Page 57 of The Fake Dating War

After sending it, I wait for a response, but I don’t get one.

Almost as if he is preoccupied doing something else.

32

JAKE

She’s sent me an email, but I can’t read it.

I found Tarun Singh sitting at the hotel bar that night. When a spot opens up beside him, I slide into it and offer to buy him a refill of his drink.

He accepts.

Later that night, I open the email. I re-read it. More than once.

My response:

I don’t sleep a lot. My brain can’t seem to slow down enough to rest. Maybe I should try your lavender?

So if flesh-eating zombies attack, all I have to do is outrun you? Easy.

Tell me there are childhood photos with blueberries all over your face. Send them all to me. I’m not kidding.

I purposely tried running away from home once after a hockey fight with Grant (my brother). My dad was the one who noticed first and drove around until he found me buying a gas station hotdog. I thought he would be mad, but he didn’t yell. He hugged me.

Why can I talk to you about my dad, but to no one else?

33

REEMA

He’s late.

I’m waiting outside the hotel, but he’s not here yet. That’s a problem since the whole plan was to be early enough to avoid the crowd, because I don’t want anyone to see us come out of our different rooms.

Not knowing what else to do, I pull out my phone. The camera is accidentally pressed ON.

Flat hair makes an appearance on the screen. My fingers fidget with a pin as I imagine my mother’s tutting disapproval. She’ll say the style makes me lookevenolder than I am. To be fair, it does when you compare it to the waterfall curls Esha has been nurturing for the last year. Technically, my hair could’ve looked like that if I hadn’t kept cutting it myself.

But now the length is uneven, and since I’m an overworked hovel of a person, the ends are split and dry. Containing everything into a tight bun-loop is a mercy, so no one has to look at all that.

In the camera, the mirror-embroidery on my traditional clothes refract the light.

A Punjabi outfit comes in different styles but typically consists of three separate pieces. The bottoms can be genie trousers, leggings, or slim pants. The tunic top covers your bum and can have sleeves of various lengths or be sleeveless. The third piece is adupatta. Sometimes used to cover your head, the long piece of fabric can also be draped over your shoulders as a fancy scarf. That is what I have done with mine. It’s the fanciest part of my outfit and also camouflages the looseness of my top, which I’m sure my mother will also comment on.

Shutting my phone off, I debate barging back into the hotel to pound on Coleman’s door, but before I can act on that very appealing impulse, I spot him walking towards me.

The effect of his entrance is a lot.

I expected trousers and a nice shirt, but he’s in a suit. And it’s not black. His linen three-piece shows off the strong, rangey lines of his body as if each inch has been tailored to an arrogantly specific degree. I’d bet a tooth that nothing came off the rack. That chest pocket, jacket vent, and the buttoned cuffs are all custom. And the color? It’s sin. Pale green, a notch lighter than his eyes.

As the first official event he’s attending, this man did not phone it in.

I’m buzzing with (outraged) hormones at the sight.

As for him, his eyes peruse my outfit slowly. A throat bobbles.

When he notices me watching him, he smirks.

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