This Time It's Real

by Ann Liang

Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll spend the rest of my life this way. Alone. Sometimes I think loneliness is my default setting.

@drunklanwangji: not to be dramatic or anything but i would literally die for them to just stay together and hold hands and be happy forever.

I have a theory that Ma secretly likes her idol romances as much as we do, though. I made everyone watch The Untamed when it was my turn, and she seemed more invested in the characters than any of us.

“Hi,” I say. My voice comes out higher and louder than I intended, bouncing off the dull tiled walls around us. 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.”

“It never occurred to you,” he repeats. Then his face smooths out, and he draws closer. “Well, too late to change your mind. We’re starting now, right?” “Huh?”

“This is a good opportunity,” he says, gesturing to us, then to the dim, cramped closet and the stream of noise right outside it. Before I can fully grasp what he’s suggesting, he drags a hand through his already-messy hair, undoes one shirt button, and bites his lips until they look slightly swollen and red. As if … As if we’ve just been making out in here.

He inspects me for a second, his gaze thoughtful, and something shifts over him. Within him. Like a camera’s clicked on, and he’s sliding into a new role, a different character, the change so swift it alarms me. Then he reaches for my ponytail. “Can I?” I don’t really know what he means, but I smile. Nod. Resist the impulse to run. And then Caz’s long fingers are running through my hair, tugging my ponytail loose, his movements so light and fast I barely register anything except a faint, pleasant tingling sensation over my scalp. It’s a small, casual gesture, but in the brief moment when his hands are still in my hair and his eyes are on me, I feel … something. Something like embarrassment, yet not like it at all.

I know I can’t trust the boy standing before me—this pretty actor with his perfect hair and practiced charm and hordes of fans, the person everyone either wants or wants to be. But right now, I don’t have any better options. “Of course,” I tell him, injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible. He seems to believe me, though, because he motions me forward and pushes the door wide open.

“You good?” Caz whispers to me at the doorway, one hand resting against the frame behind my shoulder. A thousand times, in movies and music videos and real life, I’ve seen couples stand together like this. But for me, this is completely new. Not that I can let it show. “Yeah,” I say, doing my best to sound flippant. “Of course. Are you?”

He grins then, slow and wide and teasing, and for the first time, I notice that he has dimples. A useless discovery. And yet …

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’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.

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

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.”

“Whatever you say, my love.”

As he speaks, I get a startling glimpse of the boy behind the glossy magazine cover. Someone a little afraid. That part I can relate to, at least.

So it’s with full, gentle sincerity that I say, “Well, you’re safe with me. I’ll only write the story you want to tell for this essay; I won’t twist your words or anything like that. Promise.” A long pause. A soft breeze brushes through the grass, past my cheek. When Caz glances up again, he looks different. Or he’s looking at me differently, his eyes less black than brown, the rich shade of freshly upturned earth. “Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll talk.”

I’m cringing before the words are even out of my mouth. “Could we—would it be okay if we took a selfie together? Right now? For my internship?” Wow, I could not have chosen a more awkward way to ask that. 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.”

And I don’t know what compels me to do it, what gives me the nerve—whether it’s because I’m still riding the adrenaline high of having just written an essay that I know is really good, or because the persistent heat has subdued the impulse-control section of my brain, or because I want to startle that smug smile off his face—but just when he’s about to take the photo, I stand up tall on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Click. The camera flashes once, capturing the kiss for eternity, and I pull back. Suddenly uncertain what to do with my mouth, my face, my hands. The aftermath of my one moment of impulsivity. “And you say you don’t have any experience with this stuff,” Caz remarks after a pause, his tone casual. “Well, you’re not the only one who can be spontaneous.” One corner of his crooked mouth lifts higher. “Clearly.”

I expect Caz to move away, but instead he slides his long fingers around my wrist. Runs a thumb over the frayed string bracelet there. “You always wear this,” he says. I nod. Swallow. “Yeah. I know.” He waits for me to say more, but I’m too busy trying to act normal, like I’m not hyperaware of how close we are, how his hand is still moving slowly over my skin, his touch warmer and lighter than the summer air.

“It’s the smile,” he says, eyes flickering to me. “You two have the same smile.”

“Thanks for the tip about wearing pants,” I tell him, my voice coming out slightly muffled through the face shield. “I thought you were just traumatized by the length of my dress last time.” His head turns a fraction toward me. “Eliza. If it weren’t for the matter of practicality, you could literally come dressed in a trash bag and I wouldn’t care.”

Caz takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. I freeze, self-conscious and a little stunned, because I can’t recall seeing Caz laugh like this before: head thrown back and dimples so deep they look carved-in. Then he says, “Eliza. Your hair.” “What?” My hands reach instinctively for the top of my head, and I’m horrified to find my hair sticking … up. All the way up, as if I’ve been shocked with electricity. Perfect. Just perfect. I scowl to hide my embarrassment and quickly smooth my hair back down in a few vigorous pats, then glare at him. “Don’t say another word.” “Come on, it didn’t look that bad. It’s actually quite stylish—” “Don’t.”

