This Time It’s Real

“Okay, tell me everything.”

I’m stretched out over my bed in an old sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, my laptop balanced precariously on top of a mini pillow mountain. Zoe’s face takes up most of my screen, her skin an unnatural shade of white in the lamplight. She’s in her bedroom too; I can make out the crammed bookshelf behind her, the Polaroid photos stuck to her wall. Photos of us from years ago.

Just seeing them makes me miss her more, makes nostalgia sneak under my ribs and twist around my heart, even though she’s technically right in front of me.

“You go first,” I tell her, shifting onto one side. “How did you do on your history exam?”

For as long as I’ve known her, Zoe has dreamed of studying computer science at Stanford the way I’ve dreamed of becoming a writer, which means every single test she takes matters. Counts toward something.

“Oh, that. I guess it went better than I thought,” she says casually, but I know from her small, ill-concealed smile that she must’ve gotten full marks. She wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.

“We love an intellectual,” I say, and she laughs. I laugh too, happy that she’s happy.

“Okay, okay, but seriously.” She holds up a hand. Straightens suddenly. “My test scores aside—I feel like we really need to revisit the fact that you’ve somehow become famous since we last talked? And you’re doing this prestigious internship and shit—which I only found out through a freaking magazine article?”

I can guess exactly which one she’s referring to. There was an article published just yesterday featuring a photo of Caz and me walking to class together. Whoever took the photo managed to capture the precise moment Caz reached for my hand—right before I slapped him. In it, my eyes are wide with visible surprise and maybe a trace of embarrassment, my cheeks flushed pink. And Caz is doing that thing with his mouth, one side of it curved up in an almost smile, his gaze intent on me.

“Yeah, I know,” I manage. “It—it’s pretty wild.”

“No, like, seriously. Listen to this.” Her nails clack rapidly on her keyboard, then she clears her throat and starts reading. “Eliza’s boyfriend is none other than gorgeous up-and-coming Chinese American actor Caz Song. Best known for his roles in The Legend of Feiyan, Everything Starts with You, and Five Lives Five Loves, the young star has been making some serious waves in Mainland China—”

“I’ve already read it,” I cut in hastily, making a face.

“And I think you’re being way too low-key about this,” Zoe says. “Did you know that you’re trending on Weibo, like, right now?”

“Yeah, Caz’s management already told him.” Which he then proudly passed on to me, alongside the statistic that interest levels in his next drama have already shot up 300 percent. I’d be happier for him if he weren’t so terribly smug about it—or his insistence that spontaneity is the best way to go.

“Caz,” Zoe repeats, rolling the syllable on her tongue like it means something. “So what exactly is the situation with him?”

By instinct, I open my mouth to lie, but then I remember that Zoe knows. She’s the only person in the world who knows my essay was fake, which now—ironically—means she’s the only person in the world I can tell the truth to. “He’s … Let’s just say he’s damage control.”

Her brows rise, unsurprised. Zoe is always one step ahead of everyone. “Until when?”

“Until my internship ends and I get my shiny letter of recommendation from Sarah Diaz, and then we can part ways happy and successful and never bother each other again.”

“Hmm,” Zoe says.

“What?”

She blinks at me, all innocent. “Nothing.”

“Come on.” I shoot her a look. “We both know what your hmms mean. Out with it.”

She snorts. Shakes her head. “I just think it’s funny, that’s all.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you’d just gone and written something real, you wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“It’s too late to say that now,” I protest, fighting against the pinch of dread in my stomach. Yet it’s sharper now than ever. I still remember the first time Zoe read one of my English pieces in class, before we were even best friends. She’d looked up at the end, eyes wide, and said—and I’ve memorized every exact word: Have you ever thought about being a writer? You’re so freaking good at this. She was the first person to really believe in me, and in some ways, this is precisely what she’d wanted for me, for my life. In other ways, this is the total opposite of that. I swallow the lump in my throat and press on, “The essay’s already out, and for better or worse, everyone believes it.”

“But maybe, if you told the truth—”

I force out a small snort. “Are you kidding? Have you seen those people on Twitter get torn apart just because people suspected they made up a fake funny text exchange? If the truth gets out, I’ll probably be fending off hate comments and death threats for the rest of my life—”

Before I can complete my little monologue of doom, an unfamiliar voice calls down the hall on her end:

“Hey, can I grab the salt-and-vinegar chips?”

It’s a girl’s voice. Someone our age.

