This Time It's Real

by Ann Liang

He pauses. Stares at me. “Oh, look,” he says finally, his mouth curving into something too muted to qualify as a smile. “It’s my nonfan.”

I guess my point is that I do believe in love. Really. I’m just not convinced that kind of love could ever happen to me.

“I’m kidding, by the way,” he says evenly. “You’re still way hotter than my manager.”

“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.”

For one dumb moment, I can’t help but think, No wonder why he’s so vain. If I were that beautiful, I would be vain too.

A ridiculous, self-satisfied smile spreads slow over his lips like honey. “Of course. Anything for my nonfan.” My face heats. “When are you going to let that go?” “When you join my fan club.” “So: never,” I say flatly. “Don’t sound so certain” is all he says as he adjusts the screen.

He makes a choking sound. “Holy sh—not that tight—” “I don’t want to fall off,” I protest, but I loosen my hold just a little, enough to let him breathe. “You won’t fall,” he says, like the notion itself is ridiculous. “I won’t let you.”

By the time I get to the last crane, my alarm clock is flashing. Six a.m. I’m exhausted and nearly out of ideas, and maybe it’s because of this that I let the truth slip out onto the page. I hope you remember to miss me when all this is over.

It should be physically impossible for them to coexist inside me—this silly lightness in my chest, buoying me up, and this heavy sinking sensation in my gut. But now, in broad daylight, with Caz standing right there, as unfortunately beautiful as ever, I’m forced to admit that what I wrote on those paper cranes wasn’t just my exhaustion talking. I might actually be crushing on Caz Song. Like a total sucker.

Caz releases an audible puff of laughter. I turn to glare at him, but when our gazes meet, he only laughs harder. Then Daiki steps between us. “Okay, lovebirds, stop flirting for a second—” “We weren’t flirting,” I protest, wondering if one of us has a fundamental misconception of the term. “I don’t— We didn’t even say anything.” “Yeah, but we can see it in your eyes,” he says. “And that shit’s even more obvious than direct pickup lines.” As if my face isn’t already on fire, the others all nod along.

“That’s better,” Savannah approves, holding up her phone again. But I barely register the moment when our photo is taken; all I can focus on is my own thudding heartbeat and pray Caz Song can’t tell it has nothing to do with the performance itself, and everything to do with him.

Before I have time to compose my expression, the corner of his mouth tugs up in that crooked smile I secretly love so much, dimples and straight white teeth flashing. It’s almost too much—I want to believe the smile is real, that it’s meant only for me. But I just witnessed seconds ago how good he is at acting.

After she’s instructed Caz to walk me home “like a proper gentleman,” she waves at the both of us and disappears back into the building. And then it’s just Caz and me. “So,” I say, all my awkwardness returning. “Um, you don’t actually have to walk with me—” “I want to,” Caz says—then, maybe catching the surprise on my face, pauses. “I mean, I should.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” I ask. “Impossible,” he says firmly. “I’m never sick.” Unconvinced, I lean over and press my hand to his forehead—and almost gasp. His skin is burning. “You—you’re really hot.” Instead of reacting with fear or alarm, like any ordinary person would, the corner of Caz’s mouth tugs up. “You just noticed?” I pull back with a scowl. “Don’t be conceited. I obviously meant your temperature; it’s way too hot to be normal.”

I stop abruptly when I see him smiling. My hands drop back down. “I’m sorry, is there something funny about this?” “No,” he says, but the corners of his lips tug higher, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not. “Nothing.” I glare at him. “Tell me.” “I don’t—” “Tell me.” “Fine. It’s just cute that you’re so concerned, that’s all,” he says with a shrug.

“You’re not—you’re not jealous?” Of course I am, I want to say. I want to hang up the phone and go find him in person and shake him. I’m so jealous it’s embarrassing. It makes me sick, even though I don’t really have a right to be jealous in the first place. There’s nothing in our agreement that forbids him from kissing other people. Especially considering how it’s part of his job.

“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.”

“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.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he says to Rachel, shaking her hand. “You know how Beijing traffic can be.” Then he turns to me for the first time since that day in the rain and smiles. And my heart falls. Breaks upon impact. Because it’s his formal smile, the same smile he gives strangers and fans and interviewers like Rachel, the corners of his mouth curving up just slightly, neither of his dimples showing.