Page 49 of This Time It's Real
It’s the kind of creamy white, multitiered, elaborately decorated cake that wouldn’t look out of place at a fancy wedding, with delicate blue flowers frosted over the sides and glistening bubble tea pearls placed at the very top. A few random onlookers gasp, some inching closer in hopes of getting a slice.
Suddenly, my own cake feels ridiculous.
It was an absurd idea to make it in the first place. Absurd to hope.
I’m already walking away, debating whether or not to just give my cake to Emily for lunch, when I hear someone call my name.
“Eliza! Eliza—wait up.”
I turn around, surprised. Caz is pushing his way through the crowd, past his adoring fans. Moving straight toward me. And I realize abruptly that the only thing worse than having a crush on a star is being made aware of it. My pulse speeds up, and if this were one of Caz’s campus dramas, there’d definitely be slow, romantic music playing in the background right now.
Oh god.
This is everything I was afraid of.
“Damn, you walk fast.” He shakes his head. Behind him, all his friends are nudging one another and watching us the way you’d watch a particularly fascinating episode of a drama, eyes wide and mouths half-open. Savannah is still holding the giant cake.
“Yeah, well, I have, um, plans already so . . .” I force myself to smile, but all of a sudden I can’t remember if I used to smile at him before. Or smile this wide. I’m terrified there’s a neon sign projecting my feelings from my forehead. Under no circumstances can Caz Song find out that I like him; the consequences are almost too mortifying to imagine.
He gives me a funny look. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod hard.Please, Eliza, get your shit together and act normal.“Yeah, perfect. Wh-why?”
“No reason,” he says slowly. Then his gaze cuts to the glass jar of folded cranes in my hands. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I quickly hide the jar behind me—but I’m still a beat too slow.
“It looks like a present,” he says, stepping forward.
“Well, it’s not.”
He arches a brow. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
For the briefest moment, something like uncertainty flashes over his face. Like he might actually be disappointed—like I might have the power to disappoint him.
It’s a ridiculous idea, delusional really, but I feel myself waver. “I mean, okay, it is, but . . . Just. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?”
And then I kind of throw the jar at him.
He catches it easily with one hand and turns it over, studies it. He doesn’t seem to understand what it is at first until he sees the words written on the cranes. I’m too nervous to look at his face as he goes through some of the wishes, afraid to see the possible scorn in his expression, or boredom, or worse: nothing at all. He probably gets gifts like this all the time at fan meetings. It probably doesn’t even matter to him.
But then he calls my name once, soft, and I lift my head in surprise. He looks so obviously, genuinely moved, all his gratitude just lying wide open in his gaze, that I can’t stand it. This intimacy. The way it makes my chest heat.
Act normal, remember?
“There’s a cake too,” I grumble, reaching back into my bag.
The look vanishes; laughter bursts from his lips. “Why do you sound so angry about it?”
“Because. It’s really ugly.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating . . .” he starts to say—then I hold out the half-burnt, half-crumbling yellow mess of a cake. We both stare at it for a few seconds. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I can hear a hundred pastry chefs collectively weeping. “Okay,” Caz admits. “It is a little ugly.”
I snort. “Thanks for being honest.”
“Anytime.” Then he pauses. “So. Did you want to share the cake?” I can tell he doesn’t really expect me to say yes. I’ve turned down all his invitations before, preferring to eat alone instead of forcing awkward small talk with his many, much more popular friends. Luckily, if people think it’s suspicious that we don’t eat lunch together, they’ve never mentioned it.
