Page 108 of The Fake Dating War

“Not for murder-ey reasons,” she defends. “I’m just happy when I’m organizing and restoring order. Before coming here, I got an old toothbrush and a bottle of bleach and went to town on some tile grout.”

Serena is horrified.

“If it helps, I don’t organize,” says Manu. “My house is a hot mess.”

I’m a little pigsty, too.

That voice inside me gets bigger. It can’t get enough. It can’t hear enough. Everyone is sharing. They aren’t expecting or needing me to add anything, but…

“I’ve had a rough two years, too.”

My statement quiets the room. Old embarrassment tries to keep my mouth shut, but I press on.

“I let my ex-husband become the center of my world. His wins, losses, tantrums, weird desires… anything he wanted, I morphed myself to satisfy like a—” I grind my teeth. “Like a shapeshifter. Because I couldn’t handle failing at marriage. Because I thought it meant failing at life.”

The women pour their sympathy and outrage out for me. It feels so good. Justified. Nourishing. Redemptive.

We talk about the caretaking label slapped on all of us. How we’re so pressured to fix everything, from basic life needs (someone is hungry? guess you have to cook for them) to the fun minefield of understanding emotionally constipated men (yes, pulling from my Doctorate in grunting and moody silences, I know what is wrong with you!). It’s kind of sad and hilarious at the same time.

I’ve got an urge to tell these women I was the idiot who should have known better, but I don’t. Not that I think I’m blameless, but it’s because I don’t feel like yelling at my past self. Actually, I think I want to hug her.

“Your parents or Esha never said anything about you having a tough marriage like that,” says Serena. “I had no idea.”

“They don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m going to tell them more about it after. When the wedding is over.”

“I appreciate you sharing,” she says, sounding wiser than her years. “All of you. It helps.”

“What are you going to do about your guy?” I ask.

“Dump his ass.”

Everyone cheers.

Then we get to practicing since there isn’t a lot of time to get this right. The routine isn’t easy, and we’re not the most coordinated. It’s a tribute full of love, we say. But also, we decide to perform it later in the evening when everyone is drunk.

Around noon, the group splits off. Esha is messaging me. She’s asking if I want to get ready with her. Typically a husband and bride get together for their reception together, but she wants to surprise him with her outfit. Plus, they have their honeymoon to spend alone time together.

I go back to my hotel room to shower and get my clothes, finding it empty. Not a problem at all. No, I’m notdisappointed.

Before I leave, I message Jake.

He responds right away. Gurinder has taken him out.

He’s being included and welcomed. That makes me happy and thinking something vague about beginnings. But also, we need to talk. There are those unsaid things between us. Deep down, I know the conversation is going to change everything between us. Thinking about it makes my heart pick up speed. There are so many emotions that will become moored, and rooted, and certain when we talk.

Outside of all that, selfishly, I want more of us being alone in this room together. Not only for the hot sex, but to have more of the sharing of memories, thoughts, opinions, witty insults and laughs. It can’t be over already.

In my sister’s room, she has lunch ready for us. We chomp on cheese and bread, both giggling and happy. It’s like we’ve never grown old and are the same sisters sharing our old room, surrounded by unicorn plushies and pop-star posters. Together we predict shenanigans of who is going to drink the most tonight, who will dance hilariously, and who will dress the most ostentatiously to compete with her. Then we practice her walk-in.

Indian receptions also have a dance battle, so she has to practice beating Gurinder with her moves. I pretend to be him as we pump up the music. Halfway through, she apologizes about mentioning Harry at the party bus. I tell her not to worry, that Jake and I talked about it later and everything was fine (I think. We still need to talk again. Soon). Afterwards, we reminisce about the week, even though it’s not over yet. That part makes me wistful, like something is being taken away from me that I’ve finally gotten back. I tell Esha to visit me after her honeymoon. Maybe I’ll have my new apartment sorted by then, but maybe I might not. And I’m—okay with that? Guess I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to tell my family the truth. I’ve had practice doing it, and it’s not as excruciating as I thought it would be.

For example, I’m not immediately flinging myself off a cliff. Only nervous, certainly still embarrassed, and somewhat pained. But?—

It’s manageable. So much more than I thought it could be. And I don’t have to share everything, but some of it. There’s a power in that choice of opening up at my own pace.

Esha wonders what Jake and Gurinder are doing right now. We cackle imagining it, considering Gurinder is more silly bro-energy when compared to Jake’s blunt properness.

She pours me a flute of champagne and some juice for herself. We’re still in bathrobes. Her makeup and hair are already done, so she helps me with mine.

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