Page 60 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
I sit up straight, alert, and squint around. Most people in the crowd are still watching the dancers, but then I see Sean holding up his phone, whispering furiously to the girl sitting next to him, who shakes her head. Then they both look straight at me. The hairs on my arms stand up. They’re all looking at me—practically everyone in our group. It’s dark here in the stands, but I swear I can see the disbelief in their expressions.
Cyrus turns around and frowns. “What’s going on?” he whispers to me.
I shake my head, my stomach tightening.
And that’s when I spot the photo displayed on Sean’s phone, right as he flips it over to show it to someone else. A violent buzzing fills my skull, as if a swarm of wasps have suddenly rushed in through my ears.
It’s me.
It’s me, but not how I would ever want to be seen. Me with bright, bright red lipstick and heavy blue eyeliner and cheap tassels draped over my skin. That nightmare of a photo shoot, the very thing I had confided to Cyrus less than an hour ago. It makes my aunt’s comment about me at the wedding seem almost generous.Ignorant foreigner.Because who else would agree to a photo shoot like that? I hate that girl, hate that photo, and it should’ve stayed buried in the past, but it’s here again, haunting me. Of course. No matter how hard I run, I can never escape the versions of myself I used to be.
But that doesn’t explainhowpeople found those photos of me, unless—
As if in tune with the dread roiling through me, the music in the background changes, the string instruments shrieking, the drums clapping louder.
I jerk away from Cyrus. “Did you tell them?” I whisper.
“What?” His eyes are wide, but I don’t know if it’s from confusion or guilt. If it’s only an act.
“The photo shoot,” I say, my voice trembling. Even my hands are shaking, the stands swaying beneath me, everything cracking apart. There’s nothing for me to hold on to, nothing to steady my heart against. I want to vomit. “You—you’re the only person I told.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he says quickly. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Do I really?Once the voice sneaks into my thoughts, I can’t shake it out. I’d wanted to think that Cyrus was different from the other guys. I’d been so willing to trust him, to accept his apology about the past, to hand my heart over to him. But it’s like I’ve been doused with freezing water, left gasping as the chill sets into my stomach. My mind spins with images of the boys I’ve been with before: the unexpected flash of the camera when I leaned in to kiss one of them, documenting a private moment so they could share it with their friends; the boy who bragged about making out with me before my lipstick had even dried on his mouth; the ones who only remembered to text me back when I posted a pretty photo of myself in a tight dress. All the boys who’d charm me and kiss me and lose interest right after, the thrill of the chase expired.
What if Cyrus isn’t any different? What if his kindness was a ploy all along, his tenderness something I’d made up inside my head just because I wanted him? More questions crowd forth, racing one another toward the worst-case scenario.
It’s all just too much of a coincidence. I’d offered him the one piece of my life I’ve hidden from everyone else—and almost right away, this happens.
“Leah,” Cyrus says, but I can barely hear him over the loud, incessant buzzing in my eardrums. “Leah, please—”
“Why should I trust you?” I demand. Oh my god, I think I’m really, actually going to be sick. I’m sostupid. If I weren’t about to burst into tears, I’d laugh at myself, at everything I was thinking a few minutes ago, fantasizing about a grand love story with the boy who’s already proven himself capable of destroying my life. Such naivete, such disgustingoptimism, thinking I’d finally found someone who knew me, who would protect me, keep my secrets safe.
I should’ve known better.
Then Sean holds his phone up, his eyes locking with mine, the accusation in them clear. “Leah, is this you?”
Everyone from our group is watching me. Waiting for an explanation, or maybe simply waiting for me to confirm that I am a terrible person, a fake, a sellout, a slut, someone complicit in the fetishization of their culture. Even Oliver is frowning at the photos, his mouth puckered with what must be distaste or pure disgust. A recent memory rises like a sepia-toned scene from an old film: laughing in the bus seat next to him, our fists raised in mock toast,to friendship.
Now there’s no mock toast, just self-mockery.Whatfriendship? These people barely know me; we’ve only spent a total of two weeks together. Traveling on the same tight schedule to the same pretty places might have bred the illusion of intimacy and comradery, but that can’t change the age-old curse: The more people know about me, the less they like me.
“I—I didn’t want to do it,” I try to explain, and I’m talking too loud now, but it’s like I’ve lost control over my mouth, lost the ability to breathe. “I really didn’t—I mean, it’s me but I—”
A woman from higher up in the crowds shushes me, silencing my desperate attempts to win over the jury after the verdict has already been reached.
It’s like the Incident all over again.
But it feels like I’m the one falling from the stairs, the ground giving way underneath me, the breathless, terrifying tumble and the violent, rib-cracking jolt of the landing. So much for fresh slates, new beginnings, shots in the dark at happiness. I can feel all the layers that had sloughed off hardening around my heart again.
I stumble onto my feet. Squeeze past the people in the stands, mumbling apologies under my breath. I have no idea where I’m going. My feet are moving on their own, faster and faster, taking me up the stairs, to the exit, back out onto the road, my heels clapping against the stone pavement. I can’t think about anything except the fact that I need to leave. Now.
There’s a sharp, sour feeling stuffed in the back of my throat and nose, like when you choke on a mouthful of water, and the more I try to blink away the tears, the harder they press against my eyes, until finally, the invisible rope that’s been tying me together snaps, and everything goes blurry. The pale light of the moon wobbles in my vision, the stars streaking silver across the sky, and I’m still walking, hugging my arms around myself, crying so hard that I can’t even breathe.
My whole body heaves as the tears trickle down my chin, the taste of salt seeping into my mouth.
I’m alone, I realize. I’m so hopelessly, utterly alone—the road ahead is empty, and around me there’s nothing but rice paddies rippling in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the dark streams running between them, and the layered, indigo shadows of the mountains. I can never see the people from this trip again. I’ll have to buy an early plane ticket to LA and run back to my parents and—
And then what?
