Page 35 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Good night,” Cyrus tells me without quite meeting my gaze.
Daisy’s finished showering by the time I return to the room. I expect my body to call it a day and collapse on the couch again, but it feels like I’ve taken an extra-strong shot of espresso. All my nerves are buzzing, my mind zapped awake. It didn’t mean so much to me in the moment, yet I keep going back to what Oliver said, turning it over, dissecting it:
He’d kill me if I told you.
I don’t manage to fall asleep until four in the morning.
It’s a known natural phenomenon that whenever you’re traveling, the rain is going to come on the day you least welcome it.
My hair is already frizzing aggressively from the damp as we gather at the foot of the Yellow Mountain. I push it back from my face for the eleventh time, blinking cold water out of my eyes. The rain isn’t so heavy as to necessitate using an umbrella, but it’s still heavy enough that it’s wreathed the mountains in white fog and darkened the steep paths and sheer cliffs ahead of us. Even the pine trees are darker, their needle-thin leaves a shade of deep, clear green that probably predates human civilization, that might be one of the first colors to ever exist in the natural world. If it weren’t for our backpacks and phones and the little flag Wang Laoshi’s waving, I’d think that we had fallen through a fissure in time itself. There’s an ancient beauty to everything here, from the stones that jut out like strange silhouettes in the distance to the birds calling out to one another from high in the clouds.
“The first to reach the mountaintop will be rewarded with a Michelin-star five-course meal for lunch today. You’ll have your own private room and incredible views of the scenery,” Wang Laoshi tells us.
“What will the rest of us get for lunch?” Oliver calls out over the rain.
“Granola bars,” Wang Laoshi replies simply, which makes Oliver’s eyes widen with true terror. “Now, while I’m all for the spirit of the competition, please do be careful not to slip, and look out for any falling debris …”
Nobody is really listening to this last part. The prospect of getting a hot mealanda reprieve from the rain is enough to motivate everyone to start moving. Cyrus and I are the first to rush forward, our feet pounding over the rocks.
“I see you’ve switched to sneakers today,” Cyrus notes casually, climbing three steps at a time.
I fight a grimace as I hurry to match his strides, my calves burning from the effort. “Don’t look at them too long.”
“Why?”
“They’re my ugly shoes.”
He raises his brows. “You have designated ugly shoes?”
“I have a designated ugly everything,” I tell him. “You should see my designated ugly pajamas—and by that, I mean, if you ever actually saw me in them, I’d have to bury you.”
“Well, now I’mreallycurious. Though I doubt it’s possible for anything to look ugly on you,” he adds in the same offhand tone. He could be making a passing comment on the rain.
I stare at him. It feels like my body’s internal system is malfunctioning, the wires in my brain whirring and overanalyzing those few simple words. My plan really must be working if he’s handing out compliments now. But I’m still so unused to Cyrus being sweet to me that instead of responding, I stick to silence and climb onward, letting my attention drift to the dew glistening on the branches around me, the vaguely annoying pebble stuck in my shoe, anything but him.
Soon, we’re so far ahead of everyone else that it feels like we’re the only ones in the mountains, and by some kind of silent agreement, we both slow down, falling into step with each other.
“Can I ask you something?” Cyrus begins slowly, which ranks pretty high on the Ominous Ways to Start a Conversation List. It’s second only to the dreadedcan you give me a call when you’re free.
“No,” I say.
“Okay.”
And he actually shuts up just like that. After a beat, I make a sound caught halfway between a snort and a sigh. “What is it?”
“Why didn’t you tell the others that you’re a model? Seems a lot easier than trying to pretend that you’re a cloud enthusiast.”
Even though I’d been more or less prepared for him to spring this question on me, my stomach judders. I do my best to focus on keeping my pace, keeping my breathing even as I reply, “How do you know I was pretending? Maybe I really am a cloud enthusiast.”
“You’re in luck, then,” he says dryly, glancing up at the overcast sky, the thick sweep of gray settling in over the dark shine of rocks. “There are plenty of them today.”
“I know. I’m thrilled.”
“Visibly,” he says, motioning to my face, which has probably reset itself into Ready to Kill You mode while I’ve been figuring out the quickest escape route from this conversation. When I don’t reply, he adds, “I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. If I were you, I’d be bragging about being a model any chance I got.”
The truth scratches my throat. I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m not one anymore.”
He whips toward me, almost misses his next step. “You’re not?”
