“That’s not what you were like before,” I say. When he doesn’t reply, I quicken my steps and peer over at him, curious. “You clearly can be charming, Cyrus. You were one of the most popular guys in our class, I remember. But these days … it’s like you’re going out of your way to make sure that nobody warms up to you, and to be honest, I have no idea why. ”

He looks away. Switches the lettuce over to his other shoulder, conveniently blocking my direct view of his face.

“Fine, how about this,” I say. “I’ll do all the charming, and you help translate a few compliments and carry the vegetables. Happy?”

“Never,” he says.

“Great.”

* * *

Our system works surprisingly well. With the exception of one grumpy vendor who looks like he’s in the business of selling leaves in another, more illegal form, I manage to charm and barter and beam my way down the entire length of our grocery list, until Cyrus has both his hands full with sacks of grains and vegetables. We must have walked around the entire perimeter of the market, because only half an hour in, my phone buzzes to let me know I’ve doubled my daily fitness goal, and my feet start aching. My feet are almost always aching, and it’s usually mild enough for me to ignore it, but the longer we walk, the deeper the straps of my heels press into my flesh. I feel like the little mermaid walking on land for the first time, wincing with every step I take.

I’m practically hobbling as Cyrus drops our purchases down in the designated cart, where the bus is parked and waiting. Most students in the group haven’t returned yet, but Lydia’s already standing there with bags of groceries so close to bursting I have to wonder if she simply robbed the vendors of their entire stalls. A small, self-satisfied smile flickers across her face when she looks over at our bags, which suddenly seem almost empty by comparison.

“I think she’s going to win this one,” I worry out loud to Cyrus.

I expect a much stronger reaction, but he appears distracted. “Is that so?” His gaze flickers down to my feet, and then he abruptly twists around in the other direction. “Come with me.”

“What? But we’ve already finished buying everything—where are you going?” I ask. It doesn’t take very long to catch up to him, and it’s not because I’ve developed a sudden tolerance for pain or my stilettos have magically reshaped themselves to accommodate my feet. Cyrus’s strides are much shorter, slower than they were before, and he glances at me every few seconds, as if to make sure we’re moving at the same pace.