This Time It’s Real

I try hard not to think about it.

Really. I try very, very hard to block out all thoughts of Caz Song’s soft lips brushing mine, his calloused hands cupping my face, the way my insides had sparked and melted as if left too long over red-burning coals.

But the memories keep rushing back, persistent, in such unwanted clarity I might as well have recorded our exchange, analyzed the entire scene over and over like the movies we have to write comparative essays on for English class.

What is the significance of the line “So you don’t have any real feelings for me?” What did the look in his eyes symbolize? Discuss, with evidence.

All through the next week, while Caz is away shooting, they continue to spring up on me at random: when I’m halfway through rinsing the dishes (because my parents like to use the dishwasher as a drying rack, and simply don’t trust dishwashers anyhow); when I’m changing into my pajamas later at night, half my shirt stuck over my head, long hair tangled up in the buttons—

What are you thinking right now?

“Shit,” I mumble out loud, yanking the shirt down with a little too much force and accidentally pulling a few hairs out. My eyes water. “Shit,” I say again, louder, angry at no one but myself.

I refresh my phone—no new messages since last Friday— then slam it down. I block him, then unblock him before he can find out. I delete our entire chat history, then instantly regret it.

And it only gets worse from there.

On Sunday morning, Ma—having recently finalized a major project and cleared out some time in her cramped schedule—takes us out to Din Tai Fung for brunch.

I’m finding my way back from the restaurant bathroom, very narrowly avoiding crashing into a waitress carrying a massive stack of prawn dumplings and xiaolongbao, when I see Caz’s face.

As in: his face, magnified times ten and airbrushed to above-human levels of perfection and printed over a glossy poster by the table where they’re serving tea. It’s an advertisement for some kind of lychee-flavored soft drink. He’s holding the candy-pink bottle up with one hand and smiling with his mouth closed. It’s his fake smile, the one he uses when he’s forced to do something he doesn’t want.

The tagline below reads, Get your girl something sweet.

And it’s all so corny and unexpected and ridiculously ill-timed that I can only gape at the poster, at his beautiful, familiar face, the features I’ve studied in such close proximity in private, blown up for everyone to admire. Something hot and painful wraps around my heart and squeezes.

This poster shouldn’t be here. Or maybe I shouldn’t be here.

But if nothing else, this proves that my reaction that day was wise, accurate. Not the kiss, but me running away from him. Because one shiny poster in a dim sum restaurant is only the beginning. If Caz’s career continues on its current trajectory, if he grows more and more famous, picks up more sponsorships and endorsement opportunities and hit dramas left and right, it won’t just be him advertising a cute little drink. It’ll be his face on lit-up billboards; his smile on subways; his dark, scorching gaze every time I turn on the TV, remembering how it felt when he used that gaze on me. He will be everywhere, haunting every cursed corner of the country, and I will be left reeling in his wake.

“Are you a fan too?”

I spin around, startled, to find a girl maybe only a year or two younger than I am. She’s dressed from head to toe in designer clothes and staring at the poster of Caz as if she’s just seen a vision of God himself, both hands clutched tight to her chest, cheeks flushed despite the cool indoor temperature. If we were in a cartoon, her eyes would probably be bright pink heart signs.

“Um …” I say, only now translating her question from Mandarin to English inside my head and processing it. “Something like that. I guess.”

She releases a small, wistful sigh, eyes still glued to the poster. Then she says, “He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”

I try not to stab myself with one of the metal chopsticks lying on the table beside me. “Mm,” I reply, as noncommittally as possible.

“It’s such a shame, though,” she continues, clearly oblivious to how little I want to be having this conversation right now, or ever.

“What? What’s a shame?”

She raises a perfectly shaped brow, like I’m playing dumb. “Haven’t you heard about the whole scandal with him and the writer girl? Some people are saying it’s a publicity stunt.”

“Ah.” With what I hope sounds only like casual curiosity, I ask, “And do you think it is?”

“Not sure.” She shrugs. “I’d probably need more evidence. I hear they’re doing this big interview together soon, so … maybe we’ll see then?” She trails off with a shrug.

I quickly excuse myself and make a beeline for my table on the other end of the restaurant. It’s not until I’m sitting down between Ma and Emily, my face hidden behind the laminated menu and its many beautifully shot images of steamed buns, that I allow myself to relax.

Then, while my parents are bickering over what type of dumplings to order (Ba launches into a moving, impassioned speech about how pork-and-chive dumplings were a key part of his childhood and eating them always reminds him of home; Ma strikes back with hard statistics—the last time we ordered pork-and-chive dumplings, we only ate 40 percent of them, and plus, can’t he see that the shrimp ones are on sale?) and Emily is secretly jotting down every dessert option there is on the order form, I slide my phone out from my pocket and search my own name, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.

