This Time It’s Real

School is different now.

Better, in a way. I don’t find myself dreading the car rides to school so much I feel physically sick anymore, don’t have to hover awkwardly at the doorway of classrooms as much as before. It’s not like I’m super popular all of a sudden—I still eat all my lunches alone on the rooftop—but people seem to have finally accepted my presence.

I’m not naive enough to imagine this isn’t partly because I’m with Caz Song. But another part of it also has to do with my Craneswift blog posts.

My followers have been growing rapidly, climbing by an extra few thousand almost every day, the number of likes and shares rising with them. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

The kind of love I’m praying for, girls have commented under one of my recent posts, “We Dance beneath the Streetlights, Kiss beneath the Moonlight,” where the fictional-boyfriend version of Caz Song and I stay out together in our compound at midnight.

This is proof that love exists, others have gushed over another post about us riding through the city together, about seeing Beijing from the back of Caz Song’s motorcycle, titled simply “He Swears He Won’t Let Me Fall.”

And when I’m not describing our dates, our fake cute interactions, or slyly making references to Caz Song’s upcoming drama to help drum up interest, I find myself in the very undeserved position of dishing out love advice. It’s important to be emotionally honest, I write in one article, tasting the sharp irony of my own words. Don’t be afraid of vulnerability. Or, in another article for the Love and Relationships column: I know there’s this popular mindset of “I’m strong and independent and I don’t need anyone,” but the truth is: We do need people. People who’ll laugh with us and cry with us and make the bad days bearable and the good days better; people who’ll remember what we forget and listen even when they don’t completely understand; people who’ll need us back. It has nothing to do with strength at all, and everything to do with being human.

Of course, Sarah Diaz is completely ecstatic about how things are going.

“People love it,” she gushes over our fortnightly catch-up call. “People are invested. That’s a big deal, you know? Your last blog post about those snack stalls you and Caz visited—so cute, by the way, and the photos had me drooling—just hit forty thousand views.”

“I know,” I say, then flush, because it sounds ridiculously cocky, which isn’t what I meant at all. “I mean, um. Thank you.”

She dismisses my awkwardness with an easy laugh. “Oh, that reminds me, Eliza—how do you feel about doing an interview?”

“An … interview?”

“Yes. An interview.” Sarah is far more patient with me than I deserve. “I know you’ve probably received a few invitations already, but this one was sent straight to us at Craneswift. It’s with this pretty big Beijing-based media company aimed at Western audiences, so the location and language shouldn’t be a problem. And they were very complimentary in their email. I can tell they’re highly interested in your background, and they’d love for you and Caz to make an appearance together.”

“Really,” I say vaguely, my mind still catching up to everything she just said.

“So what do you think?” she prompts. Before I can respond, she hurries on. “I know it’s a bit of a lot. But think of the exposure. This will do wonders for your career, Eliza, I can just feel it.”

That’s an understatement. It’s a lot of a lot. And sometimes, at times like this, when I become painfully aware of the sheer magnitude of my lie, the speed at which everything is happening, hurtling forward without brakes, my lungs seem to shrink and I have a vivid, half-hysterical image of being thrown into jail and getting kicked out of school and put on some permanent literary blacklist for making my essay up—

But no—breathe. Breathe. I try to breathe.

No one has suspected anything about my love story with Caz yet. I mean, we’ve had a handful of chemistry training sessions so far and they seem to be working pretty well, and I haven’t accidentally slapped him again or anything.

Still …

“That sounds … interesting,” I say, fumbling around for a safe route out of this conversation. “I can—yeah, no, I can probably do that.”

Something crashes in the background on Sarah’s end.

“Sorry.” Sarah’s voice sounds smaller, muffled, like she’s holding the phone between her ear and shoulder. I think I hear the clatter of wood and a very quietly uttered expletive. “A—a painting of Jesus just fell to the ground for some reason. Weird.”

If I were even kind of religious, I’d definitely see this as a bad omen.

“Anyway, what were you saying about the interview?” Her voice grows louder again, reverting to its normal cheery tone.

“No, it’s just that … I—I’ll have to ask Caz,” I tell her, knowing that I won’t. “And really … think about it more. Would it be okay to give you an answer some time later?”

