Page 52 of This Time It's Real
@cazno1hater:I have this theory that Caz has hooked up with at least two major players in the entertainment industry. There’s literally no other explanation why he’d keep getting these big drama opportunities.
Next thing I know, I’m clenching my teeth so hard they hurt and creating an account under a fake name and replying:Caz Song is FAR more talented than you’ll ever be. You have no idea how hard he’s worked, you pathetic little—
Okay, so maybe the first step wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped. Whatever. I turn my attention to Step Two instead: Develop a Crush on Someone Else.
Over the next couple weeks, I force myself to admire photos of other celebrities every morning. Gong Jun. Deng Lun. Yi Yang Qian Xi. Jungkook. They’re all very attractive. I know this objectively. Yet my pulse stays the same no matter how long I stare at them, willing myself to justfeel something.But I feel nothing, not until I get to school and catch sight of Caz laughing with his friends, where my pulse promptly skyrockets and my stomach somersaults ten times over.
Desperate by this point, I move on to Step Three: Observe Him More Closely. The apparent logic behind this is that crushes are like mirages; they don’t hold well under intense scrutiny. So I observe Caz Song, searching for flaws, a crack in the fantasy. At school, and during our chemistry training sessions while we explore the city and memorize as much of each other’s backgrounds as possible. In late November and early December, when Caz takes me out to eat lamb kebabs, sweet potatoes in foil, sugar-roasted chestnuts fragrant enough to make your mouth water from yards away. On the first day of winter, when Caz brings me to this place that sells thick sesame-coated bings the size of my face.
The whole time, I watch him—
And I notice all the wrong things.
Like how he’s always the first to clean up and throw our trash away without saying a word. How he gets cold easily, his cheeks flushing in the faintest breeze, but refuses to wear extra layers if he doesn’t think it looks good, which somehow isn’t nearly as irritating as it should be. How he never loses his patience when I can’t decide on my order, and never laughs at me when I ask silly questions about how the food is cooked.
Today, he introduces me to a handmade noodle stall near Houhai Lake, and the feeling is still there, curled up snugly against my ribs. The cursed, stubborn crush I can’t get rid of.
It’s supposed to snow later. This is what I’m thinking about on our ride back. How it’ll snow, and how secretly excited I am to see it, to feel it on my skin. I’ve forgotten what Beijing in the snow looks like. I hope it’s beautiful.
We’ve almost reached our compound when I notice that my right wrist is bare. It takes me another few seconds to realize why, exactly, the sight is so odd—
The bracelet.
The bracelet is gone.
“No,” I whisper, my voice buried beneath the rumble of the engine.
The motorcycle is moving too fast for me to stop and search for a short piece of string, but I try anyway, scanning my jean pockets, my sleeves, hoping against threadbare hope that it might’ve only gotten tangled in the fabric, in the wind, in my hair.
But there’s nothing.
Which means it must’ve fallen off somewhere along the ride, anywhere between the noodle stall and here. Maybe even earlier than that, when we were eating by the frozen lake banks, blowing warm air into our hands—
“Is something wrong?” Caz calls back to me, catching my eye in the side-view mirror.
“I—” The thought of brushing it aside, of simply acting like everything is fine and going home and grieving this loss alone, flits through my mind.It’s only an old bracelet anyway.And though I’ve kept mine ever since Zoe gave it to me, if I really think about it, I haven’t seen her wear hers in a while. Months, even. But what I say is “Can you let me down? There—there’s something I need to find.”
Caz doesn’t question me; he presses down on the brakes at once, easing us into a smooth stop by the sidewalk. As soon as the motorcycle starts to tilt dangerously, no longer suspended by its former momentum, he leaps off and straightens the vehicle and helps me to my feet.
When I’m safe on the ground, he asks, “What do you need to find?”
“My bracelet. It’s blue and kind of thin and—” I fumble around for a more specific description. My mind feels both numb and too full, crowded with a thousand different competing thoughts, none of them helpful. Deep down, I’m already starting to suspect that I might never see my bracelet again. “I—I wear it a lot—”
“I know which one it is.” Caz is looking past me now, in the direction of the city we just rode back from. Then his gaze locks on mine, and I expect to see some hint of impatience, or at least confusion over why I’m making such a big deal over a small thing. But he simply asks, “How long has it been missing?”
My throat tightens. “I only noticed a few moments ago, but . . . it could be hours since I lost it. It could be anywhere.”
“I doubt it.” His expression is thoughtful now. “I saw you wearing it when we were ordering the noodles, so you probably just dropped it on the way home. It can’t be too far.”
As he speaks, he’s already sliding one leg back over the motorcycle seat and gesturing for me to climb on after him.
I hesitate.
“What are you doing?”
“We can retrace our route back to the stall,” he says, raising his voice to be heard as he restarts the engine, the now-familiar hum sending small tremors through the pavement. “I’ll go slow, so just keep your eyes out for it, okay?”
I feel a frisson of panic, and not just over the bracelet. He’s being too kind, too thoughtful. Toolikable.If I let him help me, trust him with this, then my crush will surely grow malignant. No amount of well-researched PowerPoints and pretty photos of Gong Jun’s face will ever let me get rid of it.
