Page 62 of This Time It's Real
But that’s the problem.
If this goes on, I might just die of guilt. But if this ends, I already have too much to grieve. Somehow, despite all my rules and reservations, I’m already in too deep, so far lost in the waves that sinking feels easier than swimming.
“Hey,” Caz says softly, lowering himself onto a stone bench and pulling me to his side. “Is this . . . ?” He pauses. I watch him inhale, exhale. “Is this too much for you? Do you want to stop?”
My heart drops, and the night seems to freeze around us.
Do I want to stop?
I should. The smart thing—the selfless thing—to do would be to call it off while I still can, while most of my heart is still intact. There are already too many people involved in this: Emily, his mother, all my readers and his fans. And of coursehewouldn’t have a problem calling it off; for him, it really is just another job, no different from any drama project he’s taken up before.
But as I gaze over at his face in the dark, the thought of letting him gonowsends a spasm of physical pain through me. Because I know all too well how things will turn out after our arrangement is over: We’ll go back to being strangers, and I’ll be alone again, like I always am. I’ll never get to talk to him, to be this close to him, even if it’s just pretend.
Because I’m selfish, and I want to live in this dream for as long as I can.
And I know exactly how to ensure it happens.
“We can’t stop,” I hear myself say, the lie rising fully formed to my lips. How many lies have I told by now? Too many to count. But the only way I managed to rope Caz into this whole arrangement in the first place was by making it about his career; now it’s also the only way to keep him here. “Because . . . because we still need to do an interview together.”
Caz draws back. “An interview? I don’t remember you mentioning it.”
“I must’ve forgotten,” I tell him, hoping he can’t hear the waver in my breath. “But it’s with this huge media company, and I already promised Sarah Diaz we’d be available. It’s not scheduled for until after the Spring Festival holidays, though, so if we can keep this up until then . . .”
“I’m willing if you are,” he says slowly. It’s too dark to make out his expression, but I can feel his gaze on me. As if he’s looking for something. “But there’s no other reason, beside the interview?”
I tense. The words are there, crowded in the back of my throat. I could tell him. Be honest for once in my life. Be brave. My heart starts drumming louder, so loud I’m certain he’ll hear it. I breathe in.Tell him.But all that comes out is: “Of course not.”
“Of course not,” he repeats. For some reason, his voice is strained.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The last day before the holidays, Caz rocks up to English class looking how I feel most of the time—
Like shit.
I mean, he’s stillCaz Song, so his features are still aesthetically, geometrically pleasing, but there’s a sickly pallor to his skin, a kind of exhausted, bleary look in his eyes. Even his footsteps seem heavy.
“You look kind of tired,” I inform him when he plops his stuff down next to mine and slides into his usual seat. We’re meant to be answering the reading questions forPride and Prejudice, but what with the prospect of imminent freedom and the dreary winter weather, no one’s actually working—including the teacher.
“Really? Because I slept very well last night,” Caz says. His voice sounds different as well, raspier than usual and quieter. This is the kind of thing I doubt anybody else would notice, but ever since our conversation in the darkness of the compound, I’ve been hypersensitive around him, tuned in to his every word and move, trying to decipher how he really feels about me. It’s been a long week.
“You’re not sick, are you?” I ask.
“Impossible,” he says firmly. “I’m never sick.”
Unconvinced, I lean over and press my hand to his forehead—and almost gasp. His skin is burning. “You—you’re really hot.”
Instead of reacting with fear or alarm, like any ordinary person would, the corner of Caz’s mouth tugs up. “You just noticed?”
I pull back with a scowl. “Don’t be conceited. I obviously meant your temperature; it’s way too hot to be normal.”
He waves my concerns away. “I’m not sure if you know this, Eliza,” he says dryly, “but human skin ismeantto be warm.”
“Yeah, except your skin is literally burning up—”
He sighs. Turns and looks at me with such calm I want to scream. “Maybe my skin is just always this way.”
“Are you secretly a werewolf fromTwilight, Caz?” I snap. “Because it’s either that, or your body is in a state of rapid deterioration as we speak.”
