Page 25 of This Time It's Real
My words hang in the hot air between us. We’re on the school oval now, dark asphalt and bright, artificial grass everywhere. Thankfully, there’s enough free space for us to continue our conversation far away from the rest of our classmates, so no one can hear Caz when he repeats, incredulously:
“You’veneverdated anyone before. At all.”
“Nope,” I mumble, walking faster, as if I can somehow out-pace my own embarrassment. I mean, it’s not like the notion of having minimal romantic experience at my age isinherentlyembarrassing or anything. It’s just . . . Caz Song is the last person I want to be talking to about this. Caz Song, who’s the definition of desirable, who has everything a person could ever want, who’s never had to worry about rejection or loneliness or being left behind. Who, according to the articles I’ve read up on him, has been in at least three relationships before, all of them with models or his gorgeous costars.
“Huh” is all he says. I can feel him studying me, as if trying to puzzle something out. My skin heats, and not just because of the scorching sun. “Then . . . how did you manage to write all that about falling in love?”
This question’s easy, at least. “Bullshit,” I tell him, and I’m glad for the conviction in my voice. “It’s all just sentimental bullshit. I only wrote it for the assignment.”
Caz doesn’t ask anything else after that, or attempt to spontaneously hold my hand again as we approach our class. Good. I tell myself this is good. Great. Much better than him thinking I secretly long for a movie-like romance or care about any of that stuff.
It’s not as if I don’t believe in love itself, because I’ve witnessed it. My parents first met in high school, when Ma was class captain and Ba was the quiet, mysterious kid who always came to school in wrinkled shirts and turned in his homework two days late. After they were assigned to the same desk, they started passing handwritten notes and doodles to each under the table. Notes turned into lunches together, which turned into proper dates, which eventually then escalated into a serious, long-term relationship. They ended up going to different universities on opposite ends of the country to study very different things, but they handled the distance just fine.
And now, decades later, at the age where most marriages tend to stagnate and turn sour, they still love each other that much. They don’t always remember their anniversary or go out to fancy restaurants for dates, but Ma once spent four hours lining up in the rain just to buy Ba’s favorite brand of roasted chestnuts, and Ba has been to every single one of Ma’s work events and cocktail parties, even though he hates those kinds of social functions.
I guess my point is that I do believe in love. Really. I’m just not convinced that kind of love could ever happen to me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Okay, tell me everything.”
I’m stretched out over my bed in an old sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, my laptop balanced precariously on top of a mini pillow mountain. Zoe’s face takes up most of my screen, her skin an unnatural shade of white in the lamplight. She’s in her bedroom too; I can make out the crammed bookshelf behind her, the Polaroid photos stuck to her wall. Photos of us from years ago.
Just seeing them makes me miss her more, makes nostalgia sneak under my ribs and twist around my heart, even though she’s technically right in front of me.
“You go first,” I tell her, shifting onto one side. “How did you do on your history exam?”
For as long as I’ve known her, Zoe has dreamed of studying computer science at Stanford the way I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer, which means every single test she takes matters. Counts toward something.
“Oh,that.I guess it went better than I thought,” she says casually, but I know from her small, ill-concealed smile that she must’ve gotten full marks. She wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.
“We love an intellectual,” I say, and she laughs. I laugh too, happy that she’s happy.
“Okay, okay, but seriously.” She holds up a hand. Straightens suddenly. “My test scores aside—I feel like we really need to revisit the fact that you’ve somehowbecome famoussince we last talked? And you’re doing this prestigious internship and shit—which I only found out through a freakingmagazine article?”
I can guess exactly which one she’s referring to. There was an article published just yesterday featuring a photo of Caz and me walking to class together. Whoever took the photo managed to capture the precise moment Caz reached for my hand—right before I slapped him. In it, my eyes are wide with visible surprise and maybe a trace of embarrassment, my cheeks flushed pink. And Caz is doing that thing with his mouth, one side of it curved up in an almost smile, his gaze intent on me.
“Yeah, I know,” I manage. “It—it’s pretty wild.”
“No, like, seriously. Listen to this.” Her nails clack rapidly on her keyboard, then she clears her throat and starts reading.“Eliza’s boyfriend is none other than gorgeous up-and-coming Chinese American actor Caz Song. Best known for his roles inThe Legend of Feiyan,Everything Starts with You, andFive Lives Five Loves, the young star has been making some serious waves in Mainland China—”
“I’ve already read it,” I cut in hastily, making a face.
“And I think you’re beingwaytoo low-key about this,” Zoe says. “Did you know that you’re trending on Weibo, like, right now?”
“Yeah, Caz’s management already told him.” Which he then proudly passed on to me, alongside the statistic that interest levels in his next drama have already shot up 300 percent. I’d be happier for him if he weren’t so terribly smug about it—or his insistence thatspontaneityis the best way to go.
“Caz,”Zoe repeats, rolling the syllable on her tongue like it means something. “So what exactly is the situation with him?”
By instinct, I open my mouth to lie, but then I remember that Zoeknows. She’s the only person in the world who knows my essay was fake, which now—ironically—means she’s the only person in the world I can tell the truth to. “He’s . . . Let’s just say he’s damage control.”
Her brows rise, unsurprised. Zoe is always one step ahead of everyone. “Until when?”
“Until my internship ends and I get my shiny letter of recommendation from Sarah Diaz, and then we can part ways happy and successful and never bother each other again.”
“Hmm,” Zoe says.
“What?”
