Page 44 of This Time It's Real
The precarious truce stretches between us.
I take a bite of my jianbing and I don’t taste anything at first, just scalding, tongue-numbing heat, but then the savory bean curd flavor fills my mouth and the scent of fried oil brings back some of my appetite. Something in me softens.
“It’s good,” I tell him reluctantly.
“Good,” he says.
We both sit down on the curb and eat our breakfast and watch the city come to life. Itisgood, I guess, despite everything. Living here. Being here with Caz. Even if Beijing doesn’t fully feel like mine yet, moments like this still give me hope that one day, it could be.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as Caz dissolves into a loud coughing fit.
And the melodramatic part of my brain programmed to assume the worst of everything instantly thinks:Oh god. This is it. He’s going to tell me he’s suffering from some kind of chronic condition and he’s been keeping it a secret this whole time because he doesn’t want anyone to worry but he only has two months left to live. We’re going to end up in a depressing movie montage of his last days with me and there’s going to be a bunch of blood-colored sunsets and slow walks by the beach and one day he’ll just collapse before my eyes and—
“Sorry,” Caz says, wincing slightly. He holds up his jianbing. “It’s—they don’t usually put chili in this—”
My heart slows down, and my panic fades.
“Wait. You can’t eat anything spicy?”
“Of course I can,” he grumbles, but his cheeks are a few shades too red, and he doesn’t make any move to touch his food again.
“Oh my god.” It’s so unexpected that the last of my anger from earlier dissipates, and I laugh. Once I start, I can’t stop. My whole body shakes with ill-suppressed giggles until I’m nearly doubled over on the curb. “Oh my god. This is amazing.”
“How?” he says flatly. “What could possibly be amazing about this?”
“Just—out ofallthings,” I choke out through my hysteria. “I mean, you were able to complete a bunch of stunts with a broken arm and bear the pain but you can’t handle a bit ofspice?”
He scowls at me, though I can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “There was a lot in there, okay? At least two whole chilies—”
“Oh my god, stop—” I clutch at my stomach, laughing harder. “Stop—sorry. I can’t. I seriously can’t.”
“I’m glad you find my sensitive taste buds so hilarious.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll—Let me just get a grip . . .” I take a deep breath like I’m about to meditate while Caz watches me, unimpressed, but that only sets me off again. I don’t even know what’s so funny about this. Or maybe it’s not that funny—maybe I’m just happy, even though that makes no sense. When I’ve finally calmed down enough to form full sentences, I hold out my own jianbing in offering. “We can swap, if you want. I promise there’s zero chili in mine.”
The weeping willow above our heads sways as I talk, its leaves scratching my cheek.
Caz bats the branches away from me and tilts his head, assessing. “You sure this isn’t some kind of setup? You haven’t poisoned it or anything?”
“I swear. Though, I mean, I’ve already taken a few bites out of it, if you don’t mind . . .” And suddenly it’s awkward; I can feel it in the air.I’vemade things awkward. Like I always do.
But Caz recovers quickly. He grabs my jianbing from me like it’s no big deal and smiles a little and tells me, “We’ll go somewhere that serves milder food next time.”
“Next time,” I repeat, surprised to find that the idea of these chemistry training sessions doesn’t fill me withquiteas much dread as it did before.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
School is different now.
Better, in a way. I don’t find myself dreading the car rides to school so much I feel physically sick anymore, don’t have to hover awkwardly at the doorway of classrooms as much as before. It’s not like I’m super popular all of a sudden—I still eat all my lunches alone on the rooftop—but people seem to have finally accepted my presence.
I’m not naive enough to imagine this isn’t partly because I’m with Caz Song. But another part of it also has to do with my Craneswift blog posts.
My followers have been growing rapidly, climbing by an extra few thousand almost every day, the number of likes and shares rising with them. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
The kind of love I’m praying for, girls have commented under one of my recent posts, “We Dance beneath the Streetlights, Kiss beneath the Moonlight,” where the fictional-boyfriend version of Caz Song and I stay out together in our compound at midnight.
This is proof that love exists, others have gushed over another post about us riding through the city together, about seeing Beijing from the back of Caz Song’s motorcycle, titled simply “He Swears He Won’t Let Me Fall.”
