Page 65 of This Time It's Real
Through the narrow sliver in the doorway, I catch a glimpse of his face. The trace of insecurity there. The shadows under his eyes. Caz is the most image-conscious person I know, and he’s a wreck.
“Come on,” I say, pulling harder. “Think of it as—as doing me a favor. If you don’t let me in, and you end up dying,I’llbe the one facing charges for negligence as the last person to have seen you. The rest of my life will be ruined.”
He rolls his eyes, but I feel the door go slightly slack on his end. “Okay, that’s definitely not how that works.”
“I’ll be consumed by guilt,” I go on as if he hasn’t spoken. “The police will ask me: How could you just leave him there? And I’ll have to explain: I didn’t want to, but he basically shut the door in my face—”
His mouth tightens. “Fine. But I want to make it clear that you’re here by your own choice. I don’t need help or whatever. I’m completely okay.” The words have barely left his lips when he dissolves into a violent coughing fit.
I try not to laugh at him as I follow him into the house. At first, I think the situation might not be as bad as I feared. He’s walking well enough on his own, his back turned toward me, his every step stiff but deliberate, his shoulders thrown back as if he’s in the middle of shooting a scene. He even makes a point of checking his hair in the hallway mirror. But before he’s made it into the next room, he sways on his feet and doubles over right afterward, one hand gripping the closest table for support. His breathing uneven, his knuckles bone-white.
My heart lurches.
“Yes, I can definitely see how okay you are,” I mutter as I step forward and place one arm around him, trying to hold him up. His weight shifts onto me, and I nearly stumble under it. “You’re—you’re a lot heavier than you look.”
“It’s all muscle,” he protests, even as he’s struggling to stand up.
God, he’s ridiculous.
We manage to cross the corridor and enter the living room together—slowly, clumsily, like a pair from one of those three-legged races. But we manage it all the same. As I lower Caz onto the closest couch, one hand rested protectively around the back of his neck, the other around his waist, I scan the room. It’s messier than it was when I visited two weeks ago, with jackets strewn over the pillows and annotated scripts lying open on the coffee table, but there’s no sign of his parents. Not even a scarf, or an extra pair of slippers.
“They’re both on business trips,” Caz says, reading my mind. “A medical conference in Shanghai. Left a few days ago.”
“Oh.” This does answer what I was wondering earlier, but for some reason, I find myself still searching the tables, the marble high counter, even the carpeted floor, as if something else is missing . . . And then it hits me. “Isn’t there any water around here?”
He stiffens, confusion flashing over his face. “Sorry, did you want a drink? I’ll get you some—”
And he actually makes to get up from the couch.
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I rush to say, pushing him back down. He complies, but I can feel the tension in his arms, the rigidity of his frame. “I meant, haven’tyouhad any water since you got home? Or, like, medicine?”
He gives a slight, defensive shake of his head. Looks away.
“Well, have you had dinner, at least?”
“Dinner,” he repeats, like it’s a foreign word. “Does . . . chewing gum count?” He must see my expression, because he glowers back—though he looks so weak, it’s closer to a sulk. “Okay, it’s really not that big a deal.”
And even though I know he’s sick and I’m meant to be extra patient and caring and all that, I throw my hands up in frustration. “I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive these past seventeen years. Like, do you justnot eator take care of yourself in any way whatsoever and just pray that your body will miraculously pull through enough to—” I stop abruptly when I see him smiling. My hands drop back down. “I’m sorry, is there somethingfunnyabout this?”
“No,” he says, but the corners of his lips tug higher, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not. “Nothing.”
I glare at him. “Tell me.”
“I don’t—”
“Tell me.”
“Fine. It’s just cute that you’re so concerned, that’s all,” he says with a shrug.
I open my mouth, then snap it shut. For a moment, I’m rendered genuinely speechless. “I’m not concerned,” I finally force out, folding my arms tight across my chest. “I’m irritated. And horrified by your total disregard for your own health.”
His smile widens. “Clearly.”
I twist around, determined to ignore that smile. I’ve observed Caz Song long enough by now to know that he dials up his charms whenever he feels uncomfortable or at risk of being vulnerable. He’d flirt with a teaspoon if the situation called for it. “I’m going to make some food,” I announce, heading for the kitchen. “You just stay here and—I don’t know. Rest. Try not to die.”
“I’ll try my best,” he promises, mock solemn.
One of the more useful skills I’ve picked up from all the moving around is the ability to navigate pretty much any unfamiliar space. Even though I’ve only been to Caz’s place once before, and I’ve never set foot in his kitchen, it takes me less than a minute to figure out where all the pans and cutlery and ingredients are. Another minute to fill up a pot of water, turn the stove on, and start rinsing a cup of white rice.
