Page 76 of This Time It's Real
“Ah.” With what I hope sounds only like casual curiosity, I ask, “And do you think it is?”
“Not sure.” She shrugs. “I’d probably need more evidence. I hear they’re doing this big interview together soon, so . . . maybe we’ll see then?” She trails off with a shrug.
I quickly excuse myself and make a beeline for my table on the other end of the restaurant. It’s not until I’m sitting down between Ma and Emily, my face hidden behind the laminated menu and its many beautifully shot images of steamed buns, that I allow myself to relax.
Then, while my parents are bickering over what type of dumplings to order (Ba launches into a moving, impassioned speech about how pork-and-chive dumplings were a key part of his childhood and eating them always reminds him of home; Ma strikes back with hard statistics—the last time we ordered pork-and-chive dumplings, we only ate 40 percent of them, and plus, can’t he see that theshrimpones are on sale?) and Emily is secretly jotting down every dessert option there is on the order form, I slide my phone out from my pocket and search my own name, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.
The comments are, unfortunately, divided too:
@alyssaL:listen I’m usually pretty cynical about this stuff but did u guys SEE that kiss? the sparks? the intensity?? tHE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER??? like I know Caz is an actor but I don’t think he’s THAT good an actor lol
@violetthewen:I’M SO CONFLICTEDDD now akdfjlala is it real oR NOT
@clazzy001:the most unbelievable part for me is why someone like caz song would even be dating this eliza girl???? Angela Fei is way prettier
@huachengseye:ok either they’re REALLY committed to this publicity stunt or they’re REALLY in love w each other and just dgaf
@chanel.cao:not everything is for publicity y’all . . .
I slide my phone away, my stomach churning. As much as I hate to concede he’s right, it’s just like Caz predicted: My plan was nowhere near as effective as I’d hoped.
Which means neither of us is in the clear yet.
By the time we get back home from the restaurant, I’m determined to find myself a distraction.
Something that will force aside all thoughts of Caz, and the kiss, and the speculation online. Something that will allow me to achieve a state of total, blissful zen. Normally when I’m looking for an escape, I’ll just write, but these days all writing does is remind me of Craneswift, and my essay, which leads me right back to Caz again.
So I decide to go running.
Aside from the obvious irony of me literally running away from my problems, this seems like a great idea at first. I dig out the cute two-piece workout set I bought years ago for the aesthetic and haven’t touched since, tie my hair back in a high ponytail, and do a few stretches down by the playground. The early spring air is crisp with the scent of an impending storm, the temperature just starting to warm, with the occasional cool breeze. Even better, there aren’t too many people crowding the compound’s special jogging lanes at this hour.
Everything’s perfect.
Then I actuallystart runningand come to the rapid conclusion that I hate it.
My body, so used to mild variations of sitting and lying down and slow, unhurried walks between classes, seems to revolt against the sudden change in rhythm. I’ve barely made it halfway around the lake before my legs start cramping, a tight, wrenching pain that shoots up the muscles in my thighs every time my feet hit the pavement.
Still, I keep running. Forcing my feet forward.
I push on for a couple more yards, gulping down air with increasing difficulty until I sound how I imagine dying walruses must sound, when I see an old man from the corner of my eye. Anoldold man. He’s probably in his late seventies or early eighties, judging from the deep wrinkles etched into his skin and the dragon-head walking cane trembling in his grip, and he’s shuffling down the lane parallel to mine.
We make eye contact. He flashes me a shaky thumbs-up.
And then—good god—heoutrunsme. Or, well, outwalks, which is without a doubt much worse. All I can do is stare at his retreating figure until he rounds the corner of an apartment building, his cane’s tap-tapping fading into the distance.
Apparently, the humiliation is too much for my body to bear. My knees wobble. My legs give out. I stumble to a stop by the lake pavilion, panting hard, the amount of sweat blurring my vision and trickling down my upper lip wholly disproportionate to the amount of exercise I’ve just completed.
The only upside of my current state is that Caz Song is definitely off my mind now, because I’m far too preoccupied with my more basic, immediate needs, such as breathing. And not fainting.
I spend an eternity like this, doubled over, clinging to the pavilion pillars and hating everything, before I find the strength to start walking back home.
And then I step into something brown and foul and squishy, which of course turns out to be—
“Crap,” I mutter, staring at the literal dog crap now smeared over the heel of my sneakers.You have got to be kidding me.You haveactuallygot to be kidding me.When no one springs out from a nearby bush to confirm that, indeed, my life is a practical joke, I throw an exasperated hand up in the air. “I mean, wow. Okay. This might as well be happening.”
After scanning the surrounding area once—all empty save for two beady-eyed pigeons gliding across the melted fringes of the lake—I squat down awkwardly right there, in the middle of the lane, and attempt to scrape my shoes clean with a twig.
I’m so focused on my task that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until they stop right in front of me.
