Page 111 of The Fake Dating War

Unclenching my jaw is important. I’m in danger of cracking molars, but also I’ve become a man desperate to make a good impression on anyone Reema cares about. She’s reduced me to this. If Gurinder asks me to crack open my life for him to vet everything, I’ll do it. Want my fucking social security number? Here, I’ll give it to you. How about the clothes off my back? Sure. Here you go.

“If the question,” I finally answer, “is whether I will wait for her to ask for help, then the answer is no.”

Gurinder puts his margarita down.

“Because I won’t wait. For as long as she wants me—I’m not waiting. Not again.”

I think he is going to demand more of an explanation, but his smile is instant. “Good.”

He pulls out his phone and starts texting.

“Are you telling Esha I passed the test?”

He laughs. “No, I’m calling my boys so they can meet you.”

Soon after, groomsmen join the party. Instead of Reema, the conversation moves to other topics. Sports. Fantasy sports leagues. Politics. Some new game. Pottery.

When it’s time for us to head to the reception, six men get up and slap each other on the shoulders. When they get to me, they tell me I’mgood people.

“Way better than Harry,” says Gurinder’s best friend.

Gurinder tries to shush him, but it’s too late.

My jaw clenches. “You know him?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t,” confirms Gurinder. “They just know what I’ve told them.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m glad he hasn’t showed up to my wedding, even though he RSVP’d.”

“He was supposed to come?” I’m having trouble concentrating. “She knew he was supposed to come?”

56

REEMA

I might be sick with nerves, or it’s this gorgeous outfit cutting off my circulation. It’s fitted down to the millimeter over my bust-line and then sucked in even tighter, so I look like Punjabi renaissance royalty with the globes of my tits serving extra cleavage. There’s more skin showing where the rich taffeta transitions to shimmery chiffon at my waist, before connecting back to taffeta, the material of the full-bottomed ballgown skirt. Good thing the fabric is a dark plum color, because aside from beautifully warming the undertones of my skin, it’s also a great absorber of palm moistness. Dangling from my ears and my neck is the jewelry Leo gifted me. Perfect sparkly accessories.

Even after my sister finished my make-up, I’d spent an extra half-hour in front of the mirror. One hand was trying to shoo butterflies out of my stomach, and the other was wafting around, trying to imagine all the things Jake and I are going to say to each other today. It’s so important to figure it out, because we’ll be back to normal in the office in two days and I don’t want normal. I don’t think he does either, but he’s had more time to think about my past, so I don’t know if it’s sunk in enough to make him back away… or regret… or have doubts…

No.

I’m walking into the event venue without mentally sabotaging myself. Inside the foyer, a few people are milling around, but he is not there. I’m craning my neck, watching for him, even though we’ve only been apart for less than a day. My feet tap against the marble floor. I wonder what he’ll wear tonight, with this being the fanciest event. And, more importantly, what will he think of what I’ve got on? Can I expect any jaw droppage?

A relative (third cousin, maybe?) crosses paths with me near the exit, saying she’ll be back after she finishes getting ready at the hotel. I reassure her that she has time. It’s still early. I’m only dressed because someone has to greet all the new guests coming in. The numbers for tonight are bigger than they’ve been all week, as some people are driving in just for this part. The finale.

That being said, Jake is an early kind of person. He could walk in any minute. I bring my phone out of my purse and notice a missed call. It’s from my boss. That’s odd. There’s also a followup text message that says I don’t have to call him back, but need to meet him in the office tomorrow before the work week starts. For a moment, I’m concerned about what that means. Old me would obsess. Work ruled my life—a lot of it for good reasons—but right now I can’t worry. My mom walks into the building and sees me.

She wraps me in a hug. “You look beautiful, Reema.” Her hand squeezes mine. “You’ve always been beautiful.”

She remembers what Jake said last time. Not that I mind. Her compliment still sings genuinely inside of me.

“Thanks, mom. You look incredible tonight, too.”

She does. Her cheeks and lips are rouged in mauve, there is a brilliant flower in her updo, and curled tendrils of hair are artfully arranged to frame her face.

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