Page 14 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Good god.”
I turn. Cyrus is staring straight ahead, his face and knuckles white as he clasps his fists over his lap, his teeth clenched around a curse. His rigid spine is pressed so tight against the seat that it looks like he’s trying to physically meld himself with the backrest.
“You’re scared of flying,” I say. It’s not a question, but it is a revelation. I don’t remember Cyrus being scared of anything: not spiders, which he would kill without hesitation whenever we found one in the classroom; not tests, which he would always hand in half an hour before everyone else; not the dark, or the horror movie the teachers showed us thinking the animated art style automatically made it kid-friendly, or the receptionist who had earned the nickname Scary Carrie.
“I’m not—scared,” he says, even as a muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’m—”
The plane pitches forward again, fast enough to make my gut churn. I can hear all the heavy bags knocking against one another overhead, a woman fussing over her airsick daughter in the row behind us, the rustle and metallicclickof seat belts being readjusted. A plastic cup rolls off someone’s tray and bounces down the aisle.
“Alert,” Cyrus finishes on a ragged breath, “seeing as we’re about to plummet down to earth.”
Finally: a weakness. Just what I need to start softening him up and reeling him in. And even though it should be physically nauseating to comfort a boy I hate, whatever my ulterior motive is, his eyes are wide with such raw, open fear that it feels almost natural to do so.
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him, trying to talk loud enough to distract both him and myself from the creaking in the wings. “It’s only a bit of turbulence; it’ll be over soon. In the meantime, just imagine that we’re already on the ground.”
“Except we’re not,” he points out. “We’re most definitely in the air.”
“Sorry, are you unfamiliar with the concept ofimagining?”
“Consider my imagination limited,” he says, the words straining out through his lips, “by the very real possibility of death.”
“Then try to think about something else.”
“Think about what?”
“Something pleasant. Like strolling along a beach at dawn. Or coupon codes. Or dogs that can open doors. Or banana muffins—”
“Not the biggest fan of baked goods.”
I will my patience to stay put. “Or fresh daisies—”
“Allergic.”
My mouth drops open. “Toflowers? Seriously? But they’re, like, the symbol of romance.”
“Which allergies are famously known to care about.”
I ignore his sarcasm and focus on posing my next question as if it’s something I just thought of, and not a sneaky way to secure vital information for my revenge plan. “What do you do if you want to buy flowers for your girlfriend?” I’m ninety-nine percent sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Call it a woman’s sixth sense, or just plain common sense, because while his face might be fine (okay, a little better than fine), he does share a personality type with most supervillains, and there’s just something about his aura that screams,I go straight home after school to mope over the state of the world instead of planning out cute movie nights with the girl I like. Still, if I’m going to proceed, I need to first beone-hundred-percent sureI’m not seducing someone who’s already taken.
Cyrus fixes me with a long look. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Perfect.I lean closer to him over the armrest and do my best to act surprised. “Really? Why not?”
He tips his head back and releases a quiet groan as more tremors grip the plane, his pulse beating visibly in his throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather we discuss the dogs that can open doors.”
“Okay, fine. No more talking about your relationship status or lack thereof, or the flowers you’re allergic to, or highly skilled dogs.” I filter through my memory for inspiration, any conversation topic that won’t make him tense up like he’s getting his molars surgically removed. The first, unexpected thing that comes to mind is: “Do you still play piano?”
Even though the sky is swaying drunkenly outside the windows, the blue horizon tilting upward with sickening speed, he pauses for a moment, some of his fear dissolving into surprise. “You remember that?”
“Only because you were being such a show-off about the fact that you’d passed grade twenty when you were thirteen—”
“Leah, there is no grade twenty.”
“And,” I go on, skipping right over his correction, “as long as there was a piano in the general area, you would rush over to play it like it was your own private concert.”
At this, the muscles in his face relax enough for his mouth to twitch. “I had no idea that you watched me.”
“Like, once.” Or a dozen times. It was one of the only occasions when he wasn’t pestering me at school. When he wasn’t causing any trouble at all, but completely focused, his boyish features serious, his fingers elegant and swift over the black and white keys. He played piano like it was obvious, like every note belonged together in their exact arrangement the way stars belonged in constellations, and mistakes didn’t exist. He made it look so easy.
