This Time It’s Real

The days start speeding up the closer we get to the Lunar New Year holidays, as they tend to. More tedious classes pass. More tests, pointless homework assignments, lunches on the roof. More comments to wake up to, so many that I don’t have time to reply to them all.

Things with Craneswift have only gotten busier too. Now that I have a substantial following, Sarah’s pretty insistent on giving the masses what they want—which, in this case, happens overwhelmingly to be more blog posts about Caz’s job.

is that ok?? I text Caz the next time he’s away shooting, feeling as always that odd lurch, half anticipation and half guilt, that comes whenever my internship demands something from the two of us. can I visit you on set?

There’s a pause before three small dots appear over the chat screen. Typing. Then they vanish. Appear again.

At last, Caz sends back a message:

Ok. But promise you won’t laugh.

“Oh my god,” I say as I step out of the car an hour later.

I’ve never been to a proper drama set before, but it’s almost exactly the way I pictured it: giant green screens propped up over the grass, blocking out patches of sky; camera crew and makeup artists dashing in and out of makeshift tents; and props like swords and guzhengs lying about everywhere, all left to freeze in the outdoor chill. I take a quick mental snapshot of the scene, already brainstorming ways to introduce the set in my post.

They’re in the middle of shooting a fight sequence, and my jaw practically unhinges when I spot Caz a few yards away.

I almost don’t recognize him.

For one, he’s wearing a robe. Not like a bathrobe kind of robe, but an actual, semi-historically-accurate set of robes with dragons embroidered down the sides and broad, flowing sleeves. It looks like it’s made out of real silk too; every time he shifts position, the black fabric ripples and gleams under the sunlight. I can’t stop staring. The outfit somehow has the effect of making him look taller, older, more intimidating, even though it’s covering up most of his body.

Then there’s the hair—or, well, the wig. Half of it has been tied up and pinned into place with an elaborate crown, but the rest of it spills down his back in a river of shining ink.

“Again!” a stocky, middle-aged woman who I assume is the director calls from behind the camera monitors. She makes an impatient motion with one hand. “Caz—make sure you turn your head this way when …” The rest of her directions are lost on me in a blur of accented, rapid-fire Chinese.

But Caz seems to get it right away. He gives her a thumbs-up motion and adjusts his position immediately, lifting the very real-looking sword in his hand with a look of unwavering focus. His jaw is tensed, his gaze sharp, his usual casual demeanor gone.

Five men dressed as assassins rush toward him, and he spins. Strikes. Ducks.

His movements are lightning quick, strong. His blade slices through the air in perfect sync with the other actors, like some sort of violent dance, elegant and epic all at once. When he swings the sword again, two men fall.

A triumphant grin flashes across his face.

“Oh my god,” I repeat to myself, my voice kind of hoarse.

Because even though I’ve found Caz Song attractive on a physical level for a while now, my biggest turn-on has always been competence.

And as it appears, Caz is unbelievably competent at his job.

He carries out the rest of his fight sequence with the same enviable degree of control and precision, his hands becoming blurs as he moves seamlessly between stances, and only when the director yells “Cut!” does he finally slow down. Lower his sword.

His brow is damp with sweat and he’s breathing a little fast, strands of dark hair fall loose from their knot, but his whole face is aglow. Euphoric, even. He looks like he would gladly run through that last scene twenty more times.

Then he sees me.

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.

“You’re really not laughing,” he says as he draws closer, his robes swishing behind him. “I’m surprised.”

“Yes, well. There’s nothing to laugh about,” I say, aiming for casual and missing it by about ten thousand miles.

I’ve forgotten how to talk like a normal person, it seems.

“Mhm.” Suddenly he leans in, a glint in his eyes. “Wait—don’t tell me. This.” He gestures to himself, his costume, and I want to die. “This works for you?”

“No.” But I can feel my cheeks flushing. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I’m learning so much about you, Eliza—”

“Oh my god—”

“This is a significant moment in our relationship,” he continues, barely managing to keep a straight face. “Really. If I had known earlier that you were into this—”

“I beg you to not finish that sentence.”

Thankfully, just as I’m contemplating moving to the Gobi Desert or someplace farther, someone shouts Caz’s name in the distance.

“Come on,” Caz says, holding his hand out. “I’ll show you around.”

I take it, knowing that it’s all for show yet feeling my pulse race all the same, and he leads me across set. As we walk, I watch him straighten, his smile widen, easing into a different version of himself. He greets all the makeup artists and extras by name, laughing at jokes I swear he wouldn’t usually find funny, and stops and poses with some of the supporting actors, his chin tipped up at the perfect angle, his hair carefully brushed. Farther ahead, he points out the equipment to me, explaining in detail how the props work and how certain scenes are shot and how the wires here are old and should’ve been replaced months ago but still hold up well enough for flying stunts.

