Page 24 of The Fake Dating War

Which, in retrospect, I am glad about because walking is free. Dating, I’ve come to realize, costs money. People want activities, and in this modern age, men don’t pay for all those activities. Great concept as a whole, terrible for me in my current circumstances.

“Threehours,” says Leo, aghast.

“I know, I know.” I’m clicking my mouse so hard, my hand cramps. If I work at double the speed with minimum bathroom breaks, I could finish the quote in two hours. “See, I thought that was a good sign. We’re making great small talk, and he’s asking me all these questions about myself and the wedding. I tell him that it’s a funny story about how I don’t have a date anymore, and all the pressures of showing up alone. And again, this man is nodding, smiling, and sympathizing with me completely.”

“What a freak.”

“I haven’t gotten to the freaky part!”

“Did he whip his dick out?”

That deserves a long side-eye in lieu of a response.

Leo senses the look, turns to look at it, and is not appropriately sheepish. He shrugs without losing his grin.

“No, he did not,” I say. “Like a gentleman, he puts his jacket around my shoulders since it was getting cold, and I kept it on even though it smelled fishy, and he walked me to the door and?—”

“Kissed you? Has it been a while? Practice with your hand, Reema.”

“Let me finish!” I’m flying through client information dropdown fields. “This man had the audacity to agree to come to my sister’s wedding, but then asked how much I was going to pay him!”

Leo gasps. “Did we… unknowingly match with an escort? But also, how much? I mean, if it’s a reasonable amount, it’s not like you’ve got time to exploremanyother options.”

“It was nothing I can afford,” I tell him.

A bar easily met since I can’t afford anything.

My computer screen glitches, and internally I cry this primordial scream. It’s my computer telling me it needs a second to think about all the data I entered. Fine, it gets thirty seconds. Forced to take a break, I spin my chair around. “What other matches do we have?”

“Even after all that, you’re okay going on more dates?”

“I have to be. My mom is telling everyone that I’m bringing someone. It’s become News.”

Leo pulls out his cell phone. I would feel guilty about distracting him from work, if I didn’t know for a fact that he welcomes any excuse to not be productive. It helps that our salaries are structured differently. Leo’s job is to work on market analytics for Mr.Davies. That’s not tied to any commission structure. His salary is guaranteed, unlike mine.

“Okay,” says Leo, scrolling through the dating app. “I signed up for a free trial of their premium service, so we get to see more men at once. Problem is, it’s a delicate balance to strike. You can’t bring justanyoneto your sister’s wedding. What if he’s unhinged? Defeats the purpose of pretending your life is going great, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. No unhinged crackpots, please.”

“Women are so picky these days. Now remind me again,” he says, glancing at me. “What kind of person will your family be happy with?”

My computer makes a noise. The data has inputted. It’s ready for my second wave of assault. Leo waves his hand in the air. “It’s fine. Work and talk.”

I turn my chair and start inputting again. “So… back when I was fresh as a daisy at the innocent age of twenty-seven?—”

“Prehistoric part of your life, really.”

“I’m ignoring you said that.” Though I can’t help but snicker. “Okay, so at twenty-seven, my parents had a list of requirements theyheavilyrecommended. Indian, educated more than me, tall, put-together, great relationship with his family, and a certain kind of last name even though we don’t quote-unquote believe in the caste system back in India. Speaking Punjabi fluently was also super important, even though my own Punjabi is fairly weak. And then… my mom had this thing she kept saying to me. I don’t even want a lawyer for you, Reema. I want a judge!”

“Has your mother looked up what most judges look like? They are dinosaur-level old.”

“Don’t worry, because by the time I turned thirty, her judge ship sailed. At that point, they wanted an Indian man who made good money and could speak Punjabi well enough to get by. So, when they met my ex, temple bells rang through our house.”

“Actual temple bells?”

“No, that was a metaphor.” My computer makes a noise again. This time, being a bad dominant, I ignore its pinged safe-word. You can take more. Don’t be a little bitch. “Basically, everyone was overjoyed. The next few years, I was a success in their eyes. Then, wham-bam, divorce.”

I’m making light of it. Much better progress than two years ago, when bringing up Harry shattered me into a sobbing mess. See, I’m fine. I’ve learned there is no time to cry and fall apart. Really, I’m at fault for so much of what happened there. I was such a fool. All the signs I missed… All the choices I made even after knowing better… What no one else in my life has been told…

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