Page 36 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“I quit,” I say. “About a month ago. Before the trip.” It’s more bearable this way, to get it out fast, get it over with. Whenever I was sick and my mom brewed me a cup of medicine, I would always choose to drink the bitter brown liquid in two large gulps as opposed to sipping it slowly, even if it made my eyes water.
“You quit? Why?”
I can’t tell him the real reason, of course. Even just remembering the god-awful photo shoot—the supposedlytraditionalrobes they forced me into, the bright red ribbons tangled around my bare arms, the harsh glare of the light as I posed for the camera like their perfect exotic model—makes my stomach turn.
“Everything was going really well until I had to do this photo shoot with a watermelon,” I say mock seriously. “Bear in mind that Ihatewatermelon. It was fine at first, when they told me to pose by holding the watermelon above my head, even though the thing was, like, super heavy. Then they asked me to roll the watermelon like I was bowling, and they got pissed off when I said that it was impossible to hold it like a bowling ball, because there was nothing for me to grip, and thenIgot pissed off, so I decided that I was done, forever.”
I see the exact moment when his expression slips into skepticism and then drops straight into disbelief. “Why did you feel the need to say all that?”
“What, you wanted a big story, didn’t you?” I say, shrugging. “I don’t have one that’ll satisfy you, so I had to make something up.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Do you even hate watermelon?”
“Okay, that part’s true.” But I refuse to tell him why. Refuse to mention that it was the only thing I let myself eat when I was starving.
“Then what’s the real reason?” he asks.
“I realized it was pointless,” I say.
“What, modeling? Or life? Because I would agree—I just didn’t think you were so nihilistic.” He’s studying me with the same intensity I’ve seen him wear when he’s reading, like he’s trying to decipher the meaning between the lines, like every word must count for something, hold some kind of weight. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me this way before. With other people, no matter how close I’m standing next to them, it feels like they’re looking at me from a distance, and I’m only half there. But Cyrus’s gaze pierces right through me, rooting me here, in the cold, thin air of the mountains and the soft spray of rain on my skin and the crevices in the stones underfoot.
“Everything I did was pointless,” I say, shortening my strides as the mountain path cuts sharply up. “But it’s all behind me now, so it’s—”
“Leah, careful—”
I don’t even have time to react when Cyrus pushes me to the side, the movement so sudden that my stomach swoops low, my back slamming against the trunk of a tree. It all happens in a disorienting flash of color and sound: the branches scraping my hair, the gray sky spinning above me, and Cyrus’s body curving around mine, his hands firm on my shoulders. Rocks clatter sharply onto the path like shrapnel where I had been seconds before—where Cyrus stands now, facing me, taking the brunt of the impact. Yet he doesn’t flinch once. Doesn’t move away. Not until all the rock shards have finished falling from above.
My heart is thudding so hard I can feel the vibrations in my throat, my mind scrambling to process the facts. A fact, however improbable:He pushed me to safety.He shielded me, even though he had only half a second to react.
Another fact: He’s injured. The edge of one of the rocks has scraped his wrist, leaving behind one long red line. Not quite deep enough to bleed, but enough to break skin.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his face bent toward me, his expression shrouded by shadows.
“AmIokay?” I echo, feeling as if part of me is stuck in another timeline, one that made infinitely more sense than this. “Yeah, I’m completely fine— But you—”
“Good,” he says, his relief audible. His hands are still braced around me like he’s scared I’ll slip out of reach, and he leans closer, burying his head against the crook of my neck. His scent is stronger than the pine leaves hanging around us, or maybe I’m just more sensitive to it; all I can breathe in is the fragrance of sage. “Leah, I really … I really …” One of his hands lifts from my shoulder and braces itself against the bark of the tree behind me, his fingers clenching, nails sinking in, like it’s the only thing holding him upright. His voice is hoarse. “I really …” He doesn’t say more than that. It’s as though he won’t allow himself to, as though he’s warring with himself on something, and to lose would cost him everything. He just repeats the words over and over, murmuring them until they’re almost incomprehensible, a half-feverish jumble.
“What?” I whisper, my heart thudding faster, even though the danger is over. “Cyrus, what are you talking about?”
He steps back, and the phantom of whatever emotion had possessed him clears from his eyes. “I really—think you need to watch where you’re going,” he says, his voice almost normal again, save the tremor in his exhale. “Didn’t you see the signs earlier? There are loose rocks everywhere, and if either of us gets killed via massive falling rock before we reach the mountaintop, we won’t have a chance to win.”
Of course that’s what he cares about most.The rational side of my brain whirs back into action.Winning. Securing his letter of recommendation for a spot at his dream university. His brilliant future, which involves only himself.His concern just now had been more about the competition than me.
Still. Whatever his motivations, hedidhelp me.
“Do you need something for that?” I ask, nodding at his arm. “I can head back and ask the teacher—”
“This?” He glances down to inspect the damage. “No, it’s barely a scratch. Let’s just keep climbing.”
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
“Certain.”
He says it so easily, so firmly. As firm as he’d sounded when the teacher had asked him a very similar question, two years ago:Did someone hurt you?But back then, there were dozens of students gathered around us on the staircase at our old school, watching with uniform expressions of shock and horror and outrage as Cyrus replied:She did.Two words, and I was deemed guilty. No matter how much I had protested—no matter how many times I tried to tell them the truth.
Only I knew what had really happened. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about to begin with—something stupid and trivial, like all our arguments—but we were heading up the stairs from one class to another, and he was behind me, following me around as he always did to annoy me.
“Have you ever considered leaving me alone, Cyrus?” I had demanded, walking faster, taking two steps at a time in some attempt to put more distance between us. But his legs were just as long as mine, and he kept his pace without problem.