“Help yourself,” Zoe calls back, twisting around in her chair, and I’m suddenly struck by a memory of us at our last sleepover, me raiding her snack cupboard while she blow-dried her hair and worried aloud about the usual things: that email the teacher hasn’t replied to yet, the grades for tomorrow’s quiz, the committee she signed up for but wants to quit. “Just don’t touch the barbecue ones.”

“Got it,” the voice responds with a giggle.

“Who is that?” I ask as Zoe turns to me again.

“Oh, that’s just Divya,” she says. Like she expects me to recognize the name. Then she seems to remember I’m halfway across the world now, an entire ocean away. “Right, sorry, you wouldn’t know her; she’s new. Her parents are out of town, so she’s crashing at my house for a few days.”

“Right,” I hear myself say. There’s a dull, unreasonable stabbing sensation in the pit of my stomach, a sick feeling that tells me nothing except: I should go. “Um, cool.”

“Do you want to say hi?” Zoe offers.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I say quickly, sitting up. “I’ll just— You two hang out. Have fun. I need to write up something for my internship anyway, so …”

“Okay.” She’s already nodding, looking elsewhere, distracted. I can hear the pad of footsteps moving closer, the crinkle of the chip packet. “Okay, then. We’ll talk soon, yeah? Just text whenever.”

“Of course.” I do my best to smile, even though the movement strains my lips. “I miss you.”

She blows me a quick, perfunctory kiss. “Miss you too.”

Then the screen goes black, and it’s just me, staring at my own reflection in the following silence. My eyes look dark and heavy. Sad.

I slam my laptop shut.

•    •    •

Since Caz has upheld his end of the deal so far, it’s only fair that I uphold mine as well.

Which is why I agree to meet with him the following Saturday afternoon at Chaoyang Park to help him write his essays. We both decided that a casual public setting would be best, since going over to each other’s apartments would raise far too many questions from our families.

Still, as I finalize the time and location with Caz, I can’t shake the odd, jittery feeling that I’m preparing to go on a date.

It’s the kind of rare, blue-skied day that draws all the families out of their apartments, eager for a chance to breathe in some fresh air. On my way there, I pass at least a dozen smiling couples and young parents, toddlers waddling behind them on stumpy legs and stony-faced tweens texting as they walk feet ahead, squinting down at their screens in the bright, natural light.

The sun is everywhere, a hot palm on the back of my bare neck. I’m wearing a thin cotton dress with cherry blossom patterns printed over the front. It’s not until I reach the park and catch sight of my reflection in a tinted shop window that I realize how ridiculously short my dress is; every time a breeze blows past me, the skirt flutters high up my thighs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, slowing to a stop. Using the window as a mirror, I attempt to pull the dress down to a more conservative length, but that only makes the top part way too revealing instead.

Desperate, I snap a quick photo of my reflection and text it to Zoe.

on a scale of Victorian-era-housewife to business-magnate’s-fifth-wife, how suggestive does this dress look? be honest.

business magnate’s second wife before the first wife’s divorce papers are finalized. why?? are u planning on seducing that actor boy?

I almost drop my phone. ABSOLUTELY NOT, I start to type—just as I notice Caz’s reflection behind me.

“Ohmygod,” I blurt out. Spin around, half my thoughts still tangled up in my unsent message. “I’m not here to seduce you.”

His dark brows crinkle. “What?”

“No—no, wait. Um, please forget I just said that—” Resisting the urge to bury my burning face in my hands, I clear my throat. Try for a normal greeting. “Hi.”

His mouth twitches, but to my great relief, he goes along with it. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I repeat awkwardly.

Then I bring my gaze down. I’m so used to seeing Caz in school uniform that it takes me a second to register his full appearance: a plain fitted shirt under a leather jacket, black jeans, and those white Nike kicks so many guys are into for reasons that elude me. He looks different. Good.

But of course, he always looks good.

It takes me another second to notice that something’s missing.

“You … you didn’t bring your laptop?” I ask, incredulous, scanning him up and down. He isn’t holding anything. In fact, if it weren’t for the clothes, I’d think he’d rolled out of bed and wandered straight over here. “Not even a notebook? A sheet of paper? A—a pen? Nothing?”

He shrugs. “No.”

I stare at him. “You do know what we’re meant to be doing today, right? Like, I didn’t hallucinate the part where you begged me to write your college essays for you …”

“Okay, first, I never begged,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You offered; I never beg anyone for anything. And second, I figured you’d come well prepared, so there was no point bringing any of that stuff on my own.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

“Well, you did bring the stuff we need, didn’t you?” He gestures to the bag slung over my shoulders, a smile forming on his lips, like he’s already won the argument. “So I was right to presume.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“But you did,” he points out.

