“Why?” I let out a huff of incredulity. “I was her worst student.”

“She liked you,” he insists.

“Yeah, right,” I say. “What could she have liked about me?” I meant for it to sound casual and self-deprecating, but it comes out dangerously close to self-pitying, which is never a good look.

Cyrus frowns, as if I’m asking a trick question. “Why wouldn’t she have liked you?” A pause. “Why wouldn’t everyone like you?”

Maybe because I have nothing of value to offer? Because I care too much about my appearance, and I overthink everything, and I can be annoying and dumb and indecisive, and I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing with my life? Because I have no personality outside of my flaws? But I’d rather the plane disintegrate right now than ever say any of that out loud, especially to him.

“I’m just saying,” I tell him, “I’d be surprised if she even remembered my name after I left the school.”

Guilt flashes across Cyrus’s face.

The past pushes its way into the sudden silence between us. Well, at least he knows to be guilty. But it’s a cheap comfort, like the thin, scratchy blanket covering my legs. If he really felt guilty, he would have apologized long ago. No, he wouldn’t have lied in the first place.

I’m so busy feeding my grudge that it takes me a minute to notice the shaking has stopped. The seat belt sign dims, and all around us, people relax in their seats, everyone’s relief palpable in the cabin air.

But it still feels like the world is careening in the wrong direction. It’s felt a little like that ever since the wedding. Ever since I saw Cyrus again.

* * *

It’s a relief to be back on solid ground.

After I fire off a quick text to the family group chat to let them know I’ve landed safely, I join my classmates in side-shuffling a couple steps at a time through the dense, jet-lagged crowds at the airport. What with the time difference, I don’t expect to hear from my parents until the next morning for them, but my mom’s reply comes before I’ve even left the customs line.

How was your flight? Did you get enough sleep? Did you eat on the plane? How’s Shanghai? When does your first activity start?

All of this in one overwhelming text box, like she might be charged for each new message she sends.

Smooth, I text back, which is an exaggeration at best, a straight-up lie at worst. Super smooth, if you take away the aggressive turbulence, and the fact that Cyrus fell asleep after my distraction services were no longer needed, only for his head to keep lolling against my shoulder for the remainder of the flight.

I slept well, I continue. Food was fine.

Shanghai’s—