Page 67 of This Time It's Real
“Come on. You know what they are.”
“Eliza—”
“Caz.”
“Okay, fine.” A beat. His eyes lock on mine, a stubborn muscle twitching in his jaw, and the next three words that leave his mouth sound pried out, strained. “You . . . were right.”
I feel my lips split into a broad grin, savoring this small victory, the look of resignation on his face. “In that case, you’reverywelcome.”
He pauses. Then adds, “And I’m also sorry, by the way.”
I look at him in surprise. “About what?”
“I don’t know. Things have just been a bit weird between us recently, and . . .” He looks like he’s going to say something else, and my heart lurches—but then he stops himself. “But we’re cool now, yeah?”
I swallow. Smile. Try not to dwell too hard on what he means, if I was the one who made things weird in the first place, if he’s still thinking about that day in the milk tea store, or maybe my embarrassing breakdown below his apartment. “Yeah. Of course.”
Later, he finishes his dinner and compliments my cooking (“It really is much better than the cake”), and I stay by his side until he falls asleep. Until the moon rises higher in the night sky.
And long after that.
As I look at him, so unguarded in sleep, I get this odd feeling in my chest—a kind of twisting sensation, tender as a fresh sore, sharp as the sting of tears. Overwhelmingly so. Like my heart is trying to climb up my throat.
I lurch backward.
Caz’s eyes flutter open, his gaze focusing on me, night black and intent. I feel a little shaky under the weight of it.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To, um.” My voice is failing. “To clean up—”
“Stay,” he whispers, the word falling so fast from his lips it could be instinct, a slip of the tongue, a mistake. He looks almost surprised himself, almost shy, though he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t run away, the way I would. And it’s only when I see the tense, rolling motion in his throat that I realizejusthow hard it is for him to be witnessed in his current raw, weakened state. To ask for anything from anyone.
It makes me want to be braver too, to offer him something in return. Something real, for once.
“I—Okay.” Slowly, I kneel back down by the couch. It’s so quiet in the room that I can hear my every staggered breath, the low creak of the floorboards as I shift my weight. Everything is shifting. Tilting. Careening wildly off course, and I’m not sure how to make it stop, or if that’s what I even want. “Okay. But on one condition.”
“What?” he asks, instantly wary.
“If you ever feel sick again, or hurt, or injured, or weak, youhaveto tell me. Don’t just keep it to yourself and act tough—”
He starts to protest, but I continue over him, knowing I’m probably crossing some invisible line but not caring.
“Because no matter what happens . . . we’re friends now, right? I want to be the person you know you can turn to. The place where you feel safe. I want you to feel like you can just be—human, in front of me. Like you don’t have to always show your best side. Okay?” I add when he opens his mouth to argue again. “Promise me.”
He swallows, hard. Sees something in my face—resolve, maybe, or all the worry I’ve been trying desperately to conceal—that makes him nod. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat, letting out a quiet breath of relief.
“Good.”
A small smile curves my lips.“Great.”
And then, since I’ve crossed the forbidden line already, I reach over impulsively and stroke his hair gently, with one hand.
It’s soft. Even softer than I expected. Caz’s eyes fall closed again, but not in a tired way; on the contrary, all the muscles in his body seem suddenly tensed.
He only seems to relax when I scoot forward, bring my hand lower down to his arm, and tell him what I’ve wanted someone to say to me for as long as I can remember. What I’m still waiting for someone to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
