Page 110 of The Fake Dating War

“Others?”

“Well—no. Me. He said I could send him anything, but I assume others, too.”

Esha’s shoulders are shaking. She’s biting down her lip, as she puts highlighting touches on my makeup.

“I might let him do it,” I say with a casual shrug. “Just to see. But only after he gets glasses. The man squints at his screen. I already told him there’s an optician that is walking distance from work. We’ll go during lunch when we get back.”

“You’d go?”

“Because it’s my duty to suggest fucking ugly frames.”

“And he agreed to this?”

I scowl. “Only if I try out his recipes. He’s learning how to cook.”

That one he said wasn’t related to me going hungry. He said it’s been on his list for a long time.

Esha steps back so I can examine my face in the mirror. The woman who stares back at me has crinkles in the corner of her eyes, faint marionette lines around the upturned corners of her mouth, and slightly thinner skin on her neck when compared to her face.

She is stunning.

This time, I don’t shrink away from it. I’m flushed and grinning.

Esha rests a hand on my shoulder. “Yes.” She nods. “You definitely don’t love your boyfriend. Thanks for explaining all that to me.”

“Sure. No problem.”

See, everything is reasonable. Even though in the depths of my heart—and not even that deep—I know my denials are whisper-thin, holding no weight whatsoever. All Jake has to do is reach his hand out, and I’ll run into his arms.

We spend the rest of the afternoon gossiping and dancing, before it’s time to put on our sparkling outfits and get ready for the big party.

55

JAKE

Gurinder is talking to me about love. A poor excuse to interview me on my dating history. He’s not the most subtle person, but it’s clear he’s trying to see if I’m a good man or not for Reema. Either he cares about his new sister-in-law enough to be separated from his friends and family for this, or his wife, Esha, has put him up to it. Seems to be both.

We’re at the bar. He’s using alcohol to make me more honest, but also joking about how little I’m drinking. The goofy persona isn’t fooling anyone. Everything I do will be reported back.

For the record, continuously sipping a single whiskey neat is acceptable.

“How much do you like her?” asks Gurinder, licking the salted rim off his frothy pink margarita.

“Ah. That—I mean—”Fuck.

“Not an answer,” says Gurinder, clearly amused. “Let me make this easier for you. Is it more than the others?”

“What others?”

“Good, you’ve forgotten their names. I’ve forgotten my exes, too. My life had no purpose or meaning and was completely flavorless before Esha showed up.” He claps his hands. “Now, will you take care of Reema when she needs support? When she asks you to be there for her, will you show up?”

Has he met Reema? She doesn’t ask. No, she digs herself out of an incredibly difficult financial hole, doesn’t go to her family or friends for help, and works so hard that she misses fucking meals along the way?—

That last part—and all of it, really—but so much that last part… throttles me. It’s a choking kind of pain. Inside my head is a chorus: feed her, take care of her, spoil her. It’s been going on since yesterday.

No, before then.

If I’m being honest, it’s been there for a lot longer, but the volume is deafening now.

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