Page 85 of This Time It's Real
“It was too . . . stiff, apparently. It didn’t feel as genuine as my blog posts.”
“Then change it,” she says, like the answer is obvious.
“But I can’t be the person who exclusively writes these personal, sentimental, wholly sincere essays about love and joy,” I protest. “I can’t. That’s not me. I wanted to write something serious.”
“Well, why not?”
“It’s just. Because it feels . . .” I scramble for the right word. “It feels embarrassing.”
Zoe just shrugs. “Most sincere things feel at least a little embarrassing. It’s part of our defense mechanisms. Our heart’s way of protecting us from potential hurt.”
Before I can argue with that, I hear her mom shouting for her from the other room.
“Shit. Forgot to take out the laundry,” she mutters, getting up to leave. Then she pauses. “I’ll call you later, okay? Promise.”
“Okay. Bye. Miss you,” I say in a rush, and I realize she might have a point about the kind of things that are embarrassing.
She laughs, lifts her hand to wave at me, and it’s only then that I catch sight of the frayed blue string around her wrist. A bracelet identical to my own. She’s kept it all along. “Miss you too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The interview is scheduled for 4:00 p.m. the following Monday.
At 2:00 p.m., I swallow my pride and write, then rewrite, a text to Caz, my fingers shaking as I type out the time and location, alongside the question:Will you be there?At 2:30 p.m., the little read icon pops up below the message,but there’s no reply.
At 3:30 p.m., I show up alone to the senior library, my gut roiling.
The interviewer, Rachel Kim, wanted us to meet here. Something about it offering “insight” into my daily life as a student, which is pretty funny since I haven’t set foot into the library once in all my time here. I obviously didn’t tell her that, though. I mean, it’s not as if this interview is going to be grounded in truth anyway.
When I walk through the library’s sliding glass doors, the camera crew is already setting up inside. There’s equipment everywhere, professional cameras and microphones and screens resting on top of children’s bookshelves, long metal rods leaning against the pastel walls. A chair and two vintage sofas placed at the center of the room. Someone has even left out a tray of cupcakes and water, all still untouched.
I’m actually trembling as I make my way over to the sofas. I sit down and cross my legs. Uncross them. Fidget with a stray thread in the cushions.
I resist the sudden urge to throw up.
It’s just nerves, I tell myself. Nerves, and the fact that Caz isn’t here with me.
The next half hour crawls by at an excruciatingly slow pace. My mouth always gets dry when I’m stressed, so I keep getting up and chugging water and running to the bathroom and back again, all the while trying to look cool about the whole thing. The camera crew must think I have food poisoning.
I’m onto my eighth cup of water when the front doors slide open.
A pretty young woman with a pixie cut and the longest false lashes I’ve ever seen glides into the room, her eyes instantly landing on me.
“You must be Eliza!” she gushes, extending a manicured hand. Her nails are painted the same glossy peach pink shade as her dress. “I’m Rachel.”
“Yes. Hi.” I stand up quickly, praying she doesn’t notice the sweat stains on the sofa, and give her hand a firm shake.
“It issolovely to meet you in person,” she says, all Colgate-ad smiles. Her breath smells like spearmint. “God, I’ve been looking forward to this interview for ages.”
“Yeah.” I try to match her level of enthusiasm and fail miserably. “I mean, same here.”
We both sit down. Or, at least,Ido—she kind of pauses halfway and cranes her neck left and right, like I might be hiding something behind me.
“Sorry,” she says after a beat. “It’s just that . . . Is Caz not going to be here?”
My heart twists at the name. My throat burns.
But just as I’m about to feed her some excuse about Caz being called away last minute to reshoot a scene, the library doors slide open again, and Caz strides in like he had planned to come here all along.
