him.
“But it’s hurting you,” he says.
As if you actually care.My pain has never meant anything to him before—it’s all just for show, it must be. But whatever his real motive is, he’s more committed to this act than I expected. I can only stare as Cyrus Sui peels the pink Band-Aid and presses it over my broken skin, smoothing it out with his thumb, his touch shockingly tender. And for just a few seconds, I remember him from the time before he ruined my life. When he was only a boy who’d picked up a wounded bird after it had slammed into our classroom window, cradling its tiny, shivering body in his palms, insisting on caring for it even when everyone else told him to let it go. I remember the look in his eyes, concern and fear and stubborn hope. I’d done my best to banish those memories, to destroy any evidence that suggested he might not be a wholly horrible person, because then it was too confusing. It made hating him too difficult.
My confusion only deepens alongside my suspicion when he helps me slide my shoe back on like it’s a glass slipper, chivalrous and fake as a fairy-tale prince. It’s ridiculous behavior. Borderline disturbing. Like a murderer stroking your hair after stabbing you in the back.
“What is this, Cyrus?” I demand, unable to take it anymore. “What are you trying to achieve here?”
He blinks up at me with perfect, pretend innocence. “Preventing you from limping the rest of the trip? You’re welcome, by the way.”
I grit my teeth. I have no idea how to talk to him when he’s like this.
Relief sings through my body when I see two familiar figures heading out of the market just ahead of us. Oliver is carrying a single, half-empty basket, which he swings about as he walks, with Daisy following after him, her head down and elbows squeezed in to move past the other shoppers.
“That’s all you got?” I ask Oliver, peering around him in the very unlikely event that he might be hiding a cart of vegetables behind his back. “Did you guys lose your money halfway through?”
“Don’t even,” Oliver says, setting their basket down. It’s so light that it doesn’t even make a sound when it lands on the concrete. “Daisy refuses to bargain—”
“I didn’t refuse,” Daisy protests feebly, her round face flushing.
“No, no, listen to this, guys,” Oliver goes on, holding up his hands as if getting ready for a dramatic reenactment. “I had just managed to convince this man to drop the price for the radish down by fifty cents—he’s literally about to hand the radish over to us—when Daisy pops her head in and tells him thatit’s okay.As in,it’s totally okayto sell the radish for the full price. Then sheapologizes. For volunteering to pay himmore money. Before she offers to pay himextra. Have we time-traveled straight to Christmas or something?” he asks, deadpan. “Because I don’t recall it being the season of giving.”
“He said that he had children,” Daisy mumbles.
“Didn’t you hear Wang Laoshi say that everything’s been prepaid for us? Plus, I’m sorry to break this to you, but a lot of people have children,” Oliver says. “If you really think—”
“Oliver has no concept of money,” Daisy blurts out.
Oliver’s jaw drops, obviously stunned that he’s not the only one doing the tattling.
“It’s true,” Daisy insists, her face turning almost the same red as the single tomato in their basket, while Cyrus and I watch the exchange with growing amusement. “He kept asking me, ‘Is two yuan cheap?’ ‘Is three hundred yuan cheap?’ It’s like he’s never been inside a market before.” Somehow, this commentary is a thousand times more entertaining when delivered in her quiet, tentative voice. “He nearly had a mental breakdown when he discovered the price of an egg. There were tears in his eyes.”
“Just goes to show I’m in touch with my emotions,” Oliver says without any shame. “But also, like, we couldn’t find half the things on the list. We looked everywhere for the jackfruit, and every time we thought we’d spotted it at last, it turned out to be durian.”
“Well,” Cyrus says casually, locking eyes with me, “if you’re ever searching for shampoo, we know just the place.”
Laughter springs out of me before I have time to stifle it. It’s my real laugh—an embarrassingly loud, honking sound that would be put to better use as a fire alarm. I clamp my mouth shut, my skin heating at the slip in my composure, but Cyrus is grinning at me.
“Uh, what?” Oliver asks, looking lost.
“Ignore him,” I say, but I’m talking more to myself.Ignore Cyrus, don’t trust him, don’t let yourself laugh at his remarks. Only one person is going to get their heart broken at the end of this trip, and it’s not going to be you.
I look down at the Band-Aid on my heel and make a mental note to rip it off as soon as I can.
Therehasto be a better way to get in my exercise for the day than sprinting to catch the bullet train, my vision half-obscured by my bangs, while my luggage bumps violently along the pavement behind me and Wang Laoshi yells at everyone to move faster because our tickets are nonrefundable.
Many better ways. As we all pile into the train car mere seconds before the doors slide shut, sweating and panting so hard that the other passengers turn to stare, I manage to think of at least ten examples just off the top of my head, including but not limited to: Getting chased by the ghosts from the haunted teahouse. Washing a full sink of dirty dishes by hand. Wrestling a bear.
But I can’t help laughing with Daisy and Oliver when we finally collapse into our seats, our bags dumped gracelessly into the space beneath the footrests. I’m not sure if it’s the relief of catching the train in time, or if it’s the unexpected happiness bubbling beneath the exhaustion and stress of the morning. That unique camaraderie that I imagine forms only when you’re traveling in a tight-knit group like this, away from home and old haunts and clinging on to these half strangers who have suddenly become more familiar to you than anyone else.
