Page 75 of This Time It's Real
“Really?” he says, one brow raised, looking exactly the way he did that first day I spoke to him, when I claimed to not have overheard his call and he didn’t believe me at all.
I hear myself swallow. Try to ignore the sensation of his hands still on my skin. “N-no. None.”
Caz responds by leaning in, and for one wild, beautiful, terrifying second, I think he’s going to press his lips to mine, and I can’t help it—I lean in too. But instead he merely smiles, as if he’s just proven something to both of us, and lowers his curved mouth to my ear.
“Liar,” he whispers.
And I don’t know what to do, how to react, how to process that I’ve been caught. So I revert to my old habits, my ingrained methods of self-defense: I wrench myself free from his grip. I spin on my heels, twisting away from him. And I run. My feet pound all the way down the stairs, and I shove the door open, bursting into the blinding sunlight. I don’t go to class and I don’t stop until I’m far enough away and alone in a remote corner of campus. Until it’s just me, my racing thoughts, and my violently pounding heartbeat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I try hard not to think about it.
Really. I tryvery, very hard to block out all thoughts of Caz Song’s soft lips brushing mine, his calloused hands cupping my face, the way my insides had sparked and melted as if left too long over red-burning coals.
But the memories keep rushing back, persistent, in such unwanted clarity I might as well have recorded our exchange, analyzed the entire scene over and over like the movies we have to write comparative essays on for English class.
What is the significance of the line “So you don’t have any real feelings for me?” What did the look in his eyes symbolize? Discuss, with evidence.
All through the next week, while Caz is away shooting, they continue to spring up on me at random: when I’m halfway through rinsing the dishes (because my parents like to use the dishwasher as a drying rack, and simply don’t trust dishwashers anyhow); when I’m changing into my pajamas later at night, half my shirt stuck over my head, long hair tangled up in the buttons—
What are you thinking right now?
“Shit,” I mumble out loud, yanking the shirt down with a little too much force and accidentally pulling a few hairs out. My eyes water.“Shit,”I say again, louder, angry at no one but myself.
I refresh my phone—no new messages since last Friday—then slam it down. I block him, then unblock him before he can find out. I delete our entire chat history, then instantly regret it.
And it only gets worse from there.
On Sunday morning, Ma—having recently finalized a major project and cleared out some time in her cramped schedule—takes us out to Din Tai Fung for brunch.
I’m finding my way back from the restaurant bathroom, very narrowly avoiding crashing into a waitress carrying a massive stack of prawn dumplings and xiaolongbao, when I see Caz’s face.
As in: his face, magnified times ten and airbrushed to above-human levels of perfection and printed over a glossy poster by the table where they’re serving tea. It’s an advertisement for some kind of lychee-flavored soft drink. He’s holding the candy-pink bottle up with one hand and smiling with his mouth closed. It’s his fake smile, the one he uses when he’s forced to do something he doesn’t want.
The tagline below reads,Get your girl something sweet.
And it’s all so corny and unexpected and ridiculously ill-timed that I can only gape at the poster, at his beautiful, familiar face, the features I’ve studied in such close proximity in private, blown up for everyone to admire. Something hot and painful wraps around my heart and squeezes.
This poster shouldn’t be here. Or maybe I shouldn’t be here.
But if nothing else, this proves that my reaction that day was wise, accurate. Not the kiss, but me running away from him. Because one shiny poster in a dim sum restaurant is only the beginning. If Caz’s career continues on its current trajectory, if he grows more and more famous, picks up more sponsorships and endorsement opportunities and hit dramas left and right, it won’t just be him advertising a cute little drink. It’ll be his face on lit-up billboards; his smile on subways; his dark, scorching gaze every time I turn on the TV, remembering how it felt when he used that gaze on me. He will be everywhere, haunting every cursed corner of the country, and I will be left reeling in his wake.
“Are you a fan too?”
I spin around, startled, to find a girl maybe only a year or two younger than I am. She’s dressed from head to toe in designer clothes and staring at the poster of Caz as if she’s just seen a vision of God himself, both hands clutched tight to her chest, cheeks flushed despite the cool indoor temperature. If we were in a cartoon, her eyes would probably be bright pink heart signs.
“Um . . .” I say, only now translating her question from Mandarin to English inside my head and processing it. “Something like that. I guess.”
She releases a small, wistful sigh, eyes still glued to the poster. Then she says, “He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”
I try not to stab myself with one of the metal chopsticks lying on the table beside me. “Mm,” I reply, as noncommittally as possible.
“It’s such a shame, though,” she continues, clearly oblivious to how little I want to be having this conversation right now, or ever.
“What? What’s a shame?”
She raises a perfectly shaped brow, like I’m playing dumb. “Haven’t you heard about the whole scandal with him and the writer girl? Some people are saying it’s a publicity stunt.”