It’s useful material, all things I can work into my blog post later, but I’m acutely aware that I’m not the only one watching him. Wherever we go, countless pairs of eyes follow, the weight and intensity of it all like a blazing spotlight. Directors, camera crew, the other members of the cast. I’ve always known in theory that Caz was under a lot of pressure, but it’s another story to be here with him, to witness how hard he has to work just to make sure he doesn’t slip up in front of all these people.

I can’t ruin that for him, a small voice whispers in my head. I can’t complicate his already-complicated career by revealing that I have a crush on him, knowing he can’t possibly like me back. The best thing I can do to help him is to continue our arrangement without causing any unnecessary drama.

We come to a stop at a set designed to look like the exterior of a palace—half blue screen and half completely realistic-looking, ornate stone pillars—where they’re just wrapping up another scene.

“That’s Mingri,” Caz murmurs to me, pointing at one of the two actors standing before us. “He’s playing the young, orphaned general. Unfortunately, he swears an oath of brotherhood with Kaige over there”—he motions to the other actor—“who turns out to be the crown prince of the enemy realm, and his father’s murderer.”

“Tragic,” I comment, which earns me a faint, familiar twitch of his lips.

Mingri looks twenty years old at most, but he has the kind of face that seems young no matter his age, with naturally crescent-shaped eyes and dimples that show even when he’s not smiling.

Next to him, Kaige seems to be his complete opposite in every way. He’s around nineteen or twenty years old too, but the somber expression carved into his features and the hard, rigid lines of his face look more suited for someone who’s been alive for decades. He also looks strangely familiar, though I’m certain I’ve never met him before.

As soon as the director calls cut, the two guys walk over to us. Well, Mingri walks; Kaige kind of just follows, eyes down and poker-faced, dragging his heels the whole way.

“Well, well, the star himself has come to visit us,” Mingri sings in Chinese, doing that weird one-arm-hug thing guys all know how to do. Then he beams at me. “And he’s brought the famous writer with him!”

Kaige merely nods in my direction.

“Come on, Kaige.” Mingri turns to the other actor, nudging him once in the ribs. “The first ever time Caz brings his girlfriend on set, and you’re not even going to say hi?”

Kaige’s eyes widen briefly, flickering to the spot where Mingri’s elbow bumped his shirt, and his ears redden. Then he scowls.

Interesting.

“Hi,” Kaige greets me, though there’s a hard, wary note in his voice. Or am I only imagining it? Before I can figure him out, he glances past me at Caz, and they exchange some sort of look I can’t quite parse. A reference to an old conversation I never witnessed.

Caz shakes his head once, and Kaige clears his throat. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” he mumbles, and stalks off alone in the opposite direction.

A long silence follows.

It’s definitely not my imagination, then. “Um,” I venture. “Did I … do something to offend him, or—”

“No,” Mingri says quickly, flashing me a sheepish grin. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just naturally a bit skeptical of any relationship between actors like us and people from outside the industry.”

I frown. “What? Why?”

“Well, it’s just a lot to handle, isn’t it?” Mingri says, looking surprised I’d even have to ask. Beside me, Caz has gone very quiet, his jaw tensed. “We’re always out shooting, and our schedule’s intense, and we’re either getting too much or too little attention, and the fans can be lovely in some cases, and pretty … extreme in others. And the thing about celebrities, you know, is that you’re only ever getting a piece of them—often not even the biggest piece. Most people aren’t satisfied with that.”

“Oh.” Now I remember where I’d last seen Kaige’s face—though it wasn’t really his face, but his sister’s. Kailin, a well-known C-drama actress. There’d been a huge news story last year about her dating an accountant. The details are blurry now, but their breakup had been very messy, and very public.

“But don’t worry,” Mingri repeats, his grin broadening. “There are always exceptions to the rule, and whatever it is you guys are doing, it’s clearly working.”

I force out a weak laugh, and a few beats too late, Caz joins in.

•    •    •

Once Caz is finished shooting for the day, I find myself in a corner booth at a bubble tea shop with him and Mingri. Everything here has been painted in shades of teal and pink, and the chic interior decorations appear to have been chosen solely for the purpose of luring in wanghongs to take pretty pictures. It must be working: All the customers here are at well-above-standard levels of attractiveness, and a table of girls dressed in full designer clothes have been unabashedly ogling Caz ever since we walked in here. I try to ignore them and focus on mentally outlining my blog post for the day. Maybe I’ll start by describing the costumes, their texture up close, how it feels to see your boyfriend moving around in historical robes—

Mingri heaves a loud sigh.

