“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 maybe I’m the 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 been super friendly 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, I believe 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.”