“I quit,” I say. “About a month ago. Before the trip.” It’s more bearable this way, to get it out fast, get it over with. Whenever I was sick and my mom brewed me a cup of medicine, I would always choose to drink the bitter brown liquid in two large gulps as opposed to sipping it slowly, even if it made my eyes water.

“You quit? Why?”

I can’t tell him the real reason, of course. Even just remembering the god-awful photo shoot—the supposedly traditional robes they forced me into, the bright red ribbons tangled around my bare arms, the harsh glare of the light as I posed for the camera like their perfect exotic model—makes my stomach turn.

“Everything was going really well until I had to do this photo shoot with a watermelon,” I say mock seriously. “Bear in mind that I hate watermelon. It was fine at first, when they told me to pose by holding the watermelon above my head, even though the thing was, like, super heavy. Then they asked me to roll the watermelon like I was bowling, and they got pissed off when I said that it was impossible to hold it like a bowling ball, because there was nothing for me to grip, and then I got pissed off, so I decided that I was done, forever.”

I see the exact moment when his expression slips into skepticism and then drops straight into disbelief. “Why did you feel the need to say all that?”

“What, you wanted a big story, didn’t you?” I say, shrugging. “I don’t have one that’ll satisfy you, so I had to make something up.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Do you even hate watermelon?”

“Okay, that part’s true.” But I refuse to tell him why. Refuse to mention that it was the only thing I let myself eat when I was starving.

“Then what’s the real reason?” he asks.

“I realized it was pointless,” I say.

“What, modeling? Or life? Because I would agree—I just didn’t think you were so nihilistic.” He’s studying me with the same intensity I’ve seen him wear when he’s reading, like he’s trying to decipher the meaning between the lines, like every word must count for something, hold some kind of weight. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me this way before. With other people, no matter how close I’m standing next to them, it feels like they’re looking at me from a distance, and I’m only half there. But Cyrus’s gaze pierces right through me, rooting me here, in the cold, thin air of the mountains and the soft spray of rain on my skin and the crevices in the stones underfoot.