The comments are, unfortunately, divided too:

@alyssaL: listen I’m usually pretty cynical about this stuff but did u guys SEE that kiss? the sparks? the intensity?? tHE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER??? like I know Caz is an actor but I don’t think he’s THAT good an actor lol

@violetthewen: I’M SO CONFLICTEDDD now akdfjlala is it real oR NOT

@clazzy001: the most unbelievable part for me is why someone like caz song would even be dating this eliza girl???? Angela Fei is way prettier

@huachengseye: ok either they’re REALLY committed to this publicity stunt or they’re REALLY in love w each other and just dgaf

@chanel.cao: not everything is for publicity y’all …

I slide my phone away, my stomach churning. As much as I hate to concede he’s right, it’s just like Caz predicted: My plan was nowhere near as effective as I’d hoped.

Which means neither of us is in the clear yet.

•    •    •

By the time we get back home from the restaurant, I’m determined to find myself a distraction.

Something that will force aside all thoughts of Caz, and the kiss, and the speculation online. Something that will allow me to achieve a state of total, blissful zen. Normally when I’m looking for an escape, I’ll just write, but these days all writing does is remind me of Craneswift, and my essay, which leads me right back to Caz again.

So I decide to go running.

Aside from the obvious irony of me literally running away from my problems, this seems like a great idea at first. I dig out the cute two-piece workout set I bought years ago for the aesthetic and haven’t touched since, tie my hair back in a high ponytail, and do a few stretches down by the playground. The early spring air is crisp with the scent of an impending storm, the temperature just starting to warm, with the occasional cool breeze. Even better, there aren’t too many people crowding the compound’s special jogging lanes at this hour.

Everything’s perfect.

Then I actually start running and come to the rapid conclusion that I hate it.

My body, so used to mild variations of sitting and lying down and slow, unhurried walks between classes, seems to revolt against the sudden change in rhythm. I’ve barely made it halfway around the lake before my legs start cramping, a tight, wrenching pain that shoots up the muscles in my thighs every time my feet hit the pavement.

Still, I keep running. Forcing my feet forward.

I push on for a couple more yards, gulping down air with increasing difficulty until I sound how I imagine dying walruses must sound, when I see an old man from the corner of my eye. An old old man. He’s probably in his late seventies or early eighties, judging from the deep wrinkles etched into his skin and the dragon-head walking cane trembling in his grip, and he’s shuffling down the lane parallel to mine.

We make eye contact. He flashes me a shaky thumbs-up.

And then—good god—he outruns me. Or, well, outwalks, which is without a doubt much worse. All I can do is stare at his retreating figure until he rounds the corner of an apartment building, his cane’s tap-tapping fading into the distance.

Apparently, the humiliation is too much for my body to bear. My knees wobble. My legs give out. I stumble to a stop by the lake pavilion, panting hard, the amount of sweat blurring my vision and trickling down my upper lip wholly disproportionate to the amount of exercise I’ve just completed.

The only upside of my current state is that Caz Song is definitely off my mind now, because I’m far too preoccupied with my more basic, immediate needs, such as breathing. And not fainting.

I spend an eternity like this, doubled over, clinging to the pavilion pillars and hating everything, before I find the strength to start walking back home.

And then I step into something brown and foul and squishy, which of course turns out to be—

“Crap,” I mutter, staring at the literal dog crap now smeared over the heel of my sneakers. You have got to be kidding me. You have actually got to be kidding me. When no one springs out from a nearby bush to confirm that, indeed, my life is a practical joke, I throw an exasperated hand up in the air. “I mean, wow. Okay. This might as well be happening.”

After scanning the surrounding area once—all empty save for two beady-eyed pigeons gliding across the melted fringes of the lake—I squat down awkwardly right there, in the middle of the lane, and attempt to scrape my shoes clean with a twig.

I’m so focused on my task that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until they stop right in front of me.

“Eliza?”

My heart lurches.

That voice. Smooth and low and slightly wry, as though sharing an inside joke with himself. I would know that voice anywhere, but it can’t be—it can’t—

Slowly, I lift my gaze, taking in the details bit by bit. Dark jeans come into view, then a loose white shirt, leaving the arms bared to the cold, the muscles long and lithe, a faint, puckered scar running down the center …

Of course it’s him.

“Oh. Hi,” I say, casually tossing the twig over my shoulder and swaying for a dangerous few seconds before standing up, smile already forced into place. As if this is exactly how I enjoy bumping into people. Covered in sweat. In mid-squat. While wiping animal excrement off my shoes and failing at it, no less.

