Page 107 of The Fake Dating War

“It was,” admits Serena, who, like me, can barely touch her toes. “That got me thinking.”

No one speaks. I’ve got an odd feeling we are all waiting for a punchline or some sassy roundabout questioning attack from Serena, like whether therewaskissing or it was all light refractions from the rain crafting an optical illusion.

She stops stretching and goes cross-legged, looking at me from across the circle. “I’ve been meaning to apologize, Reema. I know I’ve been a prick to you—and everyone.” Serena turns to look at Manu. “Like when I asked if you liked your kids, that was rude. And when I said you didn’t seem excited to be married, Pooja, that was rude.”

So she’s been on a rampage with everyone. That does make me feel better.

“I had a session with my therapist over the phone this morning,” she admits. “She helped me understand why I was lashing out.”

“Is… everything okay?” I ask.

“No.” She sighs and looks away. “My boyfriend… He proposed to me, but only after I caught him sending snapchats and memes to my best friend which he claimed were innocent selfies of his workouts since they’re both into fitness, but then when I dug deeper I noticed he’s the first one to like all her pictures, and that some of her messages would come late at night, and he got so panicky when I tried to pass his phone to him. But then he blamed me for being paranoid and yelled at me for being insecure. That I should trust him without needing any proof. That I should be glad he’s still with me.”

The rest of us older women share glances. Buried underneath the mystical rituals of young people dating is a universal truth that persists across millennia.Some men just ain’t shit.

Sympathy and outrage. From us, Serena gets both. We tell her if this man is playing games, he isn’t worth her precious time.

“I should be smarter than this!” she exclaims, followed by a quieter, “Why aren’t I smarter?” in an almost-whispered question.

Answers are tossed around, one-after-the-other, almost merging into one voice.

“Because it’s not one situation that you have to stay strong against, but a whole system built to keep you insecure. And feeling like you are never enough.”

“Not thin enough, pretty enough, or bold enough. But also not curvy enough, humble enough, or quiet enough.”

“And sometimes you want to believe in men’s promises so much.”

“Because high standards are you being difficult or too picky! Tick-tock, you are wasting time. Fall in love already and settle down.”

“Or you know there are red flags and you ignore them, desperate to find that slice of the fairytale ending everyone else seems to have.”

“And their potential sounds so good.”

“Even if potential is a check that will aways fucking bounce.”

“Okay, but you all have figured it out,” Serena says, half-helplessly and half-hopefully, as if waiting for our secret formulas.

“You’re young,” says Pooja. “Experience helps a lot. You’ll learn what you like and need.”

“Actually,” says Manu, looking solemn, “I’m going through marriage difficulties. Not because of any abuse or cheating, but because we want different things. Even so, it’s been hard since I found out I’m pregnant. I don’t exactly know how to start over if we separate.”

I don’t know what to say, but a voice speaks inside me.Me, too. This was… me, too.

“If you figure it out, please tell me how to start over,” says Jyoti, piquing up. “I hate my job, but I’m afraid to quit because I’m pretty sure I lucked into it.”

“Same. Saving lives sucks balls,” says Miya, the doctor.

At our stunned expressions, she quirks a smile. “Kidding. It’s the debt that sucks. I mismanaged it, and it should be paid off, but it’s not. These days I’m scared to open my bank account because it’s depressing.”

This is also… me.

Serena is aghast. “So it never gets better?”

“That’s not true,” says Pooja. “Through all this, you get to know yourself better. And you realize it’s you and this body in this life together. And you start respecting it and giving no fucks, and you stop being so uncertain about making demands. Like every Saturday, I kick my husband out with the kids for the afternoon so I can practice self-care. It’s been so nice.”

“My happy place is bleach,” says Jyoti with a straight-face.

Subtly, I inch away from her.

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