Page 27 of This Time It's Real
on a scale of Victorian-era-housewife to business-magnate’s-fifth-wife, how suggestive does this dress look? be honest.
business magnate’s second wife before the first wife’s divorce papers are finalized. why?? are u planning on seducing that actor boy?
I almost drop my phone.ABSOLUTELY NOT, I start to type—just as I notice Caz’s reflection behind me.
“Ohmygod,” I blurt out. Spin around, half my thoughts still tangled up in my unsent message. “I’m not here to seduce you.”
His dark brows crinkle. “What?”
“No—no, wait. Um, please forget I just said that—” Resisting the urge to bury my burning face in my hands, I clear my throat. Try for a normal greeting. “Hi.”
His mouth twitches, but to my great relief, he goes along with it. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I repeat awkwardly.
Then I bring my gaze down. I’m so used to seeing Caz in school uniform that it takes me a second to register his full appearance: a plain fitted shirt under a leather jacket, black jeans, and those white Nike kicks so many guys are into for reasons that elude me. He looks different. Good.
But of course, he always looks good.
It takes me another second to notice that something’s missing.
“You . . . you didn’t bring your laptop?” I ask, incredulous, scanning him up and down. He isn’t holding anything. In fact, if it weren’t for the clothes, I’d think he’d rolled out of bed and wandered straight over here. “Not even a notebook? A sheet of paper? A—a pen?Nothing?”
He shrugs. “No.”
I stare at him. “You do know what we’re meant to be doing today, right? Like, I didn’t hallucinate the part where you begged me to write your college essays for you . . .”
“Okay, first, I neverbegged,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You offered; I never beg anyone for anything. And second, I figured you’d come well prepared, so there was no point bringing any of that stuff on my own.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“Well, youdidbring the stuff we need, didn’t you?” He gestures to the bag slung over my shoulders, a smile forming on his lips, like he’s already won the argument. “So I was right to presume.”
“But what if I didn’t?”
“But you did,” he points out.
“That’s really not the . . .” I trail off, distracted by a sudden, strikingly vivid vision of us standing around and bickering like this for the rest of the afternoon until the sky goes dark. I sigh. Give my dress one last, futile tug. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just go and get this over with.”
He grins at me, his teeth white enough to blind. “That’s the spirit.”
The last time I visited Chaoyang Park, I was about four years old. Young enough that most of my memories from back then are blurred now, closer to something from a long-buried dream or a faded family photo than an actual recollection of events. All I can really remember now is the taste of cotton candy melting on my tongue, a bright streak in the sky—a balloon, maybe, or a painted kite—and Ma’s loud, easy laughter, spilling over the glittering green lakes.
Still, as I walk through the front entrance with Caz beside me, I’m struck by this overwhelming sense of déjà vu, ofnostalgia, akin to coming back home after a long holiday away.
Everything here looks so familiar: the rusted yellow-and-blue exercise equipment mostly occupied by old yeyes and nainais; the paddleboats skimming over the murky lotus pond waters; the table tennis tables set up in tidy rows over the courtyard. Even the scent in the air—that odd, distinct mix of moss and fresh-blooming flowers and fried sausages—makes me miss something I can’t name.
All I know is that it makes my chest ache.
“You been here before?”
I turn to find Caz studying me. His tone and expression are casual enough, but there’s this sharp, observant look in his eyes that leaves me feeling more exposed than my dress does.
“A long time ago,” I say, staring straight ahead. A little boy is devouring a stick of tanghulu by the lawn, the candy shell crunching loudly between his teeth. “Before we moved, I mean. I haven’t come back since.”
“Well, I doubt it’s changed much.”
“Yeah,” I say, though there is something different about the place I can’t quite put my finger on. Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.
