That relentless rhythm eased slightly in Anhui, but when we travel from Huangshan City to Guilin, everything slows all the way back down.

There’s time to stroll along the emerald banks of the rivers, to watch the cormorants soar leisurely over the karst mountains, to buy cool sugarcane juice from the spread-out stalls and shop for jade earrings. Time for the medicine Cyrus gave me to kick in, and for the swelling around my eyes to fade; by the third day, I don’t really need his sunglasses to hide my face anymore, though I keep them on for a day longer.

The competition reaches a lull too, and it’s nice just to wander through the trees and go rafting without having to worry about winning anything.

On our way down to the bamboo rafts, an old woman approaches us with flower crowns hanging around her arm. She’s not the first person I’ve seen selling them, and most people in our group walk right past her, but I slow my steps. The crowns are beautifully woven by hand, with bursts of yellow daisies and waxflowers and camellias.

“We’ll take one,” Cyrus says, passing her the money.

I turn to him in surprise. “I was just looking.”

“I know,” he tells me, and takes his time choosing the crown with the brightest, fullest flowers, before setting it down gently on my head like this is my coronation. “My grandmother used to sell these for a living before we moved to America. It’s a tough business. I would’ve bought myself one,” he adds, following me to the edge of the water, “but I think it looks better on you.”

“You have to stop being so nice to me,” I tell him as I climb onto the raft, one hand holding the flower crown in place, the other grabbing the back of the bamboo chair for support.

He hops on after me, sitting gracefully down on my left. “Why?”

Because then I might not want to be enemies with you anymore, I answer silently inside my head. Because then it’s going to be much harder to go through with my plan, when everything I’ve done so far is to get my revenge. “I’m not used to it.”

Something shifts over his features, like the sunlight rippling off the Li River. “What are you used to, then?”

“You know. Being childhood enemies.”

His smile feels like a warning, but it’s not the kind that precedes a prank. It’s too sincere, his voice dropping low as he says, “I’ll keep being your enemy, if that’s what you’d prefer.” His eyes drop down too, drifting to my lips with such weight and intent that I can almost feel the ghost brush of his gaze. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”