“Hi?” Caz says, head cocked to one side. It sounds like a question.

You don’t have any real feelings for me?

No. Stop. Don’t think about it.

“So, um. I stepped in dog poo,” I tell him.

“Yeah.” His tone is appropriately somber, but the corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s making a serious effort to suppress his laughter. “I can see that.”

“Right.” I nod. My face feels all hot and itchy, and not just because of the sweat. “Well, I was also out on a jog. You know, getting those steps in.”

“I can see that too.” He gestures to my workout clothes, his eyes lingering.

An awkward silence stretches and strains between us. Or maybe the awkwardness is only me. Caz looks calm, unaffected. Still fighting back a laugh. It’s as if our kiss on the roof never happened, as if it hasn’t been nine whole days since we last spoke.

I feel a violent rush of anger toward him. This whole time I’ve been desperately trying to distract myself, fighting off all thoughts of him—so desperate I even resorted to running under non-life-threatening circumstances—he’s been … what? Just living his best life? Studying his scripts? Having a great time forgetting all about me?

My nails dig into my palms.

Caz says something, but I don’t hear him, can’t hear him above the violent buzzing in my ears. Then he repeats himself, louder. “It’s going to rain soon.”

He’s not the kind to make small talk about the weather, so I pause despite myself and follow his gaze up. Sure enough, dark clouds are gathering overhead like a flock of mad ravens, coloring the lake water from green to a deep, depressing gray. That earthy scent in the air is sharper now too, brimming with unshed rain.

“We should probably head inside,” Caz says, looking back at me, his eyes almost as black as his lashes. It occurs to me with a jolt that we’re standing too close. Again. “I can walk you to your apartment if you’d like.”

I fold my arms across my chest, creating a very ineffectual barrier between us. “No. It’s fine. My shoes aren’t clean yet, and besides, I doubt it’ll rain that quickly. You can sort of see the sun—”

The words have barely left my mouth when the first few droplets of rain splatter over my top, the cold seeping straight through the polyester sleeves.

Then, as if someone’s turned on a giant faucet behind the clouds, it starts pouring.

“Yeah, what were you saying?” Caz asks, his voice almost lost beneath the heavy onrush of water. It’s everywhere now, beating down on the pavement in a quickening rhythm, slapping against outstretched leaves, crushing thin stalks of grass flat to the pavement like a heavy boot. The smell of wet dirt and pine rises to my nose.

I glare at him, blinking through the rain. I’m already soaked. “Just—just go. I can walk home myself.”

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shoots me a faintly amused look. “Are you sure? Because you look a little … winded. Plus, your apartment isn’t that far from mine—”

I shake my head quickly, water blurring the edges of my vision. I can’t trust myself to be alone with him like this. “I’m fine. I’ll be home in no time.” But when I try to step back, my leg muscles spasm, and I wobble violently, a hot, tearing pain shooting down my calves. Great. Just wonderful. The one time I decide to engage in voluntary physical activity and my body gives up on me.

In an instant, all the humor falls away from Caz’s face, replaced by concern. “You evidently can’t.”

“I’m just tired from the running, that’s all. I’ll be okay soon.”

He casts me a long, doubtful look. Then: “Let me carry you,” he says simply. Readily. His hair has fallen over his forehead in long, wet-ink strands, his shirt plastered to his skin, and despite being drenched from head to toe in freezing rain, I feel all of a sudden like there’s water boiling inside me, dangerously close to spilling over.

“What?”

He gestures to his back. “You heard me. I’ve carried plenty of girls on my back before while shooting. It’ll be easy.”

As if I need the reminder that big, romantic gestures mean nothing to him. That whatever he’s said or done around me, he’s done with other girls too: actresses, idols, models. That such close proximity is easy for him, when it feels like life-or-death for me.

“I think you’re overestimating your strength,” I tell him stiffly.

“I doubt it.”

“You’re also underestimating my weight.”

“Come on, Eliza.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re, like, five foot one at the most.”

“It’s five foot three,” I grumble.

He holds up his hands, using one of them to shield his head from the downpour. “Look, would you rather stand out here bickering in the rain over your height—which definitely isn’t five foot three, by the way—or go somewhere warm and dry?”

Which is how I end up getting a piggyback ride home from Caz Song, the rain pelting our skin every step of the way, water sloshing at his feet, the clouded sky churning violently overhead. My arms wrapped around his neck. Everything looks darker, more saturated: the passing trees a rich brown, pink blossoms just starting to sprout. The compound is empty now save for us.

