Page 32 of I'll Be the One

I give him a skeptical look. “No, I’d say you’re lying.”

“What can I say, I only eat kale. And kombucha. Or I guess I eat kale and drink kombucha. You know what I mean.”

“What?Really?”

He smiles, and I realize he’s joking again.

“Nah. But that’s a decent part of my diet. I mostly eat vegetables and, like, lean protein. Not really allowed to have much else, except in special circumstances. Not allowed to have soda, either, so I get all the fizz I want from kombucha.”

“Not allowed?”

“Yeah, I have a personal nutritionist who determines my diet for me. Minimizes breakouts and any other disasters that can ruin shoots.”

I remember then that Henry literally makes a living off his looks. And not just his looks, but how good he appears on camera.The camera adds ten pounds, Bora said at my audition. It sounded so ridiculous when she said it, but I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to have your entire life depend on how you look in pictures or how your skin decides to behave that week.

“Still,” I say. “Therearevegetarian options for tacos. You never thought to try one?”

“Well, I guess it’s also largely because of how I was brought up. I moved to the States when I was in seventh grade, for school. And my parents were pretty strict about not eating food that required me to use my hands or food that comes from food trucks, because they think it’s dirty.”

“Ugh, they sound like my mom,” I groan.

Henry shrugs. “It’s a very old-fashioned Korean mind-set. I think peoplejuststarted finding out about food trucks in Korea, and only because they’ve seen the ones in LA. But yeah, I guess I was so used to that attitude that I never thought to try tacos myself.”

After a few minutes, we arrive at the parking lot where the El Flamin’ taco truck is. El Flamin’ is like any other taco truck except for two distinguishing features: 1) it’s painted with orange-red flames like a Hot Wheels car, and 2) its tacos areamazing, with freshly cooked and sliced al pastor meat that they grill on a giant stick right in front of the truck. I’ve only been to El Flamin’ one other time, but it was so good that every other taco place has paled in comparison ever since.

Steve pulls up to the curb. As I reach for my bag under my seat, I see Henry pulling a sleeveless white hoodie, a white baseball cap, and a pair of blue aviators from the back of the car.

“So no one will recognize me,” he explains as he puts everything on.

“Does that really work?” I ask, amazed. He still so clearly looks like Henry Cho to me. His height and cheekbones aren’t exactly average, especially not for an Asian guy.

He shrugs. “Usually, yeah. Honestly, most people are really bad at spotting celebrities when they’re not expecting it. You’ve probably passed by at least a dozen celebrities without noticing.”

“Probably,” I grumble, knowing he’s probably right. That would explain why even after sixteen years of living around LA, I’ve only seenonecelebrity in the flesh.

“Have fun, guys,” Portia says with a strained smile as we get out of the car. She’s all tensed up, like Henry and me going out for tacos is a PR nightmare waiting to happen.

For a moment, I wonder why she doesn’t stop us if she feelsso nervous about the whole thing. But after one look at Henry, I kind of understand why. Even though I can’t see much of his face anymore, I can still see how he’s practically bouncing up and down in his seat like a little kid. It makes me wonder how often—if at all—Henry gets to hang out with people. From the way he’s acting now, I doubt it’s a lot.

I can’t help but think about the Henry Cho I saw last month, so confident and grown-up as he responded to Davey’s questions that first day at auditions. And then there’s the other Henry Cho I saw a few weeks ago, when he was barely suppressing his anger because of whatever had happened with Melinda. It’s hard to believe that those two Henrys and this really happy, almost puppylike dork are the same person.

“Thanks, Portia. Thanks, Steve. See you guys later,” he says, cheerfully waving at his team before closing the door behind him.

The SUV drives away, leaving us in the parking lot.

Chapter Fourteen

HENRY TURNS AROUND AND TAKES ONE STEPback when he catches sight of the taco truck.

“Wow...” he says. “It’s... really red.”

I beam. “Yup. It’s called El Flamin’ taco truck for a reason.”

Even though it’s midafternoon, there’s a long line snaking around the parking lot in front of the bright red truck. It’s a hot day and some people are sweating so much that they’re soaking through their shirts. The heat and smoke from the al pastor spit next to the truck don’t help either. But the food smells so amazing that no one seems to care.

We get in line. As we slowly approach the truck, Henry takes out his phone and starts snapping pictures.

“I like it,” he says. “Has a quirky charm to it.”

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