This Time It’s Real

For the second time this week—and two days in a row—I find myself standing inside a janitor’s closet with Caz Song.

“We really need to find a better meeting spot,” Caz mutters as I lock the door behind us. It’s still early in the morning, before classes officially start.

“It’s not my fault you’re so popular,” I tell him, trying and failing to conceal the faint creep of irritation in my voice. A few minutes ago, I had to literally grab him by the elbow and steer him away from a crowd of excited students like some kind of bodyguard. “And anyway, this place isn’t that bad.” I gesture to the four different brands of disinfectant on the shelves and tray of yellow-green sponges beside my feet. “It’s actually pretty, um, well supplied. Very practical. Like, if there were an earthquake or something, we’d do really well in here, you know?”

Caz makes a quiet sound that could either be a laugh or a scoff. “Okay, stop trying to sell me this janitor’s closet or whatever it is you’re doing and tell me why we’re here. Again.”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure we’re both clear on what we’ll be doing today. Dating-wise.”

He gives me this look like, That’s it? “And you couldn’t have simply texted me about this?”

“I was busy yesterday,” I reason. Which is true—I spent ages going over the details of the contract, and another two hours trying to word a professional-sounding reply to Sarah—but not the full truth. There’s just something about directly reaching out to him via phone, outside school, that’s mildly terrifying.

Okay, really terrifying.

Caz shakes his head. “What even is there to discuss?” Before I can reply, he suddenly stills with fake horror. “Wait, don’t tell me you have another PowerPoint ready—”

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes, even though I did actually consider the idea for a moment last night. But he doesn’t need to know that. “And there is so much to discuss; consistency is key to a believable lie. Like, I don’t know, are we going to be walking to class together? Are you planning on sitting next to me in every class? Will we be having lunch together? Is having lunch together going to be, like, a permanent thing from now on? Do you introduce me to your friends? Should I know who your friends are, since we’re supposed to have been together for months already? If someone asks about your parents or something, do I act as if I’ve met them? If someone asks me whether or not you have abs, do I say that you do?”

“For the record, yes.”

I stare at him. “Yes?”

“If someone asks whether I have a six-pack, tell them yes.” He makes a long, leisurely stretching motion with both hands, like a cat in a warm patch of sun. He’s so tall that his fingers almost scrape the closet ceiling. “It’ll be good for my image.”

“Fine. Then you better tell everyone I’m a great kisser.”

He grins then, slow and wide and teasing, and for the first time, I notice that he has dimples. A useless discovery. And yet … “You got yourself a deal.”

“Okay. Then … great.”

“Great.”

“Cool.”

“Cool,” he echoes, and I swear he’s just trying to get under my skin now.

“Wonderful,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Now, on to more important things … So if we are walking to class together—”

“Can I just say something?” he says.

That same feeling of vague annoyance from yesterday spikes inside me. Seriously. Caz Song was a lot more charming when he was only a pretty image on my TV screen. “Aren’t you already saying something?”

“Can I say something else, then?” Without waiting for me to agree, Caz spreads his palms out and says, “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here with this whole, uh, consistency thing. But maybe … just maybe … you don’t have to coordinate every single detail? We could just get into our roles and let the story develop naturally. It’ll be more believable.”

Develop naturally. As if anything about our current arrangement is or could be natural.

“That sounds like a horrible idea,” I tell him. My palms actually feel a little clammy at the thought. Planning things out in detail means there are boundaries, and boundaries mean I’ll at least have control over something.

“Why?” he asks, not backing down. “What are you so afraid of?”

I feel myself bristle. “I’m not—afraid.” Then, hearing the blatant lie in my own voice, I switch to the offensive. “What do you have against following a nice, well-thought-out schedule?”

He breathes out through his teeth. “I don’t. It’s just—I’m already following a lot of nice, well-thought-out schedules, you know? That’s kind of the nature of my job.”

This is enough to make me falter, if only briefly.

“Humor me,” Caz insists. “Just for a day. If it doesn’t work, we can try it your way.”

No thanks. The words are already poised on the tip of my tongue when the first bell rings. It’s always loudest in the morning, an awful, drawn-out screech that can be heard at least three streets away. I think the point is to encourage students to get to class faster, but I know for a fact that some people have turned up to school ten minutes late just to avoid listening to the bell scream.

