Page 77 of This Time It's Real
“Eliza?”
My heart lurches.
That voice. Smooth and low and slightly wry, as though sharing an inside joke with himself. I would know that voice anywhere, but it can’t be—itcan’t—
Slowly, I lift my gaze, taking in the details bit by bit. Dark jeans come into view, then a loose white shirt, leaving the arms bared to the cold, the muscles long and lithe, a faint, puckered scar running down the center . . .
Of course it’s him.
“Oh. Hi,” I say, casually tossing the twig over my shoulder and swaying for a dangerous few seconds before standing up, smile already forced into place. As if this is exactly how I enjoy bumping into people. Covered in sweat. In mid-squat. While wiping animal excrement off my shoes and failing at it, no less.
“Hi?” Caz says, head cocked to one side. It sounds like a question.
You don’t have any real feelings for me?
No. Stop. Don’t think about it.
“So, um. I stepped in dog poo,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” His tone is appropriately somber, but the corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s making a serious effort to suppress his laughter. “I can see that.”
“Right.” I nod. My face feels all hot and itchy, and not just because of the sweat. “Well, I was also out on a jog. You know, getting those steps in.”
“I can see that too.” He gestures to my workout clothes, his eyes lingering.
An awkward silence stretches and strains between us. Or maybe the awkwardness is only me. Caz looks calm, unaffected. Still fighting back a laugh. It’s as if our kiss on the roof never happened, as if it hasn’t been nine whole days since we last spoke.
I feel a violent rush of anger toward him. This whole time I’ve been desperately trying to distract myself, fighting off all thoughts of him—so desperate I even resorted torunningunder non-life-threatening circumstances—he’s been . . . what? Just living his best life? Studying his scripts? Having a great time forgetting all about me?
My nails dig into my palms.
Caz says something, but I don’t hear him,can’thear him above the violent buzzing in my ears. Then he repeats himself, louder. “It’s going to rain soon.”
He’s not the kind to make small talk about the weather, so I pause despite myself and follow his gaze up. Sure enough, dark clouds are gathering overhead like a flock of mad ravens, coloring the lake water from green to a deep, depressing gray. That earthy scent in the air is sharper now too, brimming with unshed rain.
“We should probably head inside,” Caz says, looking back at me, his eyes almost as black as his lashes. It occurs to me with a jolt that we’re standing too close. Again. “I can walk you to your apartment if you’d like.”
I fold my arms across my chest, creating a very ineffectual barrier between us. “No. It’s fine. My shoes aren’t clean yet, and besides, I doubt it’ll rainthatquickly. You can sort of see the sun—”
The words have barely left my mouth when the first few droplets of rain splatter over my top, the cold seeping straight through the polyester sleeves.
Then, as if someone’s turned on a giant faucet behind the clouds, it starts pouring.
“Yeah, what were you saying?” Caz asks, his voice almost lost beneath the heavy onrush of water. It’s everywhere now, beating down on the pavement in a quickening rhythm, slapping against outstretched leaves, crushing thin stalks of grass flat to the pavement like a heavy boot. The smell of wet dirt and pine rises to my nose.
I glare at him, blinking through the rain. I’m already soaked. “Just—just go. I can walk home myself.”
He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shoots me a faintly amused look. “Are you sure? Because you look a little . . . winded. Plus, your apartment isn’t that far from mine—”
I shake my head quickly, water blurring the edges of my vision. I can’t trust myself to be alone with him like this. “I’m fine.I’ll be home in no time.” But when I try to step back, my leg muscles spasm, and I wobble violently, a hot, tearing pain shooting down my calves.Great. Just wonderful.The one time I decide to engage in voluntary physical activity and my body gives up on me.
In an instant, all the humor falls away from Caz’s face, replaced by concern. “You evidently can’t.”
“I’m just tired from the running, that’s all. I’ll be okay soon.”
He casts me a long, doubtful look. Then: “Let me carry you,” he says simply. Readily. His hair has fallen over his forehead in long, wet-ink strands, his shirt plastered to his skin, and despite being drenched from head to toe in freezing rain, I feel all of a sudden like there’s water boiling inside me, dangerously close to spilling over.
“What?”