“That’s really not the …” I trail off, distracted by a sudden, strikingly vivid vision of us standing around and bickering like this for the rest of the afternoon until the sky goes dark. I sigh. Give my dress one last, futile tug. “Fine, whatever. Let’s just go and get this over with.”

He grins at me, his teeth white enough to blind. “That’s the spirit.”

•    •    •

The last time I visited Chaoyang Park, I was about four years old. Young enough that most of my memories from back then are blurred now, closer to something from a long-buried dream or a faded family photo than an actual recollection of events. All I can really remember now is the taste of cotton candy melting on my tongue, a bright streak in the sky—a balloon, maybe, or a painted kite—and Ma’s loud, easy laughter, spilling over the glittering green lakes.

Still, as I walk through the front entrance with Caz beside me, I’m struck by this overwhelming sense of déjà vu, of nostalgia, akin to coming back home after a long holiday away.

Everything here looks so familiar: the rusted yellow-and-blue exercise equipment mostly occupied by old yeyes and nainais; the paddleboats skimming over the murky lotus pond waters; the table tennis tables set up in tidy rows over the courtyard. Even the scent in the air—that odd, distinct mix of moss and fresh-blooming flowers and fried sausages—makes me miss something I can’t name.

All I know is that it makes my chest ache.

“You been here before?”

I turn to find Caz studying me. His tone and expression are casual enough, but there’s this sharp, observant look in his eyes that leaves me feeling more exposed than my dress does.

“A long time ago,” I say, staring straight ahead. A little boy is devouring a stick of tanghulu by the lawn, the candy shell crunching loudly between his teeth. “Before we moved, I mean. I haven’t come back since.”

“Well, I doubt it’s changed much.”

“Yeah,” I say, though there is something different about the place I can’t quite put my finger on. Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.

“So where exactly have you visited?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Around Beijing. For fun.” His eyebrows shoot up at my lost expression. “Wait, don’t tell me you haven’t been anywhere in all your time here. You’ve been back for what, like, two months already?”

Four months, actually. But that wouldn’t help my case, so I don’t correct him.

“It’s not like I’m a tourist,” I grumble, hitching my bag higher up my shoulder. “Am I supposed to go visit the Great Wall or something?”

“No,” he says. “But there are plenty of places besides the Great Wall—and better than the Great Wall too. No offense to Qin Shi Huang. You know, snack stalls, shopping malls, Wangfujing …”

“I’ve been busy,” I protest, my voice taking on a defensive edge. “And my parents have been working practically every day since we got here and …”

“What if I took you?”

Caz says this so casually that I’m unsure if I’ve misheard him.

He must catch the look of disbelief on my face, because he slows his steps and explains, “I’ve actually been thinking about it. And you raised a pretty fair point the other day.”

This time, I’m certain I’ve misheard him. I slow down too. “Are you … are you admitting I’m right?”

“Not about the strict scheduling,” he says with a decisive jerk of his head. “But about you hitting me when I attempted to hold your hand.”

I suppress the urge to cringe. “We, um, really don’t need to revisit that—”

“No, but we do. Nobody’s going to believe we’re together if you act like I’m about to kidnap you each time I make a move.”

“Have you considered … not making any moves?” But as soon as I say it, I can hear how naive I sound. How inexperienced. Most of the couples at our school can barely keep their hands off each other. “Fine,” I mutter hastily, before he can jump at the opportunity to tease me. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Chemistry training,” he says, like this is a real term used by real people.

“Chemistry—what?”

“I’ve done it with all my co-actors. It’s basically a series of activities we do together to get comfortable with each other fast; it helps build chemistry and make our interactions look more natural on-screen. Plus, we’ll need to learn each other’s backstories so we don’t get caught for not knowing something obvious.”

I pause. I have vaguely heard of something like that before. Still, my voice comes out wary. “What … kind of activities?”

“Depends.” He shrugs. “Sometimes we’ll hang out at the mall, or do a couple’s photo shoot, or go on a private spa retreat for a weekend. Obviously the two of us won’t have the same resources and flexibility, but I could show you around Beijing. And you need more material for your blog thing anyway, right?”

