Page 120 of The Fake Dating War

“I like the toilet,” notes Gurinder. “Seems sturdy. On an unrelated note, no one go into the bathroom for the next fifteen minutes until it airs out.”

Esha goes and bops him on the arm, snorting with laughter.

While they flirt in their own weird language, I let myself imagine myself living here alone. For a studio apartment, there’s great closet space. Not that I have many salvageable clothes, but if I wanted to, on weekends I could walk down the street to this vintage shop we passed on the drive here. The window display had cute dresses with lovely patterns and silhouettes I could try on, and then, even if I bought one a month, slowly my closet would fill with clothes that felt like me. There’s also a park beside the building. I bet in the summers you could go there with a picnic blanket and a good book, and breathe in the fresh air while sneaking wine from a glass. The hallway in the apartment is wide, so I could park a bicycle inside, and with it, I could explore the neighborhood…

Around here, streets are winding and have surprise coffee shops tucked into the corners. There’s a library, a gym, a food court for when I want fries… And the windows let light in, I realize. Green walls aren’t such an eye-sore when I open the blinds up…I imagine fluffy curtains and framed art on the walls. Fridge magnets. Candles for evening dinners. Eventually, a flat-screen television for bad reality shows when I want to burrito on the couch with takeout…

I’m smiling. Because I can see it.

“I think… I want to take it…”

Esha brings her hand up to her mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gurinder gathers us both into a group hug.

61

REEMA

Leo walks into the apartment and does a double-take when he sees me. “Your hair!”

Right. So much has changed right down to my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him right away.

“Me, too.”

I don’t understand. “Why are you sorry?”

“Just to cover my bases, in case you haven’t been to work, because all of a sudden you think I’m too impressive to handle in person. That I shine too brightly. Or maybe I’m smelly…and our friendship is overrated…”

He’s brimming with concern, but trying to make me laugh, but also insecure about what’s going on. There’s so much I can say, but what comes out is, “I fucking missed you.”

He drops the bag he was carrying, and his shoulders slump. “Me fucking, too! I know we don’t talk on the phone or text much since that’s not our friendship language, but we always see each other at work and when you weren’t there, I didn’t expect that. Coming back from Jamaica sucked, but I couldn’t wait to see you?—”

“Oh, how was Jamaica?!”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Nope. That can wait.Youtell me what’s going on.” He goes to his dropped bag and pulls out a wine bottle. “We’re talking about you today.”

“There’s nowhere to sit.”

He goes cross-legged against a wall and pats the spot beside him.

“Glasses?”

He opens the bottle and drinks a big gulp as if to show me how foolish my concerns are.

I sit beside him. “Where do I start?”

“How about this place? Are you moving here?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been sleeping with a curtain.”

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