Page 86 of This Time It's Real
A giddy, overwhelming surge of relief—mingled with disbelief—shoots through me.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says to Rachel, shaking her hand. “You know how Beijing traffic can be.” Then he turns to me for the first time since that day in the rain and smiles.
And my heart falls. Breaks upon impact.
Because it’s his formal smile, the same smile he gives strangers and fans and interviewers like Rachel, the corners of his mouth curving up just slightly, neither of his dimples showing.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. I should just be glad he’s still honoring our agreement after everything that happened between us. Yet as I force myself to smile back at him and watch him take the seat beside me, so close his shoulders almost brush my own, I can’t help feeling like there’s an axe lodged in my chest, twisting deeper with every passing second.
“It isso goodto see you two together,” Rachel gushes as she sits down opposite us, hands folded neatly over her skirt. “I’m sure you’ve heard this, like, a million times already, but you really do make thecutestcouple.”
Just smile and play along, I command myself, squashing the urge to glance over at Caz, to assess his reaction at her words.It’ll all be over soon.
But the interview drags on forever. After launching into a long, complimentary introduction, covering everything from my cultural background to the schools I’ve attended to how my essay went viral in the first place, Rachel pivots to Caz’s acting career, her Colgate beam widening.
“You’ve starred in quite a few popular works, haven’t you?” she says once she’s listed them all. “From campus dramas to costume and xianxia dramas.”
“Yeah, guess I have.” Unlike me, Caz obviously has no problem doing interviews; his answers come out smooth and easy, the result of years of practice and experience under the spotlight. But there’s an uncharacteristic tension to his body that, while I doubt is noticeable to onlookers, pulls at the narrow space between us like a taut cord.
Maybe, I dare think,it’s killing him the way it’s killing me, sit- ting this close together, acting like everything’s fine, like we’re dating andin love, when we haven’t even spoken in more than a week—
“And what do you think of his work, Eliza?” Rachel asks. “Do you watch his dramas often?”
I blink, not expecting to be cued. “Um.” I clear my throat. “I do, of course I do. Often. He’s great in them.” This part requires no bullshitting—heisgreat in his dramas, and by now, I’ve watched everything he’s ever acted in, including his first minor role as the prince’s guard in an early palace drama.
Even then, he was beautiful.
“What about you?” Rachel turns back to Caz, pausing to take anincrediblysmall, elegant sip of water, then another, as if determined to stretch this interview out for as long as possible. “Would you call yourself a fan of Eliza’s writing?”
“Yes,” Caz says quietly, and this time, I can’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at his face. Though his eyes are dark and steady, staring straight ahead, there’s some subtle, complex interplay of emotions just beneath that mask of nonchalance, something that makes his next words sound like a confession. “I’ve always been her fan.”
“Oh, how sweet,” Rachel coos, then adds something else about my blog posts for Craneswift, but I barely hear her.
I’m remembering what Caz said the other day:
The first time wereallymet, you were sitting two seats in front of me in English class and the teacher was reading out one of your essays . . .
And then, as if I’ve accidentally unlocked some mental vault of all my forbidden, repressed memories, everything he said after that comes rushing back to me too.
I want this to be real.
The library seems to spin, the artificial heat swelling around me, the camera lights blinding, recording every little shift and flicker of emotion on my face. The space between Caz and me somehow feels both smaller and wider than ever.
“. . . okay, Eliza? Do you want a drink of water?”
When I glance up, Rachel and Caz and the crew are all staring at me, variations of confusion and concern playing out in their expressions. Well, mostly confusion. It’s Caz who looks most concerned—though only for a fleeting second, before his jaw tightens and his features smooth over again. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it, yet I have to. I need to see this performance through to the end.
“Sorry,” I say, wrenching my attention away from him. “Just, um, spaced out there for a second. I’m good.”
“Oh, well, wehavebeen talking for a while, haven’t we?” Rachel says as she checks her watch in mild surprise. “Don’t worry, we’ll be wrapping up soon.”
I haven’t even had the chance to release a silent breath of relief before she reaches into her bag and retrieves a thin, laminated script.
“What . . . ?” I begin.
“Just a fun thing we thought we’d try,” Rachel explains cheerily, tossing the script over to me.
I study the script, and my heart stumbles over its next beats. The translated lines are from a famous scene Caz shot for his last costume drama, where he played a ghost king desperately in love with a banished princess over the course of ten lifetimes. And it’s not just any famous scene—it’sthefamous confession scene, set right after the ghost king transfers his own powers to the princess to save her. I’ve seen screenshots and quotes of it floating around all over social media.
