Page 64 of This Time It's Real
Then, realizing I’ve just admitted in the written word that I’m concerned about his well-being, I quickly add:
obviously it’d look really bad if my supposed bf just died of a fever one cold friday afternoon like some 16th century Victorian housewife . . .
i mean if you’re going to be in mortal peril, at least let it be bc of a dramatic horse-riding accident or smth
More time passes without any response. I force myself to help Emily with her English homework and Ba chop up scallions for dinner and outline a new blog post, all the while feeling my brain slowly disintegrating from stress. But I’m not just worried anymore—I’m pissed off. Angry that I’m starting the Spring Festival holidays checking my phone at two-minute intervals because I can’t stop thinking about a guy. Angry that even after all this time, he’s still too obsessed with putting up a front to ask for help when he needs it. Angry that I’ve already given him my heart and my trust, only for him to pull away time and time again.
Angry that I even care so much.
When 5:00 p.m. rolls around, I fire one final message of warning to Caz:
ok. look, caz song. if you don’t reply within the next ten minutes, i swear i’m going to personally write a 200,000 word enemies-to-lovers fanfic about u and a cactus and post it online and it WILL go viral
Ten minutes later, I grab my coat and march out the door.
• • •
Even though the sun has already disappeared below the horizon, leaving the air comfortably cool, I’m sweating by the time I arrive outside Caz’s apartment.
I knock on the door and wait for ages, more sweat trickling from my hairline and beading over my lips.
No one answers, but I canhearit: The shuffle of movement. A faint cough.
He’s inside.
So of course, I do what any composed, rational, completely nonchalant person would do: I bang both fists against the door and start yelling loud enough to be heard from the next building.
“Caz! Caz?Caz Song.I know you’re in there—open the door or else I swear—”
Without warning, the door swings open, and I almost fall headfirst into Caz’s chest. At the last second, I grab the door-frame to steady myself. I casually brush my hair to the side as if this is the accepted, normal way to show up at somebody’s doorstep when they’ve been ignoring your texts.
“Jesus,” Caz says, taking me in. “Eliza. What are you—”
“Are you okay?” I interrupt, then immediately feel like an idiot. He’s obviouslynotokay; he looks even weaker than he did at school, his complexion ghostly pale, his eyes pitch-black and feverish. He’s also in what appears to be his pajamas—a graphic long-sleeve shirt promoting one of his old dramas and boxer shorts—which is how I know for certain that something’s wrong. Under normal circumstances, Caz wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like this.
He seems to realize how he looks at the same time I do, because he suddenly backs away and starts closing the door again. “Sorry—it’s really not a good time right now—”
I grab the handle before he can shut me out. “What?You can’t be serious.”
But he doesn’t let go, and for a few absurd seconds, the two of us just stand there, teeth gritted, wrestling the door back and forth between us. It’s a testament to how weak he must be feeling that it’s actually a pretty even match.
“Oh my god, Caz,” I huff out, my knuckles white around the handle. “Just let me in—”
“No.”
“What’s your deal? You’re sick and you need help—”
“Ido notneed help.” He says it so vehemently my grip almost falters for a second. I almost turn away. I don’thaveto be here, of course. Whatever this is lies well beyond the realms of our arrangement. But god help me, I care way too much about the stubborn boy on the other side of the door to go.
“Caz. Don’t be so unreasonable.”
“I’m not. I just think—I appreciate you coming over here to check on me and all, but I really think you should leave.” There’s a raw edge to his voice, frustration or even anger, though I can’t tell if it’s directed more at me or himself. “I . . . I don’t want you to see me like this.”
An incredulous laugh bursts through my lips. “This is not the time to be vain. I couldn’t care less if you’re in your pajamas—”
“It’s not just that. Nobody ever sees me this way.”
“Whatway?”
