“I have a designated ugly everything,” I tell him. “You should see my designated ugly pajamas—and by that, I mean, if you ever actually saw me in them, I’d have to bury you.”

“Well, now I’m really curious. Though I doubt it’s possible for anything to look ugly on you,” he adds in the same offhand tone. He could be making a passing comment on the rain.

I stare at him. It feels like my body’s internal system is malfunctioning, the wires in my brain whirring and overanalyzing those few simple words. My plan really must be working if he’s handing out compliments now. But I’m still so unused to Cyrus being sweet to me that instead of responding, I stick to silence and climb onward, letting my attention drift to the dew glistening on the branches around me, the vaguely annoying pebble stuck in my shoe, anything but him.

Soon, we’re so far ahead of everyone else that it feels like we’re the only ones in the mountains, and by some kind of silent agreement, we both slow down, falling into step with each other.

“Can I ask you something?” Cyrus begins slowly, which ranks pretty high on the Ominous Ways to Start a Conversation List. It’s second only to the dreaded can you give me a call when you’re free.

“No,” I say.

“Okay.”

And he actually shuts up just like that. After a beat, I make a sound caught halfway between a snort and a sigh. “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you tell the others that you’re a model? Seems a lot easier than trying to pretend that you’re a cloud enthusiast.”

Even though I’d been more or less prepared for him to spring this question on me, my stomach judders. I do my best to focus on keeping my pace, keeping my breathing even as I reply, “How do you know I was pretending? Maybe I really am a cloud enthusiast.”

“You’re in luck, then,” he says dryly, glancing up at the overcast sky, the thick sweep of gray settling in over the dark shine of rocks. “There are plenty of them today.”

“I know. I’m thrilled.”

“Visibly,” he says, motioning to my face, which has probably reset itself into Ready to Kill You mode while I’ve been figuring out the quickest escape route from this conversation. When I don’t reply, he adds, “I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. If I were you, I’d be bragging about being a model any chance I got.”

The truth scratches my throat. I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m not one anymore.”

He whips toward me, almost misses his next step. “You’re not?”