Page 58 of This Time It's Real
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Mingri says at once, nodding fast, scribbling something down on the paper. “I mean, that was alotof material. Thank you.”
I smile weakly. “Glad I could help.”
“Just one thing, though.”
“Yeah?”
Mingri sighs, loud and heavy, and asks, “Do you think it’d be too crass if I also mentioned how much I like his ass?”
I blink. “Um . . .” This time, I have nowhere to look but at Caz. But he’s looking elsewhere, seemingly lost in thought. “Um . . . no. That—if that’s how you truly feel—”
“I do,” he reassures me.
“Then yeah, go for it.” I clear my throat. “Write from the heart.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d planned to start writing out my blog post the instant I got home, but instead I end up collapsing onto my bed, my pillow hugged to my chest, reliving every embarrassing second of my little speech at the bubble tea shop.
What had I beenthinking? This is why I should never be left to improvise anything, ever. I’d basically confessed my feelings to Caz straight to his face. And the way he’d looked at me after, like he was trying to figure out the gentlest way to let me down . . . Sure, he’d still insisted on giving me a ride back, but we’d barely even talked on the way home. At the time, I’d attributed it to my own weird feelings, but now that I really think about it,he’dbeen quieter than usual too. Distant. Withdrawn. He didn’t even smile at me when I got off—
I groan and kick out so hard my blankets tumble to the floor.
Just as I’m debating whether to ruin the dramatic moment by picking them back up, or risk a lecture from Ma by leaving them there, my phone buzzes. One new message from Caz. I swallow, my heart galloping in my chest. Oh my god, what if he wants to talk about that Moment today? What if he asks me straight up how I really feel about him? What if he’s texting to reject me?
But when I unlock my phone, there’s only the sentence:
My parents want to meet you.
Wait, legit?I type, then delete it. It sounds too eager. Like I actuallywantto meet them too. I pause, thinking hard, and try out:Is this a joke?Then delete that as well. But by now a significant amount of time has lapsed since I’ve read his message, and he’s probably watching me type and delete over and over again, which is worse than anything I could write. Panicking, I go with:And what did I do to deserve this great honor?And hit send. Then instantly regret it. I should’ve just gone with the first option. That was shorter, at least, and short is casual. Casual is good.
It’s possible that I’m overthinking this.
They’ve wanted to meet you for some time now, he texts back moments later.Just haven’t had the chance to because of work. But they should be home this Saturday, if you’re free.
I frown at the words. He makes it sound like his parents are rarely home at all. And that there’s a chance they might cancel even now.
Before I can reply, he adds:I know we said we wouldn’t get our families involved, but mine can be persistent. I promise it’s just a quick dinner to get them off my back about this.
I’ll owe you one.
He’s right. Weshouldn’tbe getting our families involved. It’s already bad enough that he and Emily know each other. But then I remember how he’d looked today, the sun in his hair, his lower lip chewed red . . . The terrible thing is that even though I keep embarrassing myself around him, keep putting myself at risk of getting hurt—part of me still wants to see him again.
Fine, I type, feeling like I’ve failed a self-assigned test.But only this once.
Of course, he replies quickly, and I can just imagine his triumphant little grin.You’re the best.
whatever.
“It’ll be okay,” I reassure myself out loud, chucking my phone on the bed. I just need to charm my fake boyfriend’s parents enough that they approve of me but not so much that they’ll actually care when we break up. Easy. Simple. What could possibly go wrong?
So on Saturday, I wait outside Caz Song’s door with a box of edible bird’s nest in one hand and my heart in my throat.
After checking my warped reflection in the shiny doorknob and confirming that there’s nothing embarrassing on my face, other than my face, I draw in a shaky breath and knock.
“Coming.”
Footsteps, firm and swift. Then the door creaks opens, and I find myself staring up at Caz. He’s in a light gray shirt that hugs his shoulders and Levi’s jeans, and he’s barefoot. Relaxed. A striped shower towel hangs around his neck, darker in the places where his wet hair has dripped water onto it.
