Page 80 of The Fake Dating War

“Me. And you. We need to get off, Patel. Now.”

With bad timing, the lights dim. All disco balls spin. Lights scatter, moving more erratically than the beat of the music pulsing out of the speakers. With a lurch, the party bus pulls onto the road.

All around us, bodies fumble to find balance. I’m trying to spread my legs further apart so I don’t topple over, but there isn’t enough room. The bus turns and I wobble to the side?—

An arm snakes around my waist. Coleman is tall enough to dig his fingers into some sort of bump on the roof. It would be better for him if he uses both arms, but he’s not letting me go. Actually, he’s tucking me closer to him.

My family is not known for its stability, in more ways than one. There are flying limbs being thrown around. Instantly, he covers me like a line-backer. An elbow jabs into his side. Then another. He doesn’t flinch or turn around to confront anyone. He just—takes it.

My palms are flat on his chest. I tilt my head up to look up at him.

His expression is so determined.

Our eyes meet.

“Good, Patel?” he grunts.

I have this sense that he’s asking about all of it, especially since I cried on him this morning.

Yes, I am good. Because of him.

I nod.

Over the music, I hear Esha complaining to the driver again. She’s demanding he turn on the air conditioning. These many bodies squished together, and with so many of us wearing traditional Punjabi outfits, it’s getting hot in here.

The driver must have done something. A vent sputters alive beside us. Warm air assaults my face, making me groan. Gripping onto Coleman’s arm, I look over my shoulder. Esha is red in the face, but Gurinder is talking her down. He’s whispering things to make her eyebrows less combative.

Out of nowhere, some people in the front of the bus start feeling up the walls of the bus. Only later do I learn that the driver told them about hidden seats. Like a Murphy bed, this bus has space-saving seats that have been folded away seamlessly. A hook needs to be pulled, so they pop back open.

By the time the news reaches us, all but one seat has been claimed.

“You take it,” orders Coleman.

I don’t mind being selfish, but he’s already been elbowed because of me. “You’re the one who was freaking out before.Youtake it.”

I am freaking out, too. But for different reasons. Being pressed against the strength of him has spiked my blood pressure. He smells so good. It’s his cologne, but also a faint note of soap mixed with it.

“Both of you can,” says Manu. She’s perched on her husband’s lap. “Like this.”

Serena asks if we’d rather suffer a concussion instead.

“No, of course not!” I defend.

Reluctantly, Coleman takes the seat. I go and perch daintily on his knee.

There. All good.

Until the bus hit a curb.

Then I slide all the way back, falling fully onto his lap.

45

JAKE

Patel is sitting on my lap, and it’s fine—as long as I keep imagining how gruesomely we’re going to die on this hovel of a bus. Think of smushed up bodies. Eyeballs rolling around and guts spilling. Severed limbs.

My mind should be fixated on survival odds, not how soft, warm, and incredible she feels on my thighs.

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