Page 119 of The Fake Dating War

“I do believe in you. I’m pissed you didn’t ask for help, but also so fucking proud you’ve been able to turn your life around.” She shakes my shoulders. “But guess what? You don’t have to take the hard road. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone and certainly not to yourself anymore. Sometimes it’s okay to walk the easier path. Don’t be an idiot and accept the loan. It’s not even that much.”

To me, someone who has been victim to this much debt, every dollar feels sacred. That’s why it seems like Esha is giving me so much by doing this.

She tells me she isn’t.

“It’s enough to cover the first and last month’s deposit and moving costs so we can get you out of here.” She looks around the corner that is my bedroom. “Not that Ms.Beatrice doesn’t sound fantastic. I can’t wait to meet her, but she’s leaving soon. We should sort out where you’ll be living now and not later.”

“Mm.”

“Great! Glad you think so, too.”

She sits up and pulls out her phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Gurinder that we are staying for a few days.”

“Wait. I—won’t he be mad?”

“Pssh. He just married his best friend. The man is walking on clouds. Plus, he loves you, too.” Esha puts her phone down. “Speaking of love…”

“Please don’t.”

I don’t realize I’ve clutched my stomach until I see my sister stare at my hands.

“Right,” she says. “Apartment first.”

60

REEMA

I take more days off from work. As someone who has stockpiled many vacation, personal, and sick days these last two years, I have more than enough time-off to use. Mr.Davies doesn’t argue. Actually, he seems relieved I won’t be here for the year-end, specifically the part where he’s celebrating the high achievers. For client recruitment, that means Jake.

He wins the bonus, especially if he signed the whale, but even if he didn’t. His portfolio ranks second highest.

From him, I have missed calls, texts, and emails.

I can’t avoid him forever (can’t I?), but every time I think of looking at what he’s sending me, this heart-sickness seizes my throat. In fact, If Esha and Gurinder weren’t here, I don’t think I could get out of bed. All I think about is our moments, wondering if they were real or imagined. I can’t eat or drink and sometimes breathing feels harder than it should be.

Esha hasn’t brought him up again. She’s been busy.

Gurinder and her are staying at a hotel, but they pick me up every morning to look at apartments. There isn’t a lot in my budget, but a few pop up randomly like groundhogs in winter. We’ve kept arguing about her financially helping me, but now it’s more a matter of how much. I’m so grateful, but I want to only move to a place I can sustain on my own after their initial help.

You’d think that would discourage Esha, but she’s tenacious. And me? All the time I used to sink into working is now spent scouring rental ads. Meanwhile, Gurinder supplies food.

Together, we’re scary efficient.

And that’s why, three days later, I’m standing in the middle of a studio apartment with green walls and cherry-colored wood.

“That’s your Christmas decor sorted,” says Esha.

“It’s quaint,” says Gurinder.

She hums. “I think he means ugly.”

“If only it had white walls—” I’m building an image in my head. “The kitchen squishes right into the living room, but I’ve seen inspiration photos online of bookshelves being used as dividers. I could get one of those open-faced ones you can stick a hand through…”

“This is kind of cute,” says Esha, pointing to a built-in shelf in the corridor. “You could put books here or an old-school phone.”

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