“Sure, Eliza.” But I can hear her disappointment, however well disguised. “I don’t want you to commit to anything you’re not comfortable with.”

A little too late for that is all I can think as I hang up, my stomach heavy as stone.

•    •    •

Pretty soon it becomes clear that the interview is the least pressing of my concerns.

Because three days before Caz Song’s eighteenth birthday, I realize I still have no idea what to get him. I mean, I’m sure there’s plenty of advice out there on appropriate gifts to buy at different stages in a relationship, but no online magazines come with a guide for what to give your boyfriend when you’re only fake-dating.

It doesn’t help that this is the Caz Song we’re talking about. What are you supposed to give a boy who already has the whole world?

I’m so desperate for answers that I end up consulting Emily later that night—then regret it almost instantly.

“You have come to the right place,” Emily reassures me, but it sounds more like These will be the most painful minutes of your life.

We’re both sitting around the dining table, a giant bowl of bright yellow diced mangoes and sliced strawberries set between us, two fruit forks laid to the side. Ma’s off in the other room calling Kevin from marketing again (every now and then, you can hear her sigh and say something like No, a pool party would most definitely not be appropriate—yes, even if we were to print the company logo on all the beach balls, Kevin!) and Ba’s busy preparing his notes for a poetry reading at some prestigious university tomorrow.

“I will make sure you create the greatest gift of all time,” Emily continues dramatically, slamming one tiny fist down on the table. “Anyone who has ever had a boyfriend before will weep in shame. They will have no choice but to bow before you and—”

“Yeah, uh, that won’t be necessary.” I clear my throat. “I just need, like, a passable idea. It doesn’t have to be that good.”

“Wow.” Emily’s been using sarcasm a lot these days. I think she’s starting to enter her teenage phase. “Caz is so lucky to be dating you.”

I roll my eyes and stab my fork into a cube of mango. “Yeah, whatever. Just give me some ideas.”

In response, she steals the mango from me with the other fork.

“Hey—”

“I’m thinking,” she tells me between loud chews. It’s not often that I ask for her advice on anything, and she’s obviously enjoying this a little too much.

“Can you think faster? I only have three days to sort this out.”

“Well, that’s on you,” she says, which is annoying but unfortunately true.

I’ve never been the type to procrastinate on schoolwork or whatever, but I do have a bad tendency to avoid anything I find uncomfortable. When we had to leave my old school in London, I meant to personally tell my English teacher that we were moving. But I knew that she really liked me, and that she’d cry at the news right in front of me and deliver a dramatic farewell speech, and the whole imaginary scenario made me feel so awkward I ended up putting it off until we’d boarded the plane, by which point it was of course too late to say anything. She probably thinks I’m dead now, having just stopped going to school one day. Or maybe in a coma.

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

“Hey, what about a love letter?” Emily suggests, her eyes lighting up. “It’d be so sweet, just like in the olden days—you know, like the early 2000s! And you could write about—”

“No.” I shake my head before she can even finish the sentence. “Nope. No way.” The mere memory of Caz reading my essay out loud in the janitor’s closet still makes me cringe so hard my back muscles spasm. A letter addressed to him would be even more intimate, and a thousand times more embarrassing. Besides, what would I even write? Dearest Caz, roses are red, violets are blue, we’re not actually dating, but happy birthday to you …

“Well, how about a scrapbook, then? Of all your cutest moments together?” Emily says, undeterred, popping two more pieces of mango into her mouth. “Or a photo collage, with romantic quotes?”

I grimace. “Do you have any gift ideas that aren’t so, um … personal?”

“But that’s the whole point of birthday gifts,” she protests.

It’s hard to argue with that, so I go for a half lie instead. “I just feel like we’re not at that stage in the relationship yet.”

“No, you’re right,” she agrees seriously. “You should save those ideas for your one-year anniversary. Or your wedding.”

I almost choke. Even though I know—at least I hope—she’s half kidding, it’s still a little worrying that she’d even entertain the possibility of us staying together that long. Caz should hold no place in my future, and most certainly not my family’s.

Yet another reason why this whole fake love story thing is a mess.

