Page 33 of This Time It's Real
By the time they wrapped up shooting, his arm still wasn’t fully healed yet. But his performance, according to the director and his cast members, was phenomenal. Far beyond their highest expectations.
Except the drama never actually ended up airing. The main lead got involved in a huge scandal concerning an underground strip club, and the higher-ups decided it was best to cancel the drama altogether.
“It was still worth it, though,” Caz says, picking up a long blade of grass and wrapping it around one finger like a ring. Caz can never seem to keep still. “I learned a lot.”
And while this does sound like typical corporate bullshit, I’m surprised to find myself actually believing him.
Even after I have all my material for the essay, it takes me longer than usual to get into the writing zone. I’d blame the good weather or the squeals and cheers of children in the distance, but if I’m honest, it’s mostly because of Caz. Even when he isn’t talking or looking my way, I can sense his presence keenly, as if every molecule in the air is oriented toward him. I’m almost tempted to ask him to move to another table, though I know that isn’t fair.
But once Idomanage to tune out all unwanted distractions, the words come in a flood. My mind sharpens. My fingers find a natural rhythm over the keys. Because I might be clueless about dating and hand holding and dancing for fun in a crowded classroom, butthis—this right here, stringing words together to mean something—is my element. This, I could do all day for the rest of my life.
It feels like the closest thing I know to home.
When I reach the final paragraph, Caz disappears for a few minutes and comes back with two tanghulus, the jewel-like fruits glistening in the light. One of them is the traditional flavor, the type I used to have as a kid: a string of bright red hawthorns pierced through with a wooden skewer. The other is crowded by giant, ripe strawberries and green grapes and fat slices of kiwi, all sprinkled with a generous layer of white sesame.
“I saw you eyeing that little boy’s food earlier,” he says by way of explanation. He holds the skewers up before me like he’s about to perform a magic trick. “Take your pick.”
I blink at him and push my laptop slowly aside, surprised that he noticed. Or maybe he’s only acting this way in case someone else is watching, just to make it look more like a date. And to make himself look more considerate. “Um . . .”
“I understand it’s an incredibly difficult decision to make,” Caz teases when I continueuming for a solid minute. “A lot at stake here. Would you like to talk it over with your lawyer first? Consult a third party?”
“Thatprobablywon’t be necessary,” I say, playing along. “Though it might be wise for me to evaluate the pros and cons of both options. Really think this one through.”
“Yes, of course.”
I snort out a laugh and take the traditional hawthorn tanghulu from him. “Thanks.”
He waves his free hand. “Anything for my fake girlfriend.”
A brief, inexplicable pain fills my chest, like my heart has snagged on a stray piece of barbed wire. Unsure what else to do or say, I bring the tanghulu to my lips, letting the thin paper cover dissolve on my tongue first. Then I bite down. The inside is so sour it makes my eyes water, but the smooth, sugary exterior helps balance it out. It tastes just like I remembered.
For a while neither of us says anything, content to simply chew and enjoy the silence while the summer breeze blows around us, pleasantly cool against my skin. Then I lick the sticky skewer clean, toss it into a nearby bin, and get back to work, savoring the sweet aftertaste of the fruit.
“Done,” I say a few minutes later, clapping my hands together.
“Done already?” Caz looks up in surprise, then down at my laptop screen. He’s only just finished eating his tanghulu. “Damn. That’s impressive.”
I try not to let his words go to my head, though a flush of pleasure still spreads through me, warming me down to my toes. “I’ll email it to you when I get home,” I promise, packing up my things. But as I prepare to shut my laptop, I notice three new messages from Zoe, and beside those, an email notification from Sarah Diaz.
I immediately open it, my heart thudding, half-convinced as I always am these days that Sarah will message me out of the blue going,Hey, I just found out that you’re a complete fraud and your essay is a lie! You’ve now been blacklisted from every magazine and publisher in the world, and everyone hates you. Bye!
To my relief, the new email doesn’t say anything along those lines. Not yet, anyway.
Eliza!
Just wanted to check in and see how you’re going with your blog post for tonight. I was looking around at the comments on your Twitter, and it’s pretty clear everyone is dying to see another (ideally less blurry) photo of you and Caz together.
Even just a couple selfie would be amazing—
“Eliza? You good?”
I slam my laptop shut and spin around to face Caz. “Yeah,” I say, as cheerily as possible.
I’m cringing before the words are even out of my mouth. “Could we—would it be okay if we took a selfie together? Right now? For my internship?” Wow, I could not have chosen a more awkward way to ask that.
A ridiculous, self-satisfied smile spreads slow over his lips like honey. “Of course.Anythingfor my nonfan.”
My face heats. “When are you going to let that go?”
