Page 87 of This Time It's Real
“Basically, we’d love for Caz to reenact this iconic scene with you,” Rachel says with a wink. Or maybe something’s just gotten stuck in her false lashes. “And I know you’re not an actor, Eliza, but your lines are super short. Plus,” she adds, grinning, “since this is your boyfriend, it’s not like there’s much actual acting needed.”
I’m probably more of an actor than you realize, I think, mouth dry.
A half-formed protest rises to my lips, but I swallow it back down again, unsure how to phrase it without inviting suspicion. Besides, Caz doesn’t seem to have any major issues acting out one of his most dramatic, romantic scenes right here with me. He just glances over my shoulder at the script, repeats the lines to himself a few times, nods, and says, “Okay. Sure thing.”
And if I notice him swallow right after, his fingers flexing over the sofa cushions, it’s still nothing compared with the panic worming in my gut. I’m honestly not sure how much longer I can maintain my composure, hide my hurt, before I fall apart.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Rachel calls, waving for the cameras to move closer to us.
Caz leaves his seat and promptly kneels down before me, right on the library floor, already slipping into character like a second skin: There’s a new hardness to the planes of his face, a brilliant intensity to his pitch-black gaze. Taking my hand in his, he asks, voice low and much deeper than it usually is, “How do you feel?”
My mind blanks for a moment, registering nothing but the cool, firm press of his fingers, before I realize that it’s my turn to say my lines. “Better. I . . . um. . . No—wait—” Flushing, I scan through the script again. “I should be asking you that, you fool. How could you—”
“It’s nothing,” he says, fully immersed in the scene. He lifts his hand up to my cheek, tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I try to keep my breathing even, to conceal how much his proximity hurts.Only stage directions, I remind myself, again and again.Only that.
“It’s not nothing,” I continue from memory. “Your powers . . .”
“I can survive this world without my powers, but I can’t survive it without you.” Slowly, he says, “I’ve waited ten lifetimes for you, lost you ten times, fought my way through the underworld to retrieve your soul. You are my light, Your Highness; the only home I’ve ever known. I’d gladly die before I let you slip through my fingers again.”
Upon his last words, the library falls into complete silence; even the crew seems entranced by his performance.
And though I know—Iknow—it’s all fake, the hot tangle of emotions in my throat isn’t. Our gazes lock, me sitting down, him still on his knees, that invisible string between us tightening, and something seems to ripple over his face too.
Then Rachel’s loud, abrupt applause shatters the stillness.
“Oh, that waswonderful,” she enthuses, long nails fluttering at her chest. “Even better than I could’ve hoped. I’ll be sure to add this into the promo video.” She then goes on for a while about how great the interview went, how much she loves my blog posts, how excited she is to see my career with Craneswift take off further, and I think:
This is it. This is exactly what I wanted—or what I thought I wanted. The promise of a good career. The opportunity to impress the interviewer, and whoever ends up watching this at home. The safety of keeping Caz Song at a distance, of keeping everything between us purely professional.
So why do I feel so miserable?
When Rachel finally releases me from the conversation and busies herself packing up the interview equipment, I hurry after Caz out the library without hesitating. Without any instinct for self-preservation. Instead, there’s just the horrible hope blooming inside me like a severe bruise, the old, foolish thought resurfacing:Maybe there’s a way to fix this.To tell him how I feel, the way I did with Zoe. Some way to keep him in my life, even if it’s only as friends. Now that I’ve experienced the alternative firsthand—no calls from him, no real smiles, nothing, as if I don’t evenexistin his life—I realize that pain might be inevitable. But some kinds of pain are worse than others.
Caz stops halfway down the empty corridor, and I almost crash into him.
For a moment, he just stares down at me, an unfathomable look in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice quieter now that we’re alone, distant. It kills me, but I know I also can’t blame him.Iwas the one who put that distance between us.
“I—I’m—” I chew my tongue, the irony of it hitting me. How supposedly good I am with words, except when it comes to this. Tohim.“I just wanted to say—to tell you . . .”
He tilts his head slightly, something behind his gaze shifting. Like he cares what I have to say next, despite himself. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I didn’t mean—the other day, when you said—I was lying—”
“You were lying,” he repeats. “About which part?”
“I—”
He shifts position, so that my back’s facing the closest wall, and moves forward. His voice remains soft, gentle even, yet each word cuts through the air like knives. “About how I should trust you? How I could be myself around you? How about that apparently you know better than I do how I really feel, even when I’ve just laid my heart out to you? Which one is it, Eliza?”
A flush rises through me. This is going so terribly wrong.
But he isn’t finished yet. He steps forward again, just like that day on the roof, and the back of my head touches the hard wall. “Those are all your words, not mine,” he says. “You ask me to feel comfortable around you, but the second I do, you just—you retreat. You run away. Do you know what it’s like for me? I trusted you with my hurt, my fears, my doubts, my heart—things I’ve never told anyone else, and youleft.”
“I know that now,” I babble, my eyes stinging. “I know it wasn’t fair but . . . you came today.” There’s so much hope in my voice it’s embarrassing.You came for me, right?
Yet the hope inside me wilts when I see his expression.