“Wait, I’ve got it!” Emily jabs her fork high into the air, then at me, which feels vaguely threatening. “You should give him paper cranes.”

“Like, origami?”

“Mhm.” She nods fast, her pigtails bouncing all over the place. “I saw a YouTube video about a girl who made them for her boyfriend. She folded a crane for every day they’d been together, and she included a compliment inside each one for him to read.”

“I see …” It doesn’t actually sound like a bad idea. Except for one thing. “I’m not writing down compliments for Caz, though. His confidence doesn’t need any more boosting.” But maybe I can write him something else.

Emily shrugs. “Well, just remember you’d need to fold a lot of cranes.”

“Yeah.” I do a rough calculation in my head of all the days we’ve been together. “Around eighty.”

She pauses. Frowns at me. “Hang on. Haven’t you guys been going out since, like, June?”

Crap.

“Oh, I mean …” Think fast. I force my features to remain neutral, free of the panic buzzing in my veins. “It’s been eighty days since we, like, officially got together. In public.”

I search out of the corner of my eye for any sign that she doesn’t buy this explanation, but she nods, trusting me. Of course she trusts me, and somehow that makes me feel worse.

Still. No point dwelling on that now.

I spend the rest of the evening watching paper crane tutorials on YouTube and trying to follow them step-by-step. It takes a few dozen tries, and I have to steal some colored paper from Emily’s desk, but by midnight, I get the hang of it.

There’s something almost therapeutic about the simple, repetitive motions, working alone in the peace of my room at night, smoothing out the thin squares of paper again and again under my palms, my Spotify playlist on loop in the background, the playlist Zoe and I made together before I left, with all our favorite artists: Taylor Swift and Jay Chou and BTS.

As I do, I think about Caz. Smug, vain, infuriating Caz, who somehow keeps managing to surprise me. Who agreed to my bizarre proposal, and is the only reason I’ve made it this far without getting caught in my lie. Who’s funnier than most people realize, and sweeter than I could’ve ever given him credit for. And despite my best intentions to hold him at arm’s length, despite knowing all this will end in a matter of months, I can’t help feeling … lucky. After all, how many people in this world can say they’ve seen what Caz Song is really like behind the scenes?

So when I’ve finished folding, I write a small, quiet wish on each delicate paper crane:

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.

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.

•    •    •

On the morning of Caz’s birthday, I get up a few hours early to bake him a cake.

This turns out to be much harder than I expected. Somehow, even though I’ve followed every single instruction written on this random mother’s baking blog—which I find only after a three-paragraph-long introduction about her son being a picky eater—the cake comes out all weird and mushy and distinctly orange. I wait awhile in the dim, quiet kitchen, hoping it might look better once it’s cooled, but it only starts shrinking and wrinkling at the edges like a sad piece of dried fruit.

Zoe isn’t much help either.

“Is it … meant to be that color?” she asks, squinting through the screen. I’ve propped my phone up on the counter beside the dirty whisks and leftover bowls of batter to give her a clear view of the finished product. She was originally going to call before she had lunch and offer advice while I baked, but she got held up by a last-minute assignment due at midday.

“Maybe it’s because of the lighting,” I say hopefully.

“Maybe,” she plays along.

We both study the withering cake for a beat. Then I sigh, wipe my flour-covered hands against my apron, and yank open the fridge door again. “Never mind. I’ll just—I’ll try again. Wouldn’t want to give him food poisoning for his birthday.”

“Right, right. Chinese ingredients and all that.”

My fingers freeze over the egg carton. My head jerks up. “Wait. What?”

“What?” she says back, equally confused.

But I understand faster than she does. “I was talking about my baking skills, not the local ingredients,” I say, and the sharp, defensive edge in my own voice catches me off guard.

“Oh.” Zoe clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I only meant … I mean, I was reading this article the other day about how they use gutter oil to cook food in Beijing, which low-key seems horrifying and kind of unhygienic, and …”

“And you immediately assumed there’s gutter oil in everything we eat here?” I ask.

