Page 59 of This Time It's Real
He stares back for a moment, and there’s surprise in his eyes and something else.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re early.”
“Oh—sorry.” I shift awkwardly between my feet. “I was scared of getting here late. Is it a bad time or—”
He laughs at me. “Why are you being so formal?”
“I’m not,” I lie, though I don’t dare relax. I’ll never forget that pitying look in his eyes back at the bubble tea shop, and I pray to god I’ll never have to see it again. If he can act like everything is normal between us, I can too. I won’t slip up a second time. I can’t.
His gaze goes to the bird’s nest. The packaging is bright red, Spring Festival red, with fancy golden edges and an engraving of flying sparrows on the front. I’d bought it only after consulting about twenty different articles along the lines of “The Ten Best Herbal Gift Packages to Win Over Your Boyfriend’s Mother.” “This is nice,” he says.
“Thanks. It’s what the article rec—” I cut myself off. Clear my throat. “Thanks,” I repeat awkwardly.
Smiling a little, he takes the box from me, and I do my best to ignore the light brush of his knuckles against mine, and the way he seems to notice it too, his body tensing for the briefest fraction of a second before he turns around.
I can’t help but stare as I follow Caz into his apartment.
The whole setup reminds me of a museum, or one of those celebrity home tours where you know the celebrity doesn’t actually live there half the time. It’s too polished. Too extravagant.
The walls of the wide corridor are lined with framed black-and-white photos and abstract art—the kind that look like someone accidentally spilled a paint bucket onto white canvas but probably sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars and represent the inherent unknowability of the human condition or something—and these gorgeous traditional Chinese landscape paintings, with red-crowned cranes and sloping mountains captured in rich, sweeping ink.
Then there are all the antiques on display: shiny bronzeware raised on tables and slender porcelain vases covered in these lovely floral patterns. There’s even a replica—at least Ithinkit’s a replica—of a life-size terra-cotta warrior just propped up casually in one corner, like this is a totally normal choice of interior decoration.
I have a sudden, horrifying vision of myself tripping on my own feet and knocking over the vases one by one like dominoes, and I instinctively move closer to Caz’s side.
“So my father isn’t here today,” he tells me as we turn the corner, his voice impassive. “The hospital called this morning and said they needed him there for an emergency operation. He wanted to pass along his apologies.”
“Of—of course. That’s totally understandable,” I say quickly. “And I mean, if he really wants to meet me, we could always just reschedule . . .”
Caz shakes his head. “He gets, like, two days off a year.”
Soon the corridor opens up into a bright, high-ceilinged living room with huge windows, and a middle-aged woman waiting by the sofas.
Caz’s mom pretty much looks exactly how I imagined she would, only more stylish. Her straight, shoulder-length bob is dark against the dewy white of her skin, her thin eyebrows tattooed on. And even though she’s standing in the middle of her own living room, she’s wearing the kind of satin blouse and ironed pencil skirt that would suit an extravagant company brunch.
I glance down at my own plain white shirt, suddenly afraid I’ve underdressed. Not that it matters. I shouldn’twantto impress Caz’s mother, who I’ll only be seeing this one time in my life. But still. It’s the principle of the thing.
“Oh, you must be Eliza!” she greets me, walking up to us.
“Ayi hao,” I say politely, and for some reason, I decide to bow. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Her pink-painted lips stretch into a wide smile. She has deep dimples, I notice, just like her son.
“Wa, I like your hair,” she tells me with an envious kind of sigh. “It’s so black and straight. Beautiful.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I realize it’s my turn to pay her a compliment now. An even better compliment than the one she just gave me. “I really like your . . .”Quick. Think of something, or else it’ll sound fake.My eyes roam over the house, a thousand frantic, half-formed thoughts firing through my brain at once. Do I compliment the decor? Is that a thing mothers like to hear? Or her makeup? Or would it be rude to draw attention to the fact that she’s wearing makeup in the first place? Crap. I’m taking too long.Just say something. Anything.“I love your . . . nose.”
I wince, almost certain she’s going to start admonishing Caz for bringing home a weirdo, but she looks genuinely delighted.
“You do?” Her fingers flutter to her nose. “I always worry that my nose bridge isn’t high enough—”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” I reassure her. Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I add, “I can really see where your son got his good looks from.”
And I didn’t think it was possible, but her smile grows even wider, into an expression of such pure motherly affection that I feel a brief pang behind my ribs. Before coming here, part of me had wished she would turn out to be mean and judgmental, one of those evil mothers-in-law from the C-dramas I always watch, someone I could stay wholly indifferent to and forget about the second I left the building.
But now I can’t help basking in her approval. Wanting more of it. How am I supposed to hide my feelings from Cazandconvince his mom I care about him at the same time?
“You’re very sweet,” she says, then pats Caz’s hair down with one hand (he immediately winces and ruffles it back into his usual messy style), and adds in a stage whisper, “I don’t think we should feed his ego anymore, though. He has enough people telling him how handsome he is every day. It’s probably why he spends so long in front of the mirror before school—”