“Right,” I say slowly, coming to a complete standstill in the shade of a wide oak, as if thinking and walking are mutually exclusive activities. “Right. That sounds … I mean, no offense, but that sounds like we’d be spending a lot of time together outside school. Is there really no quicker way to do the chemistry-building thing—”

Without looking at me, he says, “Sometimes the directors will throw us into a small, dark room and get us to make out for ten minutes. We’re usually pretty familiar with each other after that.”

Despite the shade, I feel the sun’s heat all over my cheeks. “Okay, trips around Beijing it is,” I say quickly, and I swear I see the twitch of his lips. Because of course he’s delighting in my discomfort.

I duck my reddened face from view and focus on my phone. Seconds later, Caz’s notifications dings.

“Invitation from Eliza Lin: New calendar event,” he reads out loud from his screen, eyebrows raised. “Chemistry training at five p.m. every Saturday.” Then, in the same breath, he says, “Yeah, that’s not going to work.”

“Excuse me?”

“This schedule isn’t going to work,” he repeats simply, and starts walking again, one hand in his pocket, weaving past the passing family bikes and cotton candy vendors with infuriating grace.

I have to run to catch up. “What? Why?”

“I know you don’t have much experience with the entertainment industry, Eliza,” he says, with enough arrogance that I have to physically grit my teeth to restrain myself, “but I am—as they say—booked and busy. I’ll probably be shooting or on the road for half these times. Unless you want to wrestle my manager for control over my schedule.”

I chew my tongue and walk faster. “Okay. Okay, that’s fair. I get it. Then how about this—we’ll make it this time for now, but if something comes up, you just give me a forty-eight-hour notice and we’ll reschedule.”

“Forty-eight hours?” He shakes his head. “Too long. Make it an hour.”

“Twenty-four hours,” I insist. “And you have to text me the location beforehand.”

“Wow.” Caz lets out a half laugh and runs a hand through his hair so that it looks perfectly windswept: a move I’ve seen captured in slow motion and thirsted over on every fan forum out there. “I feel like I’m dating my manager.”

I scoff out loud at that, but my gut tightens. Well, here it is, I think grimly, willing the hot, sharp pang to dull. Proof that I’d suck in a real relationship. I can’t even be an appealing fake girlfriend.

Yet as if he’s heard my thoughts, Caz turns around, and his eyes are darker, his mouth softer at the corners, almost gentle. “I’m kidding, by the way,” he says evenly. “You’re still way hotter than my manager.” Before I can even react, he twists back to face the paved path and adds, like an afterthought, “Fine. I’ll send you the location. But I’m in charge of transport.”

“Can you—can you even drive?”

He snorts. “Don’t worry, I have alternate means of transportation.”

“Oh,” I say, immediately picturing him showing up outside my apartment in a massive horse-drawn pumpkin carriage for some reason. I give myself a mental shake before I can do something horribly inappropriate, like laugh. “Okay, fine. But we’ll be splitting all costs fifty-fifty. Don’t try to be a gentleman and pay for me; money will only complicate things.”

“Fine,” he echoes.

“Great.”

“Great,” he repeats again, and it’s kind of incredible that he can piss me off even when he’s technically agreeing with me.

“Wonderful,” I bite out, marching right past him. Still, I can almost sense him smiling his insufferable look-at-me-I’m-a-superstar smile behind me.

And his smile turns out to be scarily effective. We’ve only just rounded the corner, where the crowds are denser and the paths are lined with food stalls, when these two teenage girls come into view. They both stop walking when they see us.

Or rather, see him.

“Oh my god,” one of them murmurs in Mandarin. She’s wearing a cute floral bucket hat that looks close to sliding over her eyes at any second. She nudges her friend in the ribs. “Oh my god.”

Oh my god, I think too, but with pure dread. I’m really not here to watch strangers fangirl over Caz Song’s very existence. I just want to write his essays and go home and curl up on the couch with some dramas. Though he’s kind of already ruined that particular experience for me; I can’t even watch a drama now without realizing that this actor once shot a variety program with Caz, or that actress once filmed a kiss scene with him.

“You don’t think … ?” Hat Girl is saying.

“It’s him,” her friend answers. “It’s definitely him.”

They’re both trying to sneak looks at Caz’s face in the most conspicuous way possible. If I weren’t searching for a quick escape route (would it look weird if I ducked behind that bush?), I’d probably laugh.

The first girl clears her throat, adjusts her hat with visibly trembling fingers, and approaches Caz. She looks like she might start crying. “Um, hello? Caz Song?”

