Page 74 of The Fake Dating War

JAKE

Back in my own room, I call Joe.

He tells me the people who own my mother’s house are asking for more money. I’ve been emailed the new terms. They are going to take me all night to figure out. All my numbers have shifted.

Joe floats the topic of my mother downsizing again. I tell him I’m never letting that happen. The house is hers. She loves it there. After everything she’s been through, I’m not taking it away from her.

Whatever I have to do, I’ll find the money to buy the property.

After I hang up the call, I can’t help but think that getting Tarun Singh signed would help a lot of my problems go away.

Regardless, it’s going to be a long night.

I need to double-check the new terms from my lawyer, email Tarun…

And I need to call my brothers.

43

REEMA

If you are a guest, the wedding starts for you at nine in the morning. If you are part of the bridal party, the wedding starts before the sun rises. It’s dark out when I meet my sister in her suite. Her bridesmaids, Jyoti and Pooja, are already there. They both look positively hung-over from the Jago last night and are getting their make-up done while sprawled out on chaises.

Sitting in the middle of the room, my sister looks like she’s got a spotlight on her, except the glow comes from her own dewy skin. I’d accuse her make-up artist of black magic, but really, that’s just how Esha is when she’s in love. And right now, she’s swimming in that feeling. Gurinder wrote her a private letter that she’s reading now on the morning of their wedding.

At the thought of getting such a letter, an ache tugs at me somewhere behind the ribs.

“You must be Reema,” says an older woman in a smock. “I’m Zara. I’ll be working on you this morning.”

She walks around me, makingtsksounds. Then I’m pushed into a chair. The pins in my hair start getting plucked out.

My hand goes up. “We don’t have to do that.”

My protest was too little, too late. She was quick, so most of the pins have already hit the ground. There is no mirror in front of me, but I feel my hair opening and spreading along my back. I’ve not had it loose in front of others for so long. A very large part of me wants to sink and hide. I’m already cringing so hard.

Zara’s hand strokes my mismatched layers. She’s petting them like a lost dog, as if that dog has wandered the streets for a while, but shouldn’t be afraid any longer. Rescue is imminent.

Esha so nicely pulls her attention away from Gurinder’s letter and shouts across the room, “Oi! What have you done to yourself?”

Cutting your own hair is a lot like putting on eyeliner when you can’t get both sides to match. Instead of giving up or starting over or asking for professional help, I kept trying to fix it. Why? My explanation floats in my throat.Pity me, I’m poor. Can’t say that, though. So what do I do? I shrug at my sister, as if it’s so cool my head can be a safe haven for birds.

Zara shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Most of it will have to go.”

“Most? It’s notthatbad?—”

She touches my shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

“No.I don’t know you.”

“You have no choice.”

I mean, I do—or I would’ve, if she hadn’t kept going.

“If you want to look beautiful for your sister’s big day, you must do this. We have to get everyone looking to the same high standard. Think of the photos. You don’t want to stand out, do you?”

I don’t. “But couldn’t you put my hair into an up-do?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you beautiful again.”

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