“No, I—I don’t—” Zoe shakes her head. Stares at me. “I’m confused. Why are you getting so upset?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Because I don’t know how to explain to her what I’m mad about, why I feel so … territorial. Only the other week, I had asked Ma if the fried dough sticks we bought off the side of the street were safe to eat, and I myself have definitely heard rumors of places using already-used oil to cook, even been warned about it by locals. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite.

But maybe it’s the same irrational logic that applies when someone insults your family; I can complain about Emily stealing my food or hogging the bathroom all I like, for instance, but I’d fight anyone who says a single bad word about her. Maybe listening to Zoe talk about Beijing like that feels painfully personal because it is. Because the city isn’t hers to insult.

Which, of course, begs the question: When did Beijing become mine to defend?

“Eliza?” Zoe prompts, the uncertainty in her features enlarged on my phone screen. “Are you okay?”

Some of my initial anger loosens. Enough for me to think clearly. It’s possible I’m being too harsh on her, and either way, there’s no reason to get into a massive fight over this one thing, especially when we haven’t had a chance to talk in so long. Right?

I release a long breath. Refocus. Touch the frayed friendship bracelet on my wrist. “I’m fine,” I tell her, and my voice cooperates, steadies itself before things can escalate.

“Well, if you’re sure …”

“I am.”

“I really—I didn’t mean to assume,” she says, her voice smaller as she draws the phone closer to her face. “I’m really sorry. I just realized how shitty that sounded—I genuinely didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

I crack open another egg, but I apply too much pressure; the shell collapses between my fingers with a soft crunch, little shards of it falling into the bowl. Crap. “Um, don’t worry about it,” I say, distracted, frustration rising inside me. “I need to just … just do this thing …” With a spoon, I try to scoop all the shell bits back out, but the process takes forever, and requires far too much concentration for me to continue the conversation.

“Can I call you later?” I say at last, biting back a grimace.

“What time?”

After school, I start to tell her, but then I remember the time difference issue. “Like, this time tomorrow?”

“Can’t. I have a meeting with Divya and the other student council kids.”

“Thursday?”

Some shuffling on her end, like she’s looking through a planner. “No. No, sorry. There’s this really important chem test … Um, what about Friday morning my time?”

“I have a call set up with Sarah—you know, from Craneswift.”

“Right.”

“Okay, then …” I pause and set the spoon down. Suddenly, I can’t remember what we used to do, how we’d go about planning these calls. Yet I’m almost certain that it never used to be this hard. “Then … bye for now?”

“Mhm. Bye.”

And then she’s gone, leaving me with a blank phone screen and my eggshell batter and the faint, nagging feeling that something’s gone wrong—and not just my baking. But I don’t have time to psychoanalyze it.

As the sun creeps slowly over the kitchen window, I mix and stir and pour as if my life depends on it until I’ve made a hideous but distinctly less orange cake. I pack it into one of those plastic restaurant takeout containers Ma always insists on saving.

I guess it’s the thought that counts.

•    •    •

I decide to give Caz his presents before lunch.

He’s recently started shooting some big-budget xianxia drama based on a super-popular web novel, so he doesn’t show up at school in the mornings anymore—making this the earliest possible time I can get it all over with. I’ll hand him the gifts and forget about it for the rest of the day.

But as I draw closer to Caz’s locker, the jar of paper cranes in my hands, the candles and birthday cake tucked deep in my schoolbag, I feel two things snake past the sharp of my ribs.

Hope.

Dumb, dangerous hope.

And dread.

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.

Even though our arrangement is already messy enough. Even though this makes yet another starry-eyed, rosy-cheeked fangirl with her heart on her sleeve.

As if to prove my point, in that very moment, Caz’s usual gang of friends come spilling through the locker area and swarm around him.

“Happy birthday, my man,” Daiki calls, slapping Caz’s shoulder while the others echo the sentiment with loud whoops, and Savannah, grinning widely, pulls out one of the most beautiful cakes I’ve ever seen.

My heart sinks.

It’s the kind of creamy white, multitiered, elaborately decorated cake that wouldn’t look out of place at a fancy wedding, with delicate blue flowers frosted over the sides and glistening bubble tea pearls placed at the very top. A few random onlookers gasp, some inching closer in hopes of getting a slice.

