Page 37 of The Fake Dating War

I feel my expression transform.

Grant sighs. “Give my condolences to whoever you’re going to steamroll.”

“No.”

“Okay, now you have to tell me. Where are you going?”

“To a wedding.”

25

REEMA

As the older sister of the bride, I should be organizing this wedding week like a maestro. I’ve got experience since I’ve been married before, and, sure, it ended poorly, but the wedding itself was a fairytale, albeit smaller than what my sister has spun for herself this week.

But instead of helping, here I am, slinking into a chair in front of the henna artist so she can spiral patterns on my hands.Esha did say immediate family can go first, I justify to myself. I’m not hiding.

Okay, I’m fucking hiding under the guise of following instructions.

I landed this morning, and my family has already exhausted me.

My mother, Kavya Patel, is a short, round-ish woman with impeccable style. Her eyeliner and blushy lip color are permanently tattooed on, so she never looks bare-faced. You might think the enhancements would be gaudy, but she vigorously grilled every beauty boutique in her city and went to one that showed copious evidence of natural results. The efforts paid off.

Her eyeliner is perfectly even and lip color is roguishly pretty as she asks me why I’ve lost weight and demands answers about my eating habits. It’s not like I can say the cafeteria food at work supplies most of my calories and thatsnackis my second biggest food group. She also has Big Opinions on my hair. I’m told it’sdifferentrepeatedly, by which she clearly meansdifferent-bad. I’ve stuck to an updo, pinning all uneven layers into submission, sacrificing many bobby pins.

My father, Preetam Patel, is a thin wiry man whose under-eye circles I’ve inherited. He’s a straight-shooter and asked me point-blank about the timeline of my re-marriage and whether he needs to start saving for that. His expression was very man-held-hostage.

On the opposite end of things, my grandma, Bebe, is a firecracker of glee. As an old woman prone to worsening arthritis, her new electric wheelchair has come in. She’s zipping after me, asking whether I still get my period and if it’s—gross—robust enough? Something to do with aging womb health.

My sister, Esha, watches this and laughs, then sniffles. It’s so weird. Typically, our love language is mild to moderate bullying, layered with loads of sarcasm. But today, she launched at me with a hug. I’d almost dropped to the ground and rolled away, but her long, bridal-worthy nails had gripping power. I then heard her go on about how she’s glad I’m here, that we’re both winning, and how moving on with my life is long overdue.

Of course, I shouldn’t blame my family for immediately crowding me. I’ve been absent for two years, even when I’ve been in the same room as them. Sometimes it meant I was pretending to be okay, and sometimes it meant I was talking like a robot, giving generic answers while my mind was stuck working, back in my office chair, crunching numbers for how many more clients I needed to win and where else can I cut costs, and how much harder I need to work so I can finally make something of my life…

The henna artist turns my hands so she can work on the tops.

“This is so beautiful,” I tell her.But can you go slower, please?

Three minutes later, I am forced off the seat so the next person in line can get their designs done. Today is Ladies Henna Night. Most guests won’t arrive for another two days because the latter half of the week is when the bigger events happen. That being said, since my dad is one of seven siblings and my mom is one of four siblings, our close family is already a big crowd.

With still-drying henna hands, I’m forced to mingle again. Trying to run out the clock, I linger off to the side. There’s definitely enough space for me to snatch a corner to hide in.

Bells Estate is the name of the venue, a historic building lauded as a hidden gem for any wedding, gala, or special event. It boasts multiple grand ballrooms I can hop between, curving staircases with plush carpeted runners and gilded handrails to make my escape accessible, and a gazebo surrounded by lush lawns with mature trees, if I want a moment of stunning scenery to catch my breath.

Right next to Bell Estates is The Bells Hotel. You can tell great effort was made to duplicate both buildings, so they present as twin establishments preserved from a forgotten era of horse-driven carriages, but the jig is up when you enter the hotel. There’s a new smell they can’t get rid of, not to mention the modern ventilation clearly running through the walls, and how each hallway is perfectly symmetrical with its straight lines.

Inside Bells Estates, the hall for the Henna Night is brightly decorated: bulbous golden balls hang from the ceiling like glowing mini-suns, plucked daffodils cluster generously everywhere, forest green bows dangle from centerpieces, and dashes of hot pink fabric curve around banquet chairs and tables.

From where I’m standing, I see cousin Manu is pregnant again. How many kids is she at? I’ve lost count.

The triplet doctor sisters are also here. Jiya, Miya, Priya. All of them matched to different residency programs this year. Neurology, cardiology, and… dermatology, was it?

And there is my twenty-one-year-old cousin, Serena, waving her ethically sourced mega hunk of an engagement ring around. It’s as radiant as her skin. Seriously, she’s glowing and fit and I wouldn’t saynoif the devil wanted my soul in return for a chance at her life.

Not that my thirty-five is the end. I’m not a hag, I tell myself—even though, this morning, right by my forehead, another faint line came out to play. It didnotget smoothed out by my fingers, no matter how much I rubbed. Guess after I got rid of my pimples, the age demon now terrorizes me. Sneaky bitch.

Serena is showing Bebe her ring. In Bebe’s lap is Manu’s older toddler, giggling at nothing.

Something twists in my chest. This is why I’ve been dreading this wedding, even if it’s my sister’s big week. It’s hard seeing people’s lives move on when yours feels as if it’s been waiting on a platform where the train hasn’t come by in so many years.

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