Page 69 of This Time It's Real
I chew quietly on a prawn cracker and let them gossip in the background. But then Second Aunt says:
“That Caz Song reallyisgood-looking, isn’t he? His costume designer inThe Legend of Feiyanmust’ve loved him too; I’ve never seen someone pull off an ancient costume so well.”
And I almost choke on my cracker.Oh my god.They’re talking about Caz. Not just Caz, but him and his former costar, Angela Fei. The actress who was literally voted one of the Most Stunning Women Alive last year. Even thoughIknow they aren’t together, a sharp taste fills my mouth. I stop eating.
Across the table, Emily opens her mouth—probably to announce to the entire table who Caz isreallydating. I shoot her a quick warning look. Luckily, our sister telepathy is as strong as ever, because she pauses, and snaps her mouth shut again.
Neither of my aunts notices.
“No, hang on. I’m pretty sure I heard somewhere that Caz is already in a relationship. With a suren, no less,” Second Aunt says, her gold and jade bracelets jangling together as she shakes her head.Suren: non-celebrity. She says it the way a noblewoman would say the wordpeasant.
Third Aunt’s brows rise. “A suren? Seriously? When he could have had Angela Fei?”
“Maybe she’s even prettier than Angela,” Second Aunt says, in a tone like she highly doubts it. “Or maybe she has a good personality.”
Third Aunt snorts. “Who are you kidding? Young people these days don’t date based on personality. Especially not when you’re as popular as Caz Song.” Then she swivels her head toward me. “What do you think, Ai-Ai?”
“H-huh?” I manage. It’s a miracle I can find the strength to speak at all.
“You’ve been listening, haven’t you?” she says, waving a hand in the air. “Can you think of any good reason why a super-attractive, wealthy actor near the peak of his career would choose some random girl over his gorgeous costar?”
“Um, no,” I say, swallowing hard, a stone lodged in my gut. “No. I really can’t.”
I’m lying in bed that night, still wallowing in self-pity from my aunts’ conversation earlier, when Caz calls me for the first time.
“Hello?” I say, pressing the phone between my cheek and pillow. “This is Eliza. Uh, did you call the wrong number or something?”
I hear him laugh then, the low sound washing over the speaker like a tide off the shore, and despite myself, I flush. There’s something strangely intimate about calling someone in the dark. It’s like listening to your favorite song in the middle of a crowded subway; the world narrows down to just you and this voice in your ear, while everyone else around you goes about their lives, completely oblivious. It feels sacred. Like a secret.
“I know it’s you, Eliza,” he says simply. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah.” He pauses, and there’s a faint rustling sound, the brief creak of springs, like he’s sitting down somewhere. “Are you busy now, or—”
“No,” I tell him, because it appears I’ve forgotten how to have a normal conversation consisting of more than one syllable. Then again, I’ve never had a boy call me at night before, not unless it was for a group project. “Uh, you?”
“I’m back in the hotel,” he replies. “We just finished shooting a pretty big scene today.” There’s a distinct pause. “A kiss scene, actually.”
“Oh,” I say again. I don’t know why he’s telling me this, or how the hell I’m meant to respond, or how to block the image out from my brain. Caz. Caz kissing someone else, someone beautiful, with long legs and shiny hair and perfect skin. Someone like Angela Fei. “Um, that’s nice. Congrats.”
“I . . . wanted to tell you.” Maybe it’s because of the static from the speaker or the reception on his end, but he sounds almost nervous. “I mean, I feel like I should.”
“What?”
“The kiss scene,” he says slowly, with meaning, and I kind of wish he’d stop saying that word, because it’s inviting all sorts of confusing, forbidden thoughts about him into my head. “It was—I mean, we had to do five different takes, and it was long, and my hands were on her waist, but there wasn’t tongue or anything. And our clothes were on. Fully.”
“I am . . . so confused right now.”
He makes a small, frustrated noise. “Do you seriously not understand what I’m saying?”
“No,” I tell him, frustrated too, heat spreading fast over my body, my face. “All I can hear is you describing yourself kissing someone in very rich detail. Which is just lovely—again, really happy for you, but—”
“You’re not—you’re not jealous?”
Of course I am, I want to say. I want to hang up the phone and go find him in person and shake him. I’m so jealous it’s embarrassing. It makes me sick, even though I don’t really have arightto be jealous in the first place. There’s nothing in our agreement that forbids him from kissing other people. Especially considering how it’s part of his job.
But maybe, after that night at his place, I’ve accidentally let something slip again . . . Maybe he’s regretting it, opening up to me even a little, or he’s worried I’ve taken it the wrong way, that I think I have some claim on him now. Maybe that’s why he’s asking.
