Page 52 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Damn, I feel special, then. But, like, really? You havenoother guy friends?”
“None,” I admit. Before, when I wasn’t pretty, it was like I didn’t even exist to guys, unless it was as the punch line of all their cruel jokes. And then once I turned pretty, I was only a girl to them, apparently too dumb and too different to join in on their important conversations. They would discuss my body openly like it was a debate topic and feign interest just to withdraw it the second it became clear I wasn’t willing to sleep with them, and even when we did hang out, their eyes never stayed on my face. The nicer ones got girlfriends, and their girlfriends warned them to keep their distance from me, until our every exchange felt monitored, morally wrong somehow, and it just wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. Cyrus wasn’t like the rest of them, but he was never a friend to begin with.
As if reading my mind, Oliver asks, “What about Cyrus? Or— Oh.” His brows rise. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t have any problems withhimliking you in a let’s-make-out way.”
“Okay, still not warming up to that phrase. But it’s … complicated between us,” I say, which feels like a severe understatement. “We have a long history. I just didn’t want to accidentally lead you on.”
“Wow,” he says, blowing out a breath.
“Wow, what?”
“I have to admit, you’re kind of different from what I thought.” He peers over at me. “Like, you’re hot, obviously, but you’re also thoughtful and brave and mature and nice even when you don’t need to be, which is, like, actually really rare these days. And I swear I’m not just saying that. Cyrus is a lucky guy.”
“Oh shush,” I say, like this might not be one of the kindest arrangements of words anyone has ever gifted me with.Maybe I can be all those things, a new, hopeful voice inside me whispers.Maybe I already am. Maybe I don’t have to be the outcast, or the model—I can just focus on being a good person surrounded by other good people in beautiful places, and that’s more than enough.
“Yes, sure thing,” Oliver says, then winks at me. “Well, you can rest assured there’s no boy drama here.” He raises a fist like he’s making an invisible toast. “To friendship.”
I have to laugh as I mimic the gesture, clinking my fake champagne glass against his, my chest warm with affection. “To friendship.”
Friendship is the last thing on my mind when I hop off the bus.
Cyrus is waiting there on the stone pavement, and as our gazes meet for the first time since I snuck out of his hotel room this morning, he smiles at me, sincere and almost shy. It’s the kind of smile that makes you forget everything. The sun. The sky. Gravity. Every major and minor hurt I’ve ever endured. Every name that isn’t his.
At least for a second.
Because in the daylight, it’s easier to pretend the intimacy of last night was only a spell, an embarrassing mistake made in the moment. Easier for the old doubts to creep in, to remember the Incident and all the years of pain that preceded this, why I owe it to my younger self to at least keep my revenge plan on the table. Even if my heart can’t quite make up its mind about Cyrus, I shouldn’t let myself weaken.
But something is going to happen between us today—of this, I’m entirely certain. There’s a rhythm to these things, like the melody leading into a chorus.
I’m just not certain if it’s a blessing or a curse that we’re given half an hour to explore the village we’re visiting on our own. Right now, it might actually be easier to have a contest to win, something to focus on, anything that could distract me from the hot, jittery feeling inside me. If there are butterflies in my stomach, their wings must be on fire.
Revenge or desire?Since when did the two feel so similar?
“Should we go?” Cyrus asks me.
I glance around us. The others have started to split off down the bridges and canals and winding streets, where red lanterns swing from the eaves. “Okay,” I say. I don’t ask where to; I don’t really care.
We walk without talking for an impressively long period of time, past the houses with golden‘fu’characters pasted over the front doors, the bikes resting against gray tile walls, the wooden planks propped up by uneven stone steps, the floral dresses left out to dry in the warm breeze. But Cyrus doesn’t even seem to register his surroundings. His expression has retreated inward, his shoulders tight. A few times, he sucks in a breath, as if on the verge of saying something, but then he snaps his mouth shut again.
He could be getting ready to confess that he’s a vampire, my brain volunteers.Or he could have caught you looking at him like you want to lick his neck—
I do not want to lick his neck, I argue, kicking an innocent pebble in protest.
I’m your brain, my brain reminds me.You can’t hide anything from me. And it’s painfully obvious how attracted you are to Cyrus, even though you should really cut that out and refocus on the part where you reject him in the most humiliating fashion—of course, you’d need him to actually say that he likes you first—
I tell my brain to shut up.
But just when I think I can’t take the silence anymore, Cyrus says quietly, “I didn’t mean it, you know.”
“What?”
We turn into an empty alley, and he slows down, the sunlight spilling soft over his skin, illuminating every subtle detail. The way he pauses to swallow, his throat pulsing. The nervous shift of his fingers before he slides his hands into his pockets. The intensity in his gaze, his beautiful features entirely serious. “I never meant to lie about you pushing me,” he says, his voice very soft, just audible over the calls of birds in the distance. “Much less get you kicked out of the school. It was all my fault. I was concussed and everything happened so fast, I wasn’t thinking properly—when the teacher asked if someone had hurt me, my first instinct was to say that you did, because Iwashurt, but it had nothing to do with the fall itself. I just— It’s so mortifying, but when you told me you never wanted to see me again, I was at a complete loss. I’d never experienced such pain before in my life. And I knew I had screwed up, and I was the only person to blame for the whole mess.”
“What?” I say again, like we’re back at my cousin’s wedding, and he’s speaking in Mandarin faster than I can understand. I might be able to recognize a few words here and there, but strung together, none of them make any sense.
“I never wanted you to hate me,” he whispers. “I never wanted you to leave. I only meant to tease you until you truly noticed me. I would wait every day for the moment you walked into class with your polka-dot socks and your cute sweaters and pigtails—it was like my day didn’t even begin until I saw you. I loved the games you invented and the stories you came up with and your laugh, how it bubbled out of you and you could hear it from down the corridor. All I could think about was you, all the time, and how funny and sweet and beautiful you were—”
“Beautiful?”I repeat, staring at him. “Are you sure you’re not remembering someone else?” He has to be—he can’t possibly be describing the version of me I hate the most, the version I’ve tried to kill off, the one I’m so embarrassed of I can’t even bring myself to look at old photos without wincing.
