Page 66 of This Time It's Real
Then I open his fridge, blinking into the white-blue artificial light.
There’s an alarming shortage of fresh vegetables and meat inside. A half-opened packet of Yakult and that popular Wanglaoji herbal drink Ma loves. Three canned lychees, two yogurts. An almost-empty jar of extra-mild Laoganma sauce, some withered spring onions, and a few bottles of fish sauce.
Hardly enough to scrape together a meal.
“Are you judging the contents of my refrigerator?” Caz calls from behind me. The couch is lined up with the kitchen entrance so that he has a fairly clear view of everything I’m doing.
“Yes. Very much so,” I reply, and glance back at him. “Is it always this empty?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How many people are at home. If it’s just me . . .”
I can guess at what he was about to say. If it’s just him, there’s no point in cooking or trying very hard at any of this domestic stuff. And judging from everything I know about him and his career and his family, it’s probablyjust himquite often.
“I’m fine with it,” he says abruptly, like he can maybe sense the conclusion I’m drawing on my own. “I mean, my mother’s home often enough, and my father—he’s literally busysaving lives. What kind of asshole would I be if I resented that?”
“I . . . don’t think it’d make you an asshole,” I tell him, picking my words with care. “I think it’d just make you someone’s son.”
The emotion that crosses his face then—it’s not something I can begin to put into words.
But it makes my heart hurt.
My attention is pulled by the sudden, violent boiling of water. I lift the pot lid before the water has a chance to spill over, and pour the white rice inside, stirring it a few times.
“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Caz says.
I roll my eyes. “I can’tbake, but I’ve been cooking for my family since I was nine. I’m pretty sure I can handle this.”
“Since you were nine?” There’s a curious edge to his tone, like he genuinely wants to know.
I hesitate. This isn’t the sort of thing I’d usually talk about, not even with Zoe, but he still looks so uncomfortable just lying there, so frustrated with himself, that I figure it can’t hurt to distract him. “Well, yeah. My mom was always too busy with work or away on a business trip to worry about dinner, and my dad’s work schedule was too irregular to allow him to cook at the same time every day, so I guess I kind of just naturally took over.” I stir the pot again. “I don’t know. The cooking itself has never really interested me, but I liked feeling like I was making a contribution to the family, you know? Proving I could help out in my own way.”
Soon, I have the porridge cooking and a bowl of pork floss and scallions prepared to sprinkle on top. When I turn around to check if Caz has fallen asleep, he’s watching me, his black gaze inexpressibly soft. Serious.
It makes me nervous.
“What are you staring at?” I ask, trying to sound casual despite the heat rushing to my cheeks.
He tilts his head, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver. “Nothing.”
• • •
When the porridge is ready, I bring it over to Caz on a fancy tray, crouching down beside him as he sits up carefully, his back resting against the couch cushions.
“You can drink it yourself, right?” I ask, holding the bowl and spoon out to him.
He somehow has the energy to roll his eyes at me. “Don’t worry, Eliza, I wasn’t going to ask you to feed me.”
“Wasn’t expecting you to,” I mumble, but now I’m wondering if that’s what I should’ve offered.No, I decide. He’s running a fever—he hasn’t lost feeling in his limbs.
“Thank you, by the way,” Caz says as he takes the porridge from me, the white steam unfurling between us. “For—for all this.” He clears his throat. “I haven’t . . . No one’s really taken care of me like this in a long time. So. Thank you.”
“There’s a better way to say thank you, you know,” I tell him, hoping to keep things light. To hide the warm, exquisite ache blooming inside me, the forbidden impulse to set the porridge bowl back down and wrap my arms tight around him, hold him, have him hold me too. To offer him the whole world, protect him from everything that could potentially hurt him. “Just three little words.”
He stills for a moment, confusion rippling over his features, before he catches on. Huffs out a sigh. “I don’t—”
