Vantage

Tig did not want to go stand on Pell's top of the hill. From where she stood, the whole thing was obvious: she'd waved, Pell had looked away, end of story, ignored on purpose.

"Why do I have to move?" Tig grumbled. "I can see fine from here."

"You can see your view fine from there," Vantage agreed, perfectly friendly. "That's the trick of it. Your own view always looks complete. It never has a little sign that says warning: there's more of this hill you can't see from here. But there always is." She started across the courtyard toward where Pell sat. "Come look. You can always go back to your spot after. I promise it'll still be there."

Reluctantly, Tig followed. With every step the angle changed. Halfway across, she could suddenly see something she hadn't from her own side: Pell's shoulders weren't proud and dismissive. They were curled in, small, the way shoulders get when something hurts.

"Huh," said Tig, slowing. "He looks different from over here."

"Everybody does," said Vantage softly. "That's the whole reason to make the trip."

They reached Pell's spot. Vantage crouched low, right down at his eye level, and looked out the way he was looking — and gently waved Tig down to do the same.

From Pell's spot, the afternoon sun came straight across the courtyard and hit you full in the eyes. From here, anyone walking up would be a dark shape against a blinding glare. From here, you might wave at a friend and genuinely, completely, not see them wave back — because you couldn't see much of anything but light.

"Oh," said Tig, very quietly, the glare in her own eyes now. "Oh. He couldn't see me. The sun's right there. From his spot you can't see anybody."

Vantage didn't say I told you so. She never did. Telling-you-so was a thing you said from your own top of the hill, and she'd already left hers. "Now you know," she said simply. "Not because you guessed kindly. Because you went and looked from where he was."

Pell glanced over, squinting against the light, and saw — for the first time — two friends crouched right beside him, sharing his impossible glare.

"I thought you were ignoring me," Tig told him, and there was no accusation left in it, because the accusation had been left behind on her own top of the hill. "I couldn't tell you had the sun in your eyes. I was standing where it looked like a choice."

Pell's curled shoulders eased. "I waved back," he said. "Twice. I just — couldn't see if you saw. I figured you were ignoring me."

The two of them blinked at each other in the shared glare, both realizing at once that they had each been standing on their own top of the hill, each completely sure, each completely wrong about the other's heart.

Vantage stretched her long legs, satisfied. "This is my favorite thing about hills," she said. "Two creatures, two tops, two true views — and both of them lonely, until somebody makes the climb. The view didn't change, Tig. You did. You moved your feet to his spot, and the whole story rearranged itself."

Tig found that her chest, which had been tight and prickly with he's-ignoring-me, had gone open and a little tender instead. The facts of the afternoon were exactly the same. But she was standing somewhere new, and from here the same afternoon meant something completely different.