Page 52 of The Fake Dating War

I see her left arm twitch. “Oh. Sorry.”

She suddenly looks so uncomfortable that I can’t help but laugh. It might be the first time I’ve done that instead of shutting down a conversation about my dad.

“You are terrible at sympathy,” I tell her.

“I can… attempt a hug?”

“No need.” Fact is, I don’t trust my dick right now. There’s no telling what could set it off.

Then, because I might as well find out, I ask, “Is anyone dead in your family?

“Just this creepy uncle who was basically a hundred years old.”

“Morbid, Patel.”

“It was his time to go. He kept shitting his pants. Literally.”

“Question. Does your family get to see this charming side of yours?”

There’s a shadow of a wince on her face. “No, they don’t know everything about me, but that shouldn’t surprise you.”

Right. She’s referring to my prior judgment on her (lack of) honesty. When she doesn’t meet my eyes any longer, my chest squeezes. It doesn’t feel like satisfaction but regret.

She walks into the restaurant before I can open the door for her. Inside, her sister launches questions at me over the first round of bread and drinks. You might think that would make me nervous, but it’s not hard to redirect the conversation back to the wedding. Her sister is clearly dying to talk about it. As for Patel, she looks more than a little impressed when I deflect another question and get Esha to explain Punjabi bridal traditions to me.

After lunch, we go to another store on Main St.

I hold Patel back. The others have gone in before us already. “What can I expect inside?”

Her eyes flash at me. I expect a sharp-tongued quip. Something like,Got PTSD from the last one, Coleman?

Yes, I fucking do.

Uncharacteristically, she gives me a straight answer.

“My sister loves the part in every rom com where they try on a bunch of clothes. Ever since we’ve been teenagers, she does this thing of going to the fanciest store around and trying on a bunch of designer clothes. I’m thinking this is the nicest shop here.”

Marta’s Clothing Mart?

“She might push you to try on clothes, too,” Patel says, not looking at me but the store. “If you could, she will… like you more.”

She’s phrased her request as if she doesn’t know whether to count on me or not when it comes to anything that requires effort.

“I can manage that,” I answer gruffly. I’m here already. If she needs me to pretend I’m the kind of man who wants to build a relationship with her family, I’ll do it. Her believing I won’t put in the work chafes me.

We go inside. For the next half-hour, I’m a glorified helper. I grab clothes hung up too high and hold them in my hand. The whole time, Patel and I shoot polite smiles at each other. It’s the most sanitized we’ve been. Our teeth clench with effort.

When her sister finds her a short, summery dress, I watch her hold it up against her body. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen her wear, but my imagination leaps to fill in the gaps.

“What do you think?” her sister asks me.

“Stunning.”

Patel’s lips press together.

“With that dress, I’d find it hard to be around her. There would be this feeling.”

“Affection?” guesses Esha. “Or lo?—”

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