Page 30 of This Time It's Real
“No, for real,” she says. “I think it might be one of my favorite pieces ever.”
The heat spreads all the way through my body like sunshine, and I decide that maybe I don’t mind the attention. Maybe I even crave it a little.
“You look a lot better in real life than your school photo,” she adds with complete sincerity, and nudges her friend, who’s still filming. “Don’t you think?”
Her friend lowers her phone at last and meets my eyes, and all the warmth seeps out of me. Her gaze is ice-cold, and her tone no friendlier. “You’re Caz’s girlfriend?” The question sounds almost like a threat.
“Um . . .” I lick my dry lips. “I—”
“Yeah, she is,” Caz answers for me, and—to everyone’s shock—slides a casual hand around my waist. Distantly, through the sensation of his skin against my dress, I remember the slide from my PowerPoint:No physical contact beyond casual shoulder-bumping and occasional hugging.“We’re actually on a date right now.”
Hat Girl claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says again. “That’s so adorable. I’m, like, such a fan of your relationship.”
Meanwhile, her friend looks like she’s experiencing something of an extreme facial spasm. If Caz weren’t still holding me, I’d bolt in the opposite direction.
“Please ignore her,” Hat Girl tells me, following my gaze. “She’s been a solo stan of you for ages, Caz. I think she just needs a bit of—time to adjust to the news. It’sgreat news, though. Really.”
Caz just smiles and nods, and I try to smile and nod too, as if it’s perfectly normal that this girl I’ve never spoken a word to hates my guts.
As soon as the two of them leave—and only after Caz has signed her bucket hat with a Sharpie he apparently just carries around everywhere with him—he lets his arm drop and we make our way deeper into the park.
We’re silent for a few minutes, both thinking, before he turns to me. “Hey, are you okay? I know my fans can be a bit . . . protective—”
“No, it’s fine,” I reassure him quickly.
He tilts his head a few degrees, like he’s struggling to figure me out. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” When he looks doubtful, I add, “Seriously. I’m not that sensitive.”
“Okay, well, in that case . . .” He takes a deep, somber breath, and just when I think he’s about to say something profound, he blurts out: “Did my hair look okay just now?”
I blink. “What?”
“My hair.” He clears his throat. Rubs the back of his neck. “When I was taking photos with them. Did it look good?”
“Your vanity is astounding,” I inform him, spinning around. To think I was actually finding Caz Song agreeable—thoughtful, even. At the end of the day, all he really cares about is maintaining his perfect, plastic image.
“Okay, sure, whatever,” he says. “But seriously, I just want a second opinion—”
“It looked good,” I say irritably. “You always look good. You know that.” I hold up a hand before he can gloat. “But if you ever use my words against me, I will personally cut all your hair off myself. Got it?”
His smug, infuriating smile falters, but only for a second. In the sort of exaggerated, too-deep voice you only ever hear in the theaters, he replies, “Whatever you say, my love.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s close to noon before we find a space quiet enough to work: an empty picnic table surrounded by nothing but wild grass. Caz hops onto the wooden seat and leans back, his head tilted lazily toward the sun, eyes closed, his sharp, lovely features awash in hazy gold.
For one dumb moment, I can’t help but think,No wonder why he’s so vain.If I were that beautiful, I would be vain too.
I ignore him and lift my laptop onto my knees, then open up a blank Word document, privately grateful for a reason to focus on something other than him.
“So I’m going to assume that you haven’t written anything at all for your applications yet,” I say, pulling up a new Google window beside the page. “Would that be correct?”
“Yeah,” Caz says, without an ounce of shame. “Absolutely.”
Well, at least he’s honest.“Then we’ll start from the very beginning. Find the prompts and start brainstorming.” I flex my fingers over the keyboard. “What schools are you applying to again?”
“Just the usual,” he says tonelessly, the same way one might talk about booking a dentist appointment or filing taxes. “My mom found a couple decent universities in America that accept late applications. The Univeristy of Michigan is one, I’m pretty sure.”