If awkwardness could be a fatal flaw, it would most definitely be mine.

I hope you always catch your train in time. I hope your birthday always falls on a weekend or holiday. I hope you land every role you audition for. I hope you have an umbrella with you whenever it rains. I hope you always snatch up the last bag of your favorite snack. I hope you always get the window seat.

I hope you remember to miss me when all this is over.

It’s a ridiculous idea, delusional really, but I feel myself waver. “I mean, okay, it is, but … Just. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?” And then I kind of throw the jar at him. He catches it easily with one hand and turns it over, studies it. He doesn’t seem to understand what it is at first until he sees the words written on the cranes. I’m too nervous to look at his face as he goes through some of the wishes, afraid to see the possible scorn in his expression, or boredom, or worse: nothing at all. He probably gets gifts like this all the time at fan meetings. It probably doesn’t even matter to him. But then he calls my name once, soft, and I lift my head in surprise. He looks so obviously, genuinely moved, all his gratitude just lying wide open in his gaze, that I can’t stand it. This intimacy. The way it makes my chest heat. Act normal, remember?

“Hold on tighter,” he warns. “It’s dangerous, riding around in the snow.” Tentatively, I lean closer, until I can feel the heat of his skin despite the cold. “Tighter.” “What?” My face flushes. “I’m already—” He makes a small sound like a sigh and grabs my wrists, pulling them higher so they’re locked just over his taut stomach, my entire upper body pressed snugly against his. “I don’t want to be legally responsible for any accidents,” he says over the hum of the engine.

And this, I think, is my ultimate fatal flaw. Missing people who don’t miss me back. Clinging on to strands of string that shouldn’t mean half as much as they do. It takes so little for me to love someone, yet so long for me to move on.

“Okay. So maybe …” I pause. Avoid Caz’s curious gaze, twisting my fingers together in my lap, where no one can see them. “Maybe you can talk about how … I don’t know, how his laughter sounds. If it’s rougher in the mornings, or lower on the phone, or how he always tips his head back when he finds something funny. How—how you can only see his dimples when he smiles at something real. How you’re jealous of everyone who loves him, who knew him before you did. “And you probably didn’t mean to fall for him. At all. You probably had a plan, precautions in place. Maybe you were at peace with your loneliness, but then he sort of barged into your life, uninvited, and you’ve been reeling ever since, angry at yourself. At him. Now all you can do is sit around and think, like a fool, about the pale, moonlit curve of his neck and measure out potential losses and the weight of his words and prepare remedies in advance for what you’re certain will be the most devastating sort of heartbreak. But you continue to like him anyway. Stubbornly. Deliberately. And you …” I trail off when I realize how long I’ve been talking, how much I’ve been saying. God, what am I saying? Heat rushes to my cheeks. I can barely bring myself to look up, but it’d be hard to ignore the way Mingri is staring at me—jaw hanging and eyes wide. And Caz. If Mingri’s gaze is stunned, Caz’s gaze is scorching. Searching. He’s leaned forward in his seat, and the tender look on his face isn’t something I’ve ever seen before....

When you care about someone, you want to be inconvenienced—you wouldn’t mind being inconvenienced by them every day for the rest of your life. That’s what love is. That’s all love really is.”

“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.”

Caz hesitates a second, opens his mouth and closes it again, then reaches out and brushes the tear aside with one gentle thumb.

“It’s not funny,” I say, even though I’m laughing a little too, my cheeks damp and my nose running, the sound rattling in my throat. I’m basically the definition of an emotional mess right now. “Of course it isn’t,” Caz agrees. He wipes my cheeks again, then brings his other hand gently to the back of my head, consoling me as if I’m still just a kid. “So what’s wrong? Was being in my house really that awful?” He says it like a joke, but I can see a trace of genuine worry in his features.

“We can’t stop,” I hear myself say, the lie rising fully formed to my lips. How many lies have I told by now? Too many to count. But the only way I managed to rope Caz into this whole arrangement in the first place was by making it about his career; now it’s also the only way to keep him here. “Because … because we still need to do an interview together.” Caz draws back. “An interview? I don’t remember you mentioning it.” “I must’ve forgotten,” I tell him, hoping he can’t hear the waver in my breath. “But it’s with this huge media company, and I already promised Sarah Diaz we’d be available. It’s not scheduled for until after the Spring Festival holidays, though, so if we can keep this up until then …” “I’m willing if you are,” he says slowly. It’s too dark to make out his expression, but I can feel his gaze on me. As if he’s looking for something. “But there’s no other reason, beside the interview?” I tense. The words are there, crowded in the back of my throat. I could tell him. Be honest for once in my life. Be brave. My heart starts drumming louder, so loud I’m certain he’ll hear it. I breathe in. Tell him. But all that comes out is: “Of course not.” “Of course not,” he repeats. For some reason, his voice is strained.