I look up. This is maybe the tenth time he’s sighed since his mango milk tea came, which was only five minutes and two giggling groups of wanghongs ago.

Caz raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay, then.” Caz shrugs and returns to staring at his drink menu.

Mingri’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut into a pout. Half a minute passes before he bursts out: “Fine, fine. If you really must know, I suppose I’ll do you a favor and just come out with it—and if you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll vehemently deny it—but … I might need some relationship tips from you guys.”

“Well. This is rare,” Caz remarks, reclining comfortably in his seat. “Historic, even.”

Mingri glares at him. “Just hear me out, okay? It’s about—there’s this … this person I’ve been interested in for some time and I see them around a lot—”

“Kaige?” Caz and I say at the same time.

Mingri’s face freezes in an expression of such genuine shock I almost feel bad for stating the obvious. His eyes dart from Caz to me to the other booths, which are all empty. “H-how—how did you know—”

“Everyone knows,” Caz says with some exasperation. “Literally everyone. The makeup artists, that delivery guy who came last Tuesday, our horse-riding instructor …” He pauses and jerks his head in the shop owner’s direction, who must be twenty years older and has also been unabashedly ogling him. “I’d bet my savings even she knows. It’s probably the most public secret ever.”

“Shit. Am I that obvious?”

“Kaige is a lot worse,” I reassure him. “You actually seemed pretty chill when I saw you guys together.”

“Wait. You mean …” I didn’t think it was physically possible for Mingri’s eyes to grow any wider, but I guess I was wrong. “You mean there’s a chance it’s not one-sided or …”

“You’re so oblivious,” Caz says, though not unkindly.

“What did you want our help for, anyway?” I ask before we can get sidetracked.

Mingri manages to get a grip on himself enough to answer, “I wanted to tell him directly. Write a note or something. But all I have is this …”

He fumbles around in his pocket for a few seconds before tossing a crumpled piece of paper on the table between us. A letter. I hold it up to the window light. It’s written in Chinese, the pen strokes pressed in so deep they’re almost visible on the other side, but I can still read it because the only words there are:

Kaige. Hi. I

“Well, that’s.” I falter, searching for the right description as I set the letter back down. “That’s definitely something.”

“It’s shit, is what it is,” Mingri grumbles. “I have no idea what to write.”

“Eliza’s good at that,” Caz says, and at first I don’t even realize he’s complimented me. Or maybe I’m giving him too much credit, and he’s simply tossed all responsibility over to me. When I turn to him, he just smiles.

Then the chair squeaks. Mingri actually stands up from his seat.

“Please.” He gazes down at me with large, beseeching eyes, hands pressed together as if in prayer. “Please help me. Like, I will actually pay you just for a few lines. And I’ve read that essay of yours—all I need is something a quarter as good as that, and I’m—I’ll be set.”

“I guess I could offer a few suggestions,” I say slowly. “It might not be personalized, since I don’t know him that well, so just—change the details accordingly, okay?”

He nods fast. “Anything.”

“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. Then his lips part slightly, as if to speak—

Oh god, I’ve screwed up. There’s no way he doesn’t know about my crush now. The kindness in his eyes is almost certainly pity. I’m about to get my heart broken by my fake boyfriend, right here in front of five girls who somehow all look similar to Angelababy, and I’m going to carry my humiliation to the grave.

No, I have to undo this. With great effort, I let out a fake, falsetto laugh. “Sorry, um. I don’t know what I’m rambling about—it’s mostly just dramatic, flowery bullshit. You know how writers can be.” I make a point of looking directly at Caz when I say this, hoping he’ll believe me. To my relief, the look is gone, replaced by something more guarded. “Did any of it help, at least, or … ?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Mingri says at once, nodding fast, scribbling something down on the paper. “I mean, that was a lot of material. Thank you.”

I smile weakly. “Glad I could help.”

“Just one thing, though.”

“Yeah?”

Mingri sighs, loud and heavy, and asks, “Do you think it’d be too crass if I also mentioned how much I like his ass?”

I blink. “Um …” This time, I have nowhere to look but at Caz. But he’s looking elsewhere, seemingly lost in thought. “Um … no. That—if that’s how you truly feel—”

“I do,” he reassures me.

“Then yeah, go for it.” I clear my throat. “Write from the heart.”