It feels like we’re the last two people left in the world.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, you know,” Caz says some minutes later as we round a bend in the lane. His grip on my legs remains firm, but I can hear the strain in his breathing, the slight falter in his footsteps. I do my best to stay very still.

“About what?” I ask.

“Last Friday …”

And suddenly my heart is pounding louder than the rain. “You’re right, we should talk about the—the public response,” I tell him, panicking. “Have you heard anything from your manager? Because I was looking at some of the comments, and there’s still a significant segment online who need more convincing, and I feel like the upcoming interview would be a great opportunity—”

“You must know that’s not what I care about.”

Cold creeps into my veins. My teeth chatter. “What—what do you care about, then?”

“You,” he says quietly. “I want you, Eliza.”

The words hang in the misty gray air, and I’m glad he can’t see my face. You already have me, I’m tempted to tell him. More than I was ever planning to give.

“I—”

“But not as part of a secret arrangement,” he continues, talking faster, like he has to get this off his chest and he’s not sure if he’ll have the chance to do so again. “Not for show. Not for ‘a strategic, mutually beneficial and romantically oriented alliance to help further our respective careers’—”

“You—you memorized that?”

“Of course I did. Even though I still feel like we could’ve used a better name.” Without missing a beat, he goes on. “I don’t want to act like we met while you were apartment hunting and hit it off, when the first time we really met, you were sitting two seats in front of me in English class and the teacher was reading out one of your essays and I just thought—I’ve never known anyone who can write like that before. I don’t want to constantly keep my guard up around you when you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I can just be … honest. Myself. Like I matter even when all the cameras are off.

“I don’t want to wait for an excuse to kiss you only when there’s a literal crisis going on and when half our school is standing around to watch. I don’t want our whole relationship to be built around a lie. And I know that’s asking for a lot, because you have your readers and their expectations and there’s already enough scrutiny but … I just want—” He sucks in a breath, and he might have once claimed to never beg anyone for anything, but his voice is painfully close to pleading when he says, “I want this to be real.”

My heart seizes.

How many times have I dreamed of him saying something like this? A hundred. A thousand. But it was only that—a dream. I am totally, utterly unprepared for this speech in real life.

“What … about the essay?” I hear myself ask. There’s water in my eyes, on my tongue. It tastes like salt. “People are already saying it’s a publicity stunt—we’ve just spent all our energy trying to convince them it’s not. If we— If I go out there and say the whole story is made up—”

“We can figure that out,” he promises. God, he always makes these things sound so easy.

If only.

“I just—I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” I blurt out. “Why now? Since when did you even—”

And he actually laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “Well, you haven’t exactly made it easy for me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Eliza,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m usually pretty good with this stuff, but when it comes to you—one second you’re saying things that sound so sincere, like you might really like me, and you’re making me those paper cranes … And the next you’re telling me that you’re only doing this for your internship, that every sincere-sounding thing that comes out of your mouth is just flowery bullshit, and you’re planning out our every single interaction three weeks in advance. If you hadn’t kissed me back like that … I still wouldn’t know.”

I stare ahead, fully convinced now that I’m in some sort of alternate universe, where Caz Song is the one second-guessing my feelings toward him.

“Besides,” he goes on, voice low, “a lot of people might like me for my—reputation. But that’s the side I show to them on purpose to make them like me. Nobody’s ever gotten to know me as well as you have. I wasn’t sure … I didn’t know if those other parts of me were worth wanting too.”

And my heart shatters.

But my resolve doesn’t.

“Of course they’re worth wanting,” I say, in disbelief that I’d even need to affirm this out loud. “Caz, you don’t know how hard it’s been to pretend like—like I don’t want you. But this isn’t going to work.”

He stills; I feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch. “Why not?”

“Apart from the thousands of logistical reasons, you mean? It’s— Okay. Okay, you know Zoe? Zoe Sato-Meyer?”

“I remember, yeah.” His voice is carefully neutral. “The one who gave you the bracelet.”

“Exactly. She is—she was my best friend.” The correction makes my chest ache like a bruise, but I continue. “We didn’t even have a fight or anything. It was just—we drifted apart. That’s what always happens when I’m involved, Caz. Every single fucking time. And you might say or think you want me now, but … that’s what will happen with us too. I’m certain of it.”

This is the closest I have ever gotten to voicing the truth: that I’m afraid. That for a long time now, between maybe the third and fourth move, the fourth or fifth friend I lost along the way, I’ve suspected that there’s something fundamentally unlovable about me. Something that makes it easy for people to forget me the second I leave, to drift out of touch no matter how hard I try to keep them in my life.

