Page 45 of This Time It's Real
And when I’m not describing our dates, our fake cute interactions, or slyly making references to Caz Song’s upcoming drama to help drum up interest, I find myself in the very undeserved position of dishing out love advice.It’s important to be emotionally honest, I write in one article, tasting the sharp irony of my own words.Don’t be afraid of vulnerability.Or, in another article for the Love and Relationships column:I know there’s this popular mindset of “I’m strong and independent and I don’t need anyone,” but the truth is: We do need people. People who’ll laugh with us and cry with us and make the bad days bearable and the good days better; people who’ll remember what we forget and listen even when they don’t completely understand; people who’ll need us back. It has nothing to do with strength at all, and every- thing to do with being human.
Of course, Sarah Diaz is completely ecstatic about how things are going.
“People love it,” she gushes over our fortnightly catch-up call. “People areinvested.That’s a big deal, you know? Your last blog post about those snack stalls you and Caz visited—so cute, by the way, and the photos had me drooling—just hit forty thousand views.”
“I know,” I say, then flush, because it sounds ridiculously cocky, which isn’t what I meant at all. “I mean, um. Thank you.”
She dismisses my awkwardness with an easy laugh. “Oh, that reminds me, Eliza—how do you feel about doing an interview?”
“An . . . interview?”
“Yes. An interview.” Sarah is far more patient with me than I deserve. “I know you’ve probably received a few invitations already, but this one was sent straight to us at Craneswift. It’s with this pretty big Beijing-based media company aimed at Western audiences, so the location and language shouldn’t be a problem. And they wereverycomplimentary in their email. I can tell they’re highly interested in your background, and they’d love for you and Caz to make an appearance together.”
“Really,” I say vaguely, my mind still catching up to everything she just said.
“So what do you think?” she prompts. Before I can respond, she hurries on. “I know it’s a bit of a lot. But think of theexposure.This will do wonders for your career, Eliza, I can just feel it.”
That’s an understatement. It’sa lotof a lot. And sometimes, at times like this, when I become painfully aware of the sheer magnitude of my lie, the speed at which everything is happening, hurtling forward without brakes, my lungs seem to shrink and I have a vivid, half-hysterical image of being thrown into jail and getting kicked out of school and put on some permanent literary blacklist for making my essay up—
But no—breathe.Breathe. I try to breathe.
No one has suspected anything about my love story with Caz yet. I mean, we’ve had a handful of chemistry training sessions so far and they seem to be working pretty well, and I haven’t accidentally slapped him again or anything.
Still . . .
“That sounds . . . interesting,” I say, fumbling around for a safe route out of this conversation. “I can—yeah, no, I can probably do that.”
Something crashes in the background on Sarah’s end.
“Sorry.” Sarah’s voice sounds smaller, muffled, like she’s holding the phone between her ear and shoulder. I think I hear the clatter of wood and a very quietly uttered expletive. “A—a painting of Jesus just fell to the ground for some reason. Weird.”
If I were evenkind ofreligious, I’d definitely see this as a bad omen.
“Anyway, what were you saying about the interview?” Her voice grows louder again, reverting to its normal cheery tone.
“No, it’s just that . . . I—I’ll have to ask Caz,” I tell her, knowing that I won’t. “And really . . . think about it more. Would it be okay to give you an answer some time later?”
“Sure, Eliza.” But I can hear her disappointment, however well disguised. “I don’t want you to commit to anything you’re not comfortable with.”
A little too late for thatis all I can think as I hang up, my stomach heavy as stone.
Pretty soon it becomes clear that the interview is the least pressing of my concerns.
Because three days before Caz Song’s eighteenth birthday, I realize I still have no idea what to get him. I mean, I’m sure there’s plenty of advice out there on appropriate gifts to buy at different stages in a relationship, but no online magazines come with a guide for what to give your boyfriend when you’re only fake-dating.
It doesn’t help that this istheCaz Song we’re talking about. What are you supposed to give a boy who already has the whole world?
I’m so desperate for answers that I end up consulting Emily later that night—then regret it almost instantly.
“You have come to the right place,” Emily reassures me, but it sounds more likeThese will be the most painful minutes of your life.
We’re both sitting around the dining table, a giant bowl of bright yellow diced mangoes and sliced strawberries set between us, two fruit forks laid to the side. Ma’s off in the other room calling Kevin from marketing again (every now and then, you can hear her sigh and say something likeNo, a pool party would most definitely not be appropriate—yes, even if we were to print the company logo on all the beach balls, Kevin!) and Ba’s busy preparing his notes for a poetry reading at some prestigious university tomorrow.
“I will make sure you create the greatest gift of all time,” Emily continues dramatically, slamming one tiny fist down on the table. “Anyone who has ever had a boyfriend before will weep in shame. They will have no choice but to bow before you and—”
“Yeah, uh, that won’t be necessary.” I clear my throat. “I just need, like, a passable idea. It doesn’t have to be that good.”
“Wow.”Emily’s been using sarcasm a lot these days. I think she’s starting to enter her teenage phase. “Caz isso luckyto be dating you.”