Suddenly, my own cake feels ridiculous.

It was an absurd idea to make it in the first place. Absurd to hope.

I’m already walking away, debating whether or not to just give my cake to Emily for lunch, when I hear someone call my name.

“Eliza! Eliza—wait up.”

I turn around, surprised. Caz is pushing his way through the crowd, past his adoring fans. Moving straight toward me. And I realize abruptly that the only thing worse than having a crush on a star is being made aware of it. My pulse speeds up, and if this were one of Caz’s campus dramas, there’d definitely be slow, romantic music playing in the background right now.

Oh god.

This is everything I was afraid of.

“Damn, you walk fast.” He shakes his head. Behind him, all his friends are nudging one another and watching us the way you’d watch a particularly fascinating episode of a drama, eyes wide and mouths half-open. Savannah is still holding the giant cake.

“Yeah, well, I have, um, plans already so …” I force myself to smile, but all of a sudden I can’t remember if I used to smile at him before. Or smile this wide. I’m terrified there’s a neon sign projecting my feelings from my forehead. Under no circumstances can Caz Song find out that I like him; the consequences are almost too mortifying to imagine.

He gives me a funny look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod hard. Please, Eliza, get your shit together and act normal. “Yeah, perfect. Wh-why?”

“No reason,” he says slowly. Then his gaze cuts to the glass jar of folded cranes in my hands. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” I quickly hide the jar behind me—but I’m still a beat too slow.

“It looks like a present,” he says, stepping forward.

“Well, it’s not.”

He arches a brow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

For the briefest moment, something like uncertainty flashes over his face. Like he might actually be disappointed—like I might have the power to disappoint him.

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?

“There’s a cake too,” I grumble, reaching back into my bag.

The look vanishes; laughter bursts from his lips. “Why do you sound so angry about it?”

“Because. It’s really ugly.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating …” he starts to say—then I hold out the half-burnt, half-crumbling yellow mess of a cake. We both stare at it for a few seconds. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I can hear a hundred pastry chefs collectively weeping. “Okay,” Caz admits. “It is a little ugly.”

I snort. “Thanks for being honest.”

“Anytime.” Then he pauses. “So. Did you want to share the cake?” I can tell he doesn’t really expect me to say yes. I’ve turned down all his invitations before, preferring to eat alone instead of forcing awkward small talk with his many, much more popular friends. Luckily, if people think it’s suspicious that we don’t eat lunch together, they’ve never mentioned it.

But while I hesitate, Daiki and the others—who have blatantly and unashamedly been listening to our every word—make their way over.

“We can all share,” Savannah says, voice bright, and Nadia and Stephanie nod in fast agreement.

Then, to my surprise, Nadia hooks her slender arm around mine as if we’ve known each other all our lives. “Come on. We’re all dying to get to know you better. I mean, Caz has been so secretive about you.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I say, then realize how unintelligent that must sound. Flustered, I continue. “But, um, you already have a cake and I’d hate to intrude …”

“One can never have too much cake,” Stephanie says, adopting the deep, dramatic voice of some ancient sage.

“Wise words,” Nadia agrees. “Plus, they’re different flavors. Like, ours is a brown-sugar bubble tea cake, and yours is …”

There’s a humiliating moment of silence as Caz’s friends all lean in and attempt to classify the lumpy pastry in my hands.

“Yours is … of the homemade variety,” Savannah puts in politely.

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.

“On second thought, are we sure we want to spend a whole lunchtime around these two?” Savannah jokes.

“Well, it’s Caz’s birthday,” Nadia reasons, drawing my arm closer to hers, our elbows bumping. “He’s going to want his girlfriend there.” They all turn to me, expectant, Caz included, and though the idea of having to act like we’re dating before his group of intimidatingly gorgeous, charismatic friends—and leaving a good impression, no less—makes me want to break out into stress hives and flee the country under a new identity, Nadia’s right: It is his birthday.

And maybe some small, foolish part of me does want to spend more time with him.

Before I can chicken out, I force myself to nod. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

•    •    •

But as we approach Caz’s regular corner table in the cafeteria, I realize there’s a small problem: We’re a chair short. Just when I’m scanning the area for a seat, Caz nudges his normal chair over in my direction and makes an elaborate gesture for me to sit.