It must be weird to have a complete stranger call out your name in a park like you’re classmates or something. But as weird as it is, Caz must also be used to it, because he straightens, his charm dialed up, immediately reverting to my initial boy-from-the-magazine impression of him. Perfect. Too perfect.

I can only imagine how I must look in comparison.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at them both. “How are you?”

“I’m just—I’m a huge fan,” Hat Girl says, her voice trembling too, her words tumbling out in a great rush. “I’ve watched every drama you’ve starred in. My favorite has to be The Legend of Feiyan … It was, like, the perfect adaptation of Hero’s novel—you’re exactly how I pictured the male lead when I first read it …”

The other girl has whipped out her phone and started filming the exchange, and panic flashes through me. I do not need every Chinese netizen to see a video of me looking like this. My dress is still too short, and I’m suddenly very conscious of the pimple on my forehead.

But Caz has started chatting with them in earnest: about his next drama, his castmates, his diet and workout routine, each answer so smooth I wonder if he’s reading off an invisible script. I linger behind him, feeling somehow both invisible and way too exposed, when Hat Girl turns her attention to me and her eyes widen.

“Oh, holy crap—are you Eliza Lin?”

I blink. “Yeah …”

To my surprise, her face splits into a broad beam. “I love your essay. Your writing’s amazing.”

My pulse skips, and heat, good heat, rushes to my face. “Wow,” I say, sounding as shy as I feel. This random girl actually likes my writing. I mean, I’ve gotten more than enough compliments from people online by now, but this is different. This is actually happening in real life, and it’s happening to me. “Um, thank you. That means a lot.”

“No, for real,” she says. “I think it might be one of my favorite pieces ever.”

The heat spreads all the way through my body like sunshine, and I decide that maybe I don’t mind the attention. Maybe I even crave it a little.

“You look a lot better in real life than your school photo,” she adds with complete sincerity, and nudges her friend, who’s still filming. “Don’t you think?”

Her friend lowers her phone at last and meets my eyes, and all the warmth seeps out of me. Her gaze is ice-cold, and her tone no friendlier. “You’re Caz’s girlfriend?” The question sounds almost like a threat.

“Um …” I lick my dry lips. “I—”

“Yeah, she is,” Caz answers for me, and—to everyone’s shock—slides a casual hand around my waist. Distantly, through the sensation of his skin against my dress, I remember the slide from my PowerPoint: No physical contact beyond casual shoulder-bumping and occasional hugging. “We’re actually on a date right now.”

Hat Girl claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she says again. “That’s so adorable. I’m, like, such a fan of your relationship.”

Meanwhile, her friend looks like she’s experiencing something of an extreme facial spasm. If Caz weren’t still holding me, I’d bolt in the opposite direction.

“Please ignore her,” Hat Girl tells me, following my gaze. “She’s been a solo stan of you for ages, Caz. I think she just needs a bit of—time to adjust to the news. It’s great news, though. Really.”

Caz just smiles and nods, and I try to smile and nod too, as if it’s perfectly normal that this girl I’ve never spoken a word to hates my guts.

As soon as the two of them leave—and only after Caz has signed her bucket hat with a Sharpie he apparently just carries around everywhere with him—he lets his arm drop and we make our way deeper into the park.

We’re silent for a few minutes, both thinking, before he turns to me. “Hey, are you okay? I know my fans can be a bit … protective—”

“No, it’s fine,” I reassure him quickly.

He tilts his head a few degrees, like he’s struggling to figure me out. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” When he looks doubtful, I add, “Seriously. I’m not that sensitive.”

“Okay, well, in that case …” He takes a deep, somber breath, and just when I think he’s about to say something profound, he blurts out: “Did my hair look okay just now?”

I blink. “What?”

“My hair.” He clears his throat. Rubs the back of his neck. “When I was taking photos with them. Did it look good?”

“Your vanity is astounding,” I inform him, spinning around. To think I was actually finding Caz Song agreeable—thoughtful, even. At the end of the day, all he really cares about is maintaining his perfect, plastic image.

“Okay, sure, whatever,” he says. “But seriously, I just want a second opinion—”

“It looked good,” I say irritably. “You always look good. You know that.” I hold up a hand before he can gloat. “But if you ever use my words against me, I will personally cut all your hair off myself. Got it?”

His smug, infuriating smile falters, but only for a second. In the sort of exaggerated, too-deep voice you only ever hear in the theaters, he replies, “Whatever you say, my love.”