I’ve aborted any attempts to suppress my laughter by now—I double over, wheezing until my vision blurs with tears and the lines of the carpet start wobbling, my hysteria bubbling over my exhaustion.

Both of them stare at me, unamused.

“Sorry,” I choke out, clutching at my stomach. “Sorry, guys. I mean, if you look at it as an opportunity to really understand each other on a deeper level …”

“I think we already understand each other well enough,” Cyrus says. “In fact, I would argue that we understand each other a bit too well.”

“So do I,” Oliver tells me. “I could take a whole trivia quiz on him and ace it. Like how he’s allergic to small talk, and refuses to drink anything except boiled water, and how he can’t stop talking about you—”

Cyrus cuts him a look I’m unable to decipher, and Oliver goes quiet.

I sober up at once, leaning forward with a kind of morbid curiosity, my heart beating oddly in my chest. “He talks about me?” I ask. “What does he say? Bad stuff?” It must be. I mentally fill the sudden silence between the three of us with long lists of criticisms. Even though I’ve never hated myself, there are plenty of things I hate about myself, things I wish I could cover up with concealer like a stubborn blemish: my lazy streak, my vanity, my real laugh, my fake laugh, my inability to contribute anything interesting to a conversation, the one side of my face that’s slightly wider than the other. Sometimes, it feels like I’m just waiting for other people to catch up on my flaws.

But then Oliver shakes his head. Clears his throat. “No, good stuff.”

Surprise dances through me. My attention swings to Cyrus, but he’s rooted to the spot, wearing such a brilliant poker face that he could win any game of cards.

“Like what?” I ask.

Oliver’s gaze flickers to Cyrus as well, then back to me. “Yeah, uh, he’d kill me if I told you.”

I wouldn’t believe him. I wouldn’t dare believe that Cyrus Sui—Number One Enemy from my childhood, Stealer of Scrunchies, Destroyer of Lives—could have anything nice to say about me to my face, let alone behind my back, except he isn’t protesting outright.

Maybe it wasn’t guilt alone that was making him act so weirdly nice to me, then. Maybe my plan’s working already. Maybe he’s actually started to like me.

“You know what?” Cyrus says abruptly, turning toward their honeymoon suite with more eagerness than even a real newlywed. “I’ve decided that I don’t mind sleeping next to your feet, Oliver. Let’s just go back inside.”

“Oh, so now you have no problems with my feet—okay, bye, Leah,” Oliver says in a rush as Cyrus seizes his elbow mid-sentence and starts guiding him away.