I shake my head quickly, aware that some students have already started staring.

“Um, you don’t have to do that. I can find something …”

“No, I’ve got it,” he reassures me. No sooner than the words have left his lips, a blushing girl from year eight or nine hurries forward and shyly pushes a spare chair toward him.

“H-happy birthday,” she squeaks out.

He smiles at her politely. “Thank you.”

It’s a simple response, but the girl’s face turns bright red, and she stumbles twice on her short trip back to her giggling, whispering friends.

“You know,” Daiki remarks from the other end of the table, where Savannah is already snuggled up against his broad chest, “one day someone’s going to crash their car just because you glanced in their direction, and you’re going to have to take full legal responsibility.”

Caz just rolls his eyes and sits down, tipping his chair back a few degrees.

I feel like I should say something—something cool and confident and witty—but my mind’s blank. And Savannah’s current proximity to Daiki isn’t helping. Is this how all couples are meant to behave when eating together? Am I expected to curl up like that against Caz too? Or would it look too deliberate, like I’m copying them?

Then I’m imagining how it’d feel to be that close to him, to rest my cheek over the place his heart beats, let him wrap one strong arm around me—

“Hey.” Caz nudges my knee under the table, and I jump, my face flushing.

“Hmm?”

He raises an eyebrow while the others stare over at us with obvious curiosity. “What were you thinking about?”

“N-nothing. Just …” I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Just—global warming.”

I’m met with a series of blank stares. Great, I think with rising despair as the silence stretches on. This is exactly why you don’t hang out with Caz’s friends. Now they’re going to wonder why he’s dating someone with the social skills of a potted plant or a potential kink for a severe climate crisis—

Then Daiki nods solemnly. “It’s a pressing issue, for sure.”

And somehow, the conversation turns to the latest environmental documentary Savannah watched and the new eco-friendly garbage-sorting system they’ve introduced in China and the fundraiser Caz took part in last spring, which then sends them on a tangent about Caz’s best partnerships (“I’m so glad you’re working with that big cosmetics brand again—they give out the best free lipstick”). They’re all so charming, so nice and fun, that it’s hard not to get a little swept up, like a peasant at a ball. To wonder if maybe things could be different at this school, with these people. If Caz’s friends might someday become my friends too.

Don’t be naive. I kill that thought before it can take root. I’ve hoped for similar things in the past, and it’s never worked out. My problem isn’t making friends, it’s keeping them. There’s no reason for that to change this time around.

“Eliza!” Savannah whips around toward me, her sharp eyeliner creasing as she smiles. “Should we get a photo of you and Caz together?”

I blink. “For … for what?”

But this must be one of those things all real couples just know to do, because she says, like the answer is obvious in the statement itself, “Well, for his birthday.”

“Oh! We should get that cake you made him in there too,” Nadia chimes in, dragging my very sad-looking birthday cake to the table’s center.

“That’s— You really don’t have to …”

But my awkward protests are lost in their loud, persistent enthusiasm, and next thing I know Savannah’s standing up on her chair in her tall platform boots (“Anything for the angle”) with her phone out and waving frantically for me and Caz to sit closer together.

I scoot my chair clumsily over, and after a moment’s deliberation, prop my elbow up on Caz’s shoulder.

Savannah lowers the phone a fraction and stares.

Nadia cackles into her palm. “Haven’t you two been going out for months already? Why are you acting like it’s your first date?”

They’re only teasing now, but with a creeping sense of foreboding, I realize that it could very well turn into suspicion if I don’t do something soon. Desperate, I climb out of my seat and perch myself on Caz’s knee instead, pulling his arms around my waist.

Even though I make an active effort not to feel or think anything during this whole mortifying, far-too-intimate process, the taut muscles of his stomach seem to tense for a second before he cooperates, draws me in closer, his chin resting gently against my shoulder.

“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.

This was never part of the plan.

No. I haven’t spent half my life carefully building up ten-foot-tall barricades around myself only for this vain, untrustworthy pretty-boy actor to come in and tear them all down. I need to get rid of this dumb crush—and fast.