Page 41 of This Time It's Real
“You wouldn’t,” he teases, chucking me one of the two motorcycle helmets dangling from the handlebars. “You like me too much.”
I don’t know what annoys me more: the arrogant assumption of it, or the way my face bursts into flames, to keep my feelings in check.Strictly business, remember?I squeeze on the helmet as fast as my fumbling fingers will allow, if only to avoid his gaze.
I move behind Caz and hoist myself onto the seat in what must be the least graceful way possible, all but kneeing him in the back as I force my legs down on both sides. “Thanks for the tip about wearing pants,” I tell him, my voice coming out slightly muffled through the face shield. “I thought you were just traumatized by the length of my dress last time.”
His head turns a fraction toward me. “Eliza. If it weren’t for the matter of practicality, you could literally come dressed in a trash bag and I wouldn’t care.”
“Are you sure your reputation could withstand that?” I try to play it off as a joke, but an old note of bitterness edges my voice. Already, fans have started sharing photos of us together and analyzing both his dress style and mine. The nicer ones have labeled my outfits “down-to-earth” and “comfortable” and “youth casual.” The not-so-nice ones have urged me to consult Caz Song’s stylist.
Maybe Caz saw those comments too, or maybe he hears the ice in my voice, because instead of answering, he’s quiet for a moment.
Then he starts the engine, and a thousand loud, violent tremors roll through the steel frame, almost bouncing me off.
“Hold tight,” he warns.
I do at once, wrapping my arms in a viselike grip around his stomach and pressing my face between the sharp blades of his shoulders. This close, I can feel the heat of his skin through his T-shirt, the way his muscles contract beneath my fingertips.
He makes a choking sound. “Holysh—notthattight—”
“I don’t want to fall off,” I protest, but I loosen my hold just a little, enough to let him breathe.
“You won’t fall,” he says, like the notion itself is ridiculous. “I won’t let you.”
Amazingly, he keeps his word.
We start off at a slow, steady crawl across the street, my hands still clasped tight over Caz’s front, our shadows trailing behind us, growing larger, sharper as we leave the shade of the compound gates. Twice, Caz turns around, checking whether or not I’m okay.
When I nod, he shifts gears, and we start speeding up, the landscape rising to greet us—
And it’s beautiful.
All of it.
Since Caz has to shoot this afternoon, the hour is still fairly early, the sky the pale blue of a rough watercolor painting. Beijing looks different at this time. More peaceful, somehow. The clean-paved streets and lanes are empty save for a couple of rusted old rickshaws and a few elderly men swinging birds in bamboo cages, humming into the hazy air.
We fly past them down the road, the green of trees and gleam of cars bleeding all around us, shapes and backlit silhouettes melting together.
So this is what it feels like, I marvel as I tilt my face toward the sun, letting the gold-honey light wash soft over me, and catch sight of my own reflection in the side-view mirror. My face is bright with open-mouthed laughter, my eyes creased, shirt rippling in the wind. I look young. Deliriously happy. I almost don’t recognize myself.
This is how it feels to be an ordinary teenager.
To be unafraid.
Suddenly, my anger from before feels like a small and distant thing.
We’re somewhere deep in the city when Caz slows the vehicle to a stop and lets it rest on the side of a narrow street. He jumps down first, freeing his windswept, movie-star hair from his helmet, then helps me to the ground.
I wobble for a moment, still shaky from leftover adrenaline, knees weak from gripping on to the seat too tightly, before steadying myself against a nearby streetlight. It’s a relief to take the crushing weight of the helmet off, to feel the fresh air fanning my cheeks—
Caz takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.
I freeze, self-conscious and a little stunned, because I can’t recall seeing Caz laugh like this before: head thrown back and dimples so deep they look carved-in.
Then he says, “Eliza. Your hair.”
“What?”
My hands reach instinctively for the top of my head, and I’m horrified to find my hair sticking . . . up.All the way up, as if I’ve been shocked with electricity.
