Page 57 of This Time It's Real
“Okay, then.” Caz shrugs and returns to staring at his drink menu.
Mingri’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut into a pout. Half a minute passes before he bursts out: “Fine,fine. If youreallymust know, I suppose I’ll do you a favor and just come out with it—and if you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll vehemently deny it—but . . . I might need some relationship tips from you guys.”
“Well. This is rare,” Caz remarks, reclining comfortably in his seat. “Historic,even.”
Mingri glares at him. “Just hear me out, okay? It’s about—there’s this . . . this person I’ve been interested in for some time and I see them around a lot—”
“Kaige?” Caz and I say at the same time.
Mingri’s face freezes in an expression of such genuine shock I almost feel bad for stating the obvious. His eyes dart from Caz to me to the other booths, which are all empty. “H-how—how did you know—”
“Everyoneknows,” Caz says with some exasperation. “Literally everyone. The makeup artists, that delivery guy who came last Tuesday, our horse-riding instructor . . .” He pauses and jerks his head in the shop owner’s direction, who must be twenty years older and has also been unabashedly ogling him. “I’d bet my savings evensheknows. It’s probably the most public secret ever.”
“Shit. Am I that obvious?”
“Kaige is a lot worse,” I reassure him. “You actually seemed pretty chill when I saw you guys together.”
“Wait. You mean . . .” I didn’t think it was physically possible for Mingri’s eyes to grow any wider, but I guess I was wrong. “You mean there’s a chance it’s not one-sided or . . .”
“You’re so oblivious,” Caz says, though not unkindly.
“What did you want our help for, anyway?” I ask before we can get sidetracked.
Mingri manages to get a grip on himself enough to answer, “I wanted to tell him directly. Write a note or something. But all I have is this . . .”
He fumbles around in his pocket for a few seconds before tossing a crumpled piece of paper on the table between us. A letter. I hold it up to the window light. It’s written in Chinese, the pen strokes pressed in so deep they’re almost visible on the other side, but I can still read it because the only words there are:
Kaige. Hi. I
“Well, that’s.” I falter, searching for the right description as I set the letter back down. “That’s definitely something.”
“It’s shit, is what it is,” Mingri grumbles. “I have no idea what to write.”
“Eliza’s good at that,” Caz says, and at first I don’t even realize he’s complimented me. Or maybe I’m giving him too much credit, and he’s simply tossed all responsibility over to me. When I turn to him, he just smiles.
Then the chair squeaks. Mingri actually stands up from his seat.
“Please.” He gazes down at me with large, beseeching eyes, hands pressed together as if in prayer. “Pleasehelp me. Like, I will actually pay you just for a few lines. And I’ve read that essay of yours—all I need is somethinga quarteras good as that, and I’m—I’ll be set.”
“I guess I could offer a few suggestions,” I say slowly. “It might not be personalized, since I don’t know him that well, so just—change the details accordingly, okay?”
He nods fast. “Anything.”
“Okay. So maybe . . .” I pause. Avoid Caz’s curious gaze, twisting my fingers together in my lap, where no one can see them. “Maybe you can talk about how . . . I don’t know, how his laughter sounds. If it’s rougher in the mornings, or lower on the phone, or how he always tips his head back when he finds something funny. How—how you can only see his dimples when he smiles at something real. How you’re jealous of everyone who loves him, who knew him before you did.
“And you probably didn’t mean to fall for him. At all. You probably had a plan, precautions in place. Maybe you were at peace with your loneliness, but then he sort of barged into your life, uninvited, and you’ve been reeling ever since, angry at yourself. At him. Now all you can do is sit around and think, like a fool, about the pale, moonlit curve of his neck and measure out potential losses and the weight of his words and prepare remedies in advance for what you’re certain will be the most devastating sort of heartbreak. But you continue to like him anyway. Stubbornly. Deliberately. And you . . .” I trail off when I realize how long I’ve been talking, how much I’ve been saying. God, whatamI saying?
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
I can barely bring myself to look up, but it’d be hard to ignore the way Mingri is staring at me—jaw hanging and eyes wide.
And Caz.
If Mingri’s gaze is stunned, Caz’s gaze is scorching. Searching. He’s leaned forward in his seat, and the tender look on his face isn’t something I’ve ever seen before. Then his lips part slightly, as if to speak—
Oh god, I’ve screwed up. There’sno wayhe doesn’t know about my crush now. The kindness in his eyes is almost certainly pity. I’m about to get my heart broken by my fake boyfriend, right here in front of five girls who somehow all look similar to Angelababy, and I’m going to carry my humiliation to the grave.
No, I have to undo this. With great effort, I let out a fake, falsetto laugh. “Sorry, um. I don’t know what I’m rambling about—it’s mostly just dramatic, flowery bullshit. You know how writers can be.” I make a point of looking directly at Caz when I say this, hoping he’ll believe me. To my relief, the look is gone, replaced by something more guarded. “Did any of it help, at least, or . . . ?”
