Page 4 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“It’s the cologne,” he says. “I started using it last year. Nice, right?”
Entirely against my will, I find myself shifting forward and breathing in the clean, sandalwood scent of his shirt. Itisnew, and it is nice, not overpowering like the colognes the guys at my school seem to soak themselves in, and—I should absolutely not be smelling him right now.
I jerk back with a scowl. Then I remember the other guests in the room and stop myself. Force my facial muscles to relax. Multiple sources have informed me that I have a severe case of Ready to Kill You Face whenever I’m not making a concentrated effort to seem friendly.I blame it on my features. My arched brows and sunken cheekbones and angular chin might help me stand out in a photo, but they also make me lookdownright hostileandunapproachable—both quoted from other sources—in real life.
Cyrus leans over a little. “What happened to your face just now?”
“It’s called disgust,” I tell him, keeping my expression as serene as possible, just in case one of my cousin’s maids of honor chooses this moment to glance over at our table. I must appear perfect at all times. “Something I’d think you would be very familiar with.”
“Itwasdisgust, perhaps. Now you look like you’re about to begrudgingly embark on a journey of inner healing somewhere deep in the woods,” he remarks.
“Then you’re disrupting my journey,” I say.
And he continues to disrupt it. “You’ve changed too.” His dark eyes trace my dress, my lips, then move up to my bangs, which get in the way of relatively important things like seeing, but help cover my forehead. The wedding seems to fade in my periphery, until the only sound I can hear is the strain in my own throat when I swallow. Part of me is surprised that Cyrus even recognizes me when I hardly recognize old photos of myself.
The last time he saw me, I wasn’t a model yet. I wasn’t pretty at all.
“Of course I’ve changed. It’s been two years,” I say, like the dramatic transformation in my style and face can be explained away by something as simple as the natural passage of time.
“I know,” he says, “but you just seem really …”
Gorgeous?I fill in.Elegant? Well-adjusted? Sophisticated? Glamorous?
“Worn out.”
My mask of serenity cracks, and my cheeks prickle. In no world is this a compliment. I guess I shouldn’t have been expecting a compliment from someone like him, but I hadn’t been braced for a personal attack either.
“How nice of you,” I say coolly.
He starts to speak again, but his voice is drowned out by the most cheerful wedding music I’ve ever heard in my entire life. The chorus is vaguely familiar, like the particular sweetness of the corn-flavored jelly candies, something I can’t name but know that I should be able to, if only for the way it creates a faint stirring under my breastbone. Familiar, but forgotten.
As I twist around in my seat to watch my beaming cousin make her way up to the front of the ballroom, I’m still fuming over Cyrus’s choice of words.Worn out.As if even the four layers of makeup can’t conceal my exhaustion. As if he can tell from one glance that I’ve been buckling under the pressure, pouring my tears into an industry that couldn’t care less if I disappeared—and so I did. I have.
I left it all behind me, and now, somehow, I’ve ended up here: at a wedding I never wanted to attend, next to the old nemesis I never wanted to be reunited with, who’s retained the uncanny ability to get under my skin after two years.
And I have no choice but to bear it until it’s time to go.
I’m pretty sure my cousin gets married.
Almost certain. I do my best to pay attention as she goes through the rituals while the guests sniff into their napkins and the children continue munching on the candy. The only reason I know what the rituals even are is because my mom had been talking about them before we left the house. First, the pair must bow to the sky and the earth, and then to their parents, and then to each other.
Wine is poured into little ceramic cups. Vows are probably made, and the scene is probably beautiful, a celebration of true love and whatnot against a backdrop of brilliant scarlet and gold banners.
I would know for sure if I weren’t so distracted by Cyrus and his reactions. Or, rather, his lack of reaction. He’s the only person here who looks decidedly unmoved. Unimpressed. He barely seems to be paying attention to the bride and groom at all—he spends more time watching my aunt fold up her silk handkerchief into a neat square after she wipes her eyes.
“What’s your problem?” I mutter as Xiyue starts to move toward one of the round tables, one hand balancing a glass of wine, the other holding on to her new husband’s arm. “This is meant to be a happy occasion. They’re in love.”
“They think they’re in love, as most newlyweds tend to,” Cyrus says with a shrug. “It’ll pass.”
“Or,” I counter, “they could grow old together in a yellow cottage with its own vegetable patch and duck pond.”
This earns me a brief head tilt. “Is that your dream for the future?”
“God, no,” I say. “Ducks scare me. My dream is—”
I stop halfway, reaching for something that’s no longer there. My dreamwasto become a successful model, to see my face in magazine spreads, to meet the most esteemed designers and walk the most influential runway shows and get invited to the most exclusive parties. Not even because I thought it’d be fun, but just to say I was there. It used to be so simple, so clear-cut.
Now I have no idea. I imagine myself graduating from high school, and then—nothing. It’s like trying to spot a distant shore through ocean fog, or recognizing a stranger’s face from miles away.