I wince as the sound echoes down the hall. There’s no time to negotiate, so I shoot Caz my firmest no-bullshit look and say:

“Fine. But only for today.”

•    •    •

I regret my words almost immediately.

We’re heading out of the old senior building at the far end of campus to first-period math, into the sticky summer heat, and surprisingly, nothing too embarrassing has happened yet. Around us, all our classmates are keeping their distance, watching us only when they think we’re looking away. Above us, the sky is so blue it looks fake.

Caz keeps quiet as we walk side by side, which I appreciate. The only thing worse than awkward silence is the kind of meaningless chatter designed solely to fill said silence.

Then, without a word of warning, Caz reaches for my hand, his long, slender fingers brushing against my own, and I honestly can’t explain what happens next.

It’s like my body goes into defense mode. Without thinking—without even registering what I’m doing—I jerk away and slap his wrist.

There’s an awful, horrifyingly loud clapping sound. The kind you usually hear in movies during a dramatic showdown.

And then a speechless pause. Followed by—

“What the hell,” Caz says, looking more confused than angry. He draws his hand back down to his side, but not before I see the irritated red of his skin. “Why did you just hit me?”

“S-sorry,” I babble. I can feel my whole face burning, my fingers tingling from where he touched them, however briefly. “I—I don’t know. I was just surprised.”

“That your boyfriend would hold your hand?” he asks, confused.

“Yes. No. I mean …” I sigh. Avert my gaze, cursing myself for landing us in this ridiculous situation, and the even more ridiculous, excruciating confession I now have to make. I don’t think anyone can hear us, but I keep my voice low in case. “I haven’t exactly, um, held hands with a guy before.”

“Wait.” Caz’s footsteps slow. “Never?”

This is already getting way too personal for my liking, but since I still feel bad for basically attacking him, I nod once and say, “Well, yeah. I’ve never dated anyone before, so …”

My words hang in the hot air between us. We’re on the school oval now, dark asphalt and bright, artificial grass everywhere. Thankfully, there’s enough free space for us to continue our conversation far away from the rest of our classmates, so no one can hear Caz when he repeats, incredulously:

“You’ve never dated anyone before. At all.”

“Nope,” I mumble, walking faster, as if I can somehow outpace my own embarrassment. I mean, it’s not like the notion of having minimal romantic experience at my age is inherently embarrassing or anything. It’s just … Caz Song is the last person I want to be talking to about this. Caz Song, who’s the definition of desirable, who has everything a person could ever want, who’s never had to worry about rejection or loneliness or being left behind. Who, according to the articles I’ve read up on him, has been in at least three relationships before, all of them with models or his gorgeous costars.

“Huh” is all he says. I can feel him studying me, as if trying to puzzle something out. My skin heats, and not just because of the scorching sun. “Then … how did you manage to write all that about falling in love?”

This question’s easy, at least. “Bullshit,” I tell him, and I’m glad for the conviction in my voice. “It’s all just sentimental bullshit. I only wrote it for the assignment.”

Caz doesn’t ask anything else after that, or attempt to spontaneously hold my hand again as we approach our class. Good. I tell myself this is good. Great. Much better than him thinking I secretly long for a movie-like romance or care about any of that stuff.

It’s not as if I don’t believe in love itself, because I’ve witnessed it. My parents first met in high school, when Ma was class captain and Ba was the quiet, mysterious kid who always came to school in wrinkled shirts and turned in his homework two days late. After they were assigned to the same desk, they started passing handwritten notes and doodles to each under the table. Notes turned into lunches together, which turned into proper dates, which eventually then escalated into a serious, long-term relationship. They ended up going to different universities on opposite ends of the country to study very different things, but they handled the distance just fine.

And now, decades later, at the age where most marriages tend to stagnate and turn sour, they still love each other that much. They don’t always remember their anniversary or go out to fancy restaurants for dates, but Ma once spent four hours lining up in the rain just to buy Ba’s favorite brand of roasted chestnuts, and Ba has been to every single one of Ma’s work events and cocktail parties, even though he hates those kinds of social functions.

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.