Page 106 of The Fake Dating War

Maybe my secret hasn’t ruined everything.

54

REEMA

The morning is when the rest of the talking is supposed to happen. When more unsaid parts of ourselves are drawn out with bated breath and nervously shared, as if they aren’t shards of our very sensitive souls and fears. A conversation hangs suspended above us about what we are or have become to each other, especially now under the inkling of a fresh dawn.

But frankly, this is my life—and it doesn’t work that way.

I’m slammed with loud text messages, and then loud calls at five in the morning. There’s a secret dance performance at the reception to surprise Esha tonight, and to be ready in time, I have to join in now and practice.

Jake reacts to my whispered explanation by covering his face with a pillow because it’s the bum crack of a time no one should be up at. There is no good luck or kiss goodbye. I punish him by turning the light on before leaving the room.

The last thing I hear is his promise of revenge, though it’s not as scary when he’s using my first name. Maybe his brain is still bleary and confused. Or maybe?—

We’re Reema and Jake to each other now, outside of sex where we can blame it on horniness and hormones.

Can’t I still blame horniness and hormones?

It would be so much safer that way. I’m sure both are why there’s this vast swell of hope growing in my heart, and why I’m humming nonsense tunes to myself, and why I’m almost bouncing down this hallway, even though it’s painfully fucking early. And why I’ve got this not-so-small urge to turn around and go back into the room to be with Jake for a few minutes longer, even when he’s at his grumpiest.

You know what? I simply need more dick.

That is it, Reema.

Brilliant conclusion.

Because the alternative would be how I miss him already, even though we’ve been apart for minutes. And that happiness—even after such a distressful purging of my past—continues invading my whole body like an eager, soppy little parasite. That I’ve become hopeful instead of remaining disenfranchised and bitter about love in the middle of this wedding paradise. Not that I’m thinking of marriage and forever and vows becauseI’m not!

Downstairs, there’s a studio space in the hotel set up for fitness-related activities. It’s cozy, mirrored, and has mats on the floor already.

Since I got a little lost and had to double-back, everyone was already there waiting for me. So are coffee and donuts. I take turns launching both into my mouth like everyone else is doing, between the muffled yawning.

Pooja is in charge, having the most experience at this with her being a former bhangra performer. The whole routine is mostly decided, because this group has already been meeting up. Apparently, I was invited to participate earlier this year over video calls, but I never returned Manu’s message. And she didn’t try again because I was known to be busy and distant since my divorce.

I’m not surprised I missed the message, but I apologize.

Miya waves her hand, insisting it doesn’t matter since we’ve all reconnected so well this week. And that she’s glad I’m here now. The conversation moves on to what everyone is going to wear tonight as we finish breakfast. I’m listening, but also thinking about life back in the real world, specifically my schedule. It fills me with dread and determination.

These last few days I’ve had regular sleep and nutrition. Shockingly, that makes a person more clear-headed. Who would have thought? Anyway, with a hundred percent surety, I know I can’t go back to how things used to be.

Sure, when I was in it, my constant treading water to survive didn’t seem that bad. But now that I’m away from all that, I look back at this year and see it differently. It wasn’t treading. It was slow-drowning, and it’s not something I can go back to doing. No parking lot working, skipping meals, or wearing clothes-designed-as-blankets anymore.

If I shut my eyes, I can imagine a better life. My day is full of client hunting, but evenings… I’ll have my own space. A super modest apartment. Mostly empty, because the cost of new furniture is a lot, but cute secondhand pieces slowly fill it up as I get more financially secure.

Jyoti passes me a napkin since I have powdered sugar on my nose. That’s another thing. I’m so used to scarfing food down that I can’t remember the last time I savored a proper meal. Eating for pleasure. The possibility tantalizes me. Like, I amsogiddily excited by it.

Manu tells us to put away the food. Then she guides us back to the floor so we can stretch our muscles before dancing. That concerns me. Like how vigorous is this routine? I’m already sore.

A memory from last night intrudes. He’d finally gotten me on his lap, my hands palming the bed frame behind his head as I worked myself up and down the length of him. This was the third (or fourth?) time, so he let me set the pace as I like, swallowing my gasps with his greedy mouth, but keeping his hands soft and unhurried on my waist, calling me his good girl until I–

“You’re so smiley,” says Pooja, as she somehow pulls her leg up by her ear. “Someone had a good night.”

Good night? My face suffuses with warmth. Yeah, you could say that.

“Bet she did,” says Jyoti, bending her elbows like an acrobat. “We all saw them making out in the rain yesterday. I mean, I would call it dry-humping, but it was quite wet.”

Miya laughs, standing up, then going down into splits. “So romantic,” she sighs.

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