Page 12 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
By the time the teacher has reached the end of his list, I have all the names and faces memorized, and the perfect plan for revenge devised. The best and fastest way to get under anyone’s skin is to grab hold of their heart. So I’ll make Cyrus lower his guard, make him think I’ve forgiven him at last, and when he finally wants me—wants, not loves, because there’s a chasm between those two things, one that I’ve never been able to cross with any boy—I’ll yank the rug out from under his feet.
I can see it play out in my head like a movie scene. We’ll be walking down an alley together and he’ll turn and gaze over at me, stars in his eyes, and confess that he likes me.I want a public confession, I’ll say, smiling coyly.Give me something dramatic, with chocolates and balloons and streamers, and then I’ll consider it.It’ll be exactly the kind of grand gesture he hates, based on his remarks at the wedding. But he’ll oblige, because he’s obsessed with me already, and make his declaration that same evening with everyone from our group watching, his features hopeful and earnest, arms filled with heart-shaped gift boxes. Then I’ll burst out laughing, long and loud, right in his face.
Why would I ever like you, Cyrus? You ruined my life, remember?And I’ll cite his long list of crimes, starting from when we were children, while the spectators shrink back from him in horror. He’ll finally come close to understanding how I felt on the staircase, except he’ll actually be guilty. He’ll deserve all the humiliation hurtling his way.
I almost want to laugh just picturing his expression when I ruthlessly reject him. Proud, composed Cyrus, his cheeks burning with color, his jaw dropping in confusion.
“You know what? Maybe it’s fate that we’re on this trip together,” I tell him as Wang Laoshi starts leading us deeper into the terminal, the blue flag still brandished high in the air as if we’re marching off to a great battle. I actually don’t think it’s fate—I think it’s just incredibly bad luck that I’m trying to twist in my favor. But it doesn’t matter what I really think. What matters is planting the first seed of this idea that it’s meant to be, that this could be the beginning of some great love story, that maybeI’mthe girl Cyrus has been looking for the whole time—
“Yeah, I don’t really believe in that,” Cyrus says.
“What?”
“Fate,” he says with a shrug that somehow manages to convey a whole world of indifference and disdain. “I only believe in coincidences.”
Okay, so maybe it’s going to take more effort for Cyrus to warm up to me than I thought. That’s … reasonable. It’s been two years, and I haven’t exactly beensuperfriendly toward him. It’s also occurring to me that even though I endured him every day at school starting from when I was five years old all the way to fifteen, I still don’t know enough about Cyrus—not this new version of him anyway, who glares more than he smiles and seems morally opposed to anything that could spark joy in his cursed existence.
“Well,Ibelieve in fate,” Oliver says, who’s apparently been eavesdropping on our conversation. He picks up his pace to walk right next to me, forcing Cyrus to fall behind us. “It’s fate that we met today, Leah, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I reply in good humor, but I’m not concentrating on what I’m saying—I’m too busy glancing back at Cyrus over my shoulder. His features are set into hard lines, his lips puckered as if he’s just taken a bite out of a raw lemon.
“What’s his problem?” Oliver asks me, following my gaze.
I shake my head. Resist the urge to say,Everything.“No idea.”
***
Whether it’s fate or pure coincidence, it seems that I can’t get rid of Cyrus even if I wanted to.
I stare down at the number on my boarding pass, then at the seat in front of me, then at Cyrus, who’s currently helping the old lady behind us shove her luggage into the overhead compartment. I’m not the only person on the plane who’s staring. As he stretches his torso to give the bag one final push, a girl from our group nudges her new friend, and the two of them dissolve into furious, excited whispers right there in the middle of the aisle.
“You’re such a good kid,” the old woman gushes to Cyrus. “Thank you so much.”
Cyrus merely gives her a faint nod in return, as if this is part of his everyday routine: helping the elderly and adopting kittens and planting trees or whatever. It’s an act, of course—it has to be.
Then he turns his attention to me.
“What?” he says.
“This one is yours, right?” I gesture to the seat next to mine. The one he slides into as more passengers shuffle down the aisle, grumbling and squeezing their way around the line and pausing in awkward positions to let others move first.
“Evidently,” Cyrus says. He’s already put his own carry-on away, but he’s holding a small leather bag.
“Well, I’m sitting here,” I say.
“Again. Evidently,” he repeats, brows raised, like it’s no big deal that I’m stuck between him and a middle-aged man who’s somehow already asleep, his head lolling back against the window. For some reason, this is more offensive than if he’d shrunk back in disgust or demanded to speak to the flight attendant about switching seats with someone else. It’s like he couldn’t care less that we’ll be sitting side by side in a tiny metal cabin for fourteen hours straight. Like my presence is of zero consequence to him.
“Okay, then.” I force a tight smile. “Great. I guess we’re seat partners.”
He doesn’t even grace me with a response right away. Instead, he unzips his bag and starts pulling out alcohol wipes and tissues. The sharp, chemical scent bleeds into the stale air around us. I can’t tell if it’s an upgrade or downgrade from the smell of new plastic and recycled blankets and airplane food. “If you want another seat partner, I suppose you could bring it up with Wang Laoshi,” Cyrus says calmly as he begins wiping down the armrests with practiced precision. “But he might think you’re difficult.”
I recoil from the term. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, the deeply ingrained fear of being labeled asdifficult to work with. I’ve always tried my hardest to make sure that I’m not. To be cooperative and flexible and agreeable, to do my job without question, without complaint.It’s why I went through with the photo shoot, even though I’ve spent every second since wishing I hadn’t.
“Who said I wanted to change?” I ask as I lower myself into the narrow seat that’s definitely just one proper-sized seat split into two. Every time I fly, I’m reminded yet again of how terribly uncomfortable flying is. My legs barely fit into the allotted space, and I can’t lean to either side without bumping against the stranger or Cyrus.
We haven’t even left the tarmac, and I’m exhausted.
“You could pretend I’m not here.” Cyrus scrubs the armrest between us as he speaks, forcing me to fold my hands across my lap. “I recall that you were good at your make-believe games when we were kids.”