“It’d be more accurate,” he continues, undeterred, “if you were to press your forehead to mine. Then you could properly compare the temperatures.” I stare at him. He stares back, a challenge in the sharp set of his jaw, the dark gleam of his eyes. He thinks this will be enough to get me off his back. He thinks I won’t be able to do it. “Whatever works,” I say sweetly, relishing the flash of genuine surprise on his face before I wrap one hand around the nape of his neck and pull him forward. Our heads touch, and at once I can feel the intense heat rising from his skin, his parted lips, the flutter of his long lashes when he blinks. And then the most wildly inappropriate and unhelpful thought of all time pops into my brain: This is how it must feel to kiss Caz Song.

When I turn around to check if Caz has fallen asleep, he’s watching me, his black gaze inexpressibly soft. Serious. It makes me nervous.

I lurch backward. Caz’s eyes flutter open, his gaze focusing on me, night black and intent. I feel a little shaky under the weight of it. “Where are you going?” he asks. “To, um.” My voice is failing. “To clean up—” “Stay,” he whispers, the word falling so fast from his lips it could be instinct, a slip of the tongue, a mistake. He looks almost surprised himself, almost shy, though he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t run away, the way I would. And it’s only when I see the tense, rolling motion in his throat that I realize just how hard it is for him to be witnessed in his current raw, weakened state. To ask for anything from anyone.

He only seems to relax when I scoot forward, bring my hand lower down to his arm, and tell him what I’ve wanted someone to say to me for as long as I can remember. What I’m still waiting for someone to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

I hear him laugh then, the low sound washing over the speaker like a tide off the shore, and despite myself, I flush. There’s something strangely intimate about calling someone in the dark. It’s like listening to your favorite song in the middle of a crowded subway; the world narrows down to just you and this voice in your ear, while everyone else around you goes about their lives, completely oblivious. It feels sacred. Like a secret.

“Do you seriously not understand what I’m saying?” “No,” I tell him, frustrated too, heat spreading fast over my body, my face. “All I can hear is you describing yourself kissing someone in very rich detail. Which is just lovely—again, really happy for you, but—” “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.

Sometimes I fall asleep with his voice in my ear.

“That thing about … being there for me. I want to be that for you too.”

Caz cups my face with one steady, slender hand and traces a gentle line down my cheek, and my mind—my mind teeters toward oblivion. My breathing betrays me. His ink-black eyes lock on mine, and I am staring up at him, half in shock and maybe awe. He’s unreasonably beautiful and he’s so close it makes me ache and I want him closer still. I want him even though I shouldn’t. I want him to want me too. I can’t even remember what we were supposed to do. Then, slowly, he brings his other hand up to my face. His fingers tremble slightly, and the air between us changes. Solidifies. Overheats. My mouth parts of its own accord, and he sees. He makes a soft, barely audible sound that could be a sigh or the edge of a laugh or something else, a surrender, and then he leans all the way in, presses his lips to mine like he can’t help himself, like he’s been waiting forever just to kiss me— And I kiss him back.

I kiss him with an intensity that shocks me.

For a split second, Caz looks stunned. Almost drunk.

“If you didn’t think it would work, why did you agree to the plan?” Something flickers over his face, but he merely shrugs. “You just seemed like you really wanted to kiss me. And who am I to deny you the pleasure?”

How easy it would be to revert to that old, familiar loneliness, except this time, the loneliness would hurt more than it ever has before, a loneliness shaped entirely by his absence.

“I’m … not sure what to think,” I say. He takes another step closer. I step back automatically, the bamboo stalks rising up around me, brushing my cheek. He stops. Releases his grip on my wrist, only to bring his hand up to the curve of my jaw, and it’s all I can do not to dissolve right there or utter something incredibly dangerous and sincere.

“So you don’t have any real feelings for me?” he asks, his voice dipping into a low register I’ve never heard before. “Not even a little?” He keeps his gaze steady on me, but his fingers trail down to a soft, vulnerable spot at the base of my neck, and I flinch, like an idiot. I can’t speak; I shake my head. “Really?” he says, one brow raised, looking exactly the way he did that first day I spoke to him, when I claimed to not have overheard his call and he didn’t believe me at all. I hear myself swallow. Try to ignore the sensation of his hands still on my skin. “N-no. None.” Caz responds by leaning in, and for one wild, beautiful, terrifying second, I think he’s going to press his lips to mine, and I can’t help it—I lean in too. But instead he merely smiles, as if he’s just proven something to both of us, and lowers his curved mouth to my ear. “Liar,” he whispers.