I’ve said before that my default setting is loneliness, but maybe I was wrong.

Maybe it’s really fear.

“You can’t keep doing this, Eliza,” Caz says. We’ve reached my building now, and I slide off his back before he can carry me farther. Then I stand up unsteadily, soaked through and shivering, and bring myself to look at him. His jaw is set, tiny jewels of rainwater glistening on his skin, his eyes darker than the sky behind him. This feels, in every way, like a finale.

“Doing what?”

“You can’t control everything. You can’t decide how other people feel—how I feel—”

“But I already know how it’s going to end,” I choke out. “I know. And when it happens—I’m going to be the one heartbroken. Not you—”

“That’s not true—”

“You think that now. But you don’t know—you can’t know—” My voice threatens to waver, to give me away, but I catch myself. Draw in a deep breath. Assume some semblance of professionalism, hide behind it like armor. “Look, this is my fault for not sticking strictly to our business arrangement. That’s all it was supposed to be; that’s all it really can be. And I’m close to finishing up with my internship. Once we do the interview together, and clean up this whole mess—we can stage a proper breakup. Part ways for good.”

His eyes flash. “So that’s it? You’re just not going to give it a chance? You don’t have the guts to even try?”

I want to answer him. I really do, but there’s a fist-sized lump in my throat and I can barely swallow, let alone talk. So I just nod.

And Caz waits. He waits, and I disappoint him again and again with every new second that passes between us, until he understands. “Fine,” he says at last, backing out into the rain. Already, his outline is blurring, like something from a dream. “If that’s what you want.”

•    •    •

“Whoa. What happened to you?”

Emily’s eyes widen as she opens the front door to see me standing here, dripping wet and shivering, my hair in dirty tangles, my feet completely bare after abandoning my disgusting sneakers outside the entrance.

“It rained,” I say, and I realize I sound like I’ve been crying.

“Yeah, clearly.” She gapes at me a few moments longer, opens and closes her mouth a few times, probably deliberating how appropriate it would be to make some joke about my sad, disheveled appearance, before sighing and hurrying off into the laundry.

She returns with two thick towels that smell faintly like pine.

“Thanks,” I croak out, stepping through the doorway, leaving wet footprints everywhere behind me. But when I bend down to wipe them, I only end up spraying droplets of mud and water all over the marble surface and slipping on the mess I’ve just made, my left hip bone hitting the damp floor with a painful thud.

That’s it, I decide as I pull myself slowly back up. I wince. This is without a doubt the most miserable moment in my whole life. It is literally impossible for things to get any more depressing than this. “I think I’m just going to take a shower first.”

“Um,” Emily says.

“Um, what?”

“The showers aren’t really … working right now,” she informs me. “I think something got stuck in the main pipes when it was raining. Ma and Ba went to find the wuye downstairs, but they said it’s, like, a whole-building issue. Might take them a while to fix it.”

And once again, the universe has managed to prove me wrong.

“Right,” I say, wrapping both towels tight around my soaked clothes. “Cool. Very cool. Well, then I guess I’ll just wait here.”

“I can wait here with you,” Emily offers.

I start to tell her No, it’s okay, just go play, but my throat’s closed up again, and maybe I don’t want to be alone right now. Even if I already feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt.

We’re both silent for a long time, listening to the light tap of rain against the windows, the distant rumble of thunder, the steady drip of water from my hair.

Then, as if she can’t help herself, Emily blurts out, “Did you have a fight with Caz?”

The sound of his name sears like salt on an open wound. Swallowing hard, all I can think to say is “I’m sorry.” Though I’m not sure what exactly I’m apologizing for. Lying about my relationship with him to everyone, even now? Making my personal essay up in the first place? Introducing him into her life, when she knows just as well as I do how horrible it is to be pulled away from the people you care about, how rare it is to move to a new place and find someone there who can make it feel like home? There’s just so much. So many ways I’ve screwed up. So many things I’ve done wrong. “I know you really like him.”

“I do like him,” Emily says slowly. Then she looks up at me, and I’m struck by two things: First, how tall she’s grown without my realizing, her head now almost level with my nose. And second, that fierce, protective look in her eyes, like our positions have been switched and she’s the older sibling who’d tear down the world for me. “But if he was mean to you, I’ll stop liking him immediately. I won’t even invite him to my next birthday party.”

I choke out a small laugh, but the sound’s tinged by sadness. “No, no. It’s not that. If anything …” If anything, I’m the one who wronged him.

“Well, either way,” Emily continues, leaning back against the wall, “the main reason I liked him was because of how you act when you’re together.”

This surprises me. “What … what am I like around him?”

“Happy,” she says simply.