Page 59 of The Fake Dating War

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REEMA

For a moment, I wonder whether I should tell Coleman what the Maiyan is all about, but knowing him, he’s probably researched it already. The internet will have told him it’s a ceremony that takes place a few days before the wedding. It’s when friends and family spread special turmeric flour paste on the bride and groom (although Gurinder is doing his own separate event) to cleanse the skin. Meanwhile, songs called boliyan are sung by the guests.

It’s being held in the same venue that hosted Ladies Henna Night, but the space is completely transformed. Ornate backdrops are stationed across the hall. The one closest to us is a curtain made of tied ribbons of marigold garland, acting as a bountiful floor length fringe that guests can walk through. To the side of that is a heavily pillowed sitting area arranged on an intricate Turkish rug, the tufted poufs welcoming you to rest and enjoy chai as if you’ve wandered into a cozy den somewhere in Istanbul. Silver chimes dangle above.

Beyond that is a raised platform about two inches high, set up with decorative fans for where Esha will sit when she arrives.

There’s some time to go before she does. People are still filtering in. There’s my distant cousin, Avleen. She’s a real-estate mogul who bagged a rich husband from Dubai. Uncle Monty is also here and good for a laugh as he makes off with a whisky bottle if left unsupervised. Sharon Aunty pinches cheeks, but not the ones on your face. Aunty Nita is worse. Regardless of context, all of her sentences start with the phrase,My son.It’s reverse Oedipal.

I give Coleman a hurried run-down of everyone I see, but it’s not enough. Hungry eyes across the hall spot us far too quickly. All at once, the press of attention is on me. My mouth pinches with the effort it takes not to chew on my lip.

I haven’t been in a room full of so many family members since Harry and I attended an anniversary party, back when we were together. On the positive, at least it’s been a long while since news of my divorce spread across the family. I know my parents tried keeping the gossip ripples small by saying there was no drama, that it was amicable, and how Harry and I remain close friends.

All lies I fed them first.

Two years later, I don’t know if I’ll get harassed the same way with questions. I’m the divorcee, but here with her new boyfriend. That’s progress, right? I don’t know. It still feels like I’m walking up to the stand having to defend my life choices, and already I’m tired, even though the interrogation hasn’t started.

A calloused hand reaches for mine.

My shoulder jerks reflexively, but I don’t fully pull away. Blame my slow reflexes, and how Coleman stares at me, almost with a certain awareness. As if he knows I’m freaking out. As if he can read me like that.

When he gives my fingers a squeeze, my heart leaps. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was attempting reassurance, but that would mean I’ve stepped into another dimension. More likely, he knows I’ll blame him if I run out of here before the Maiyan begins.

Holding his hand isn’t an experience I want to know. It feels too close to believing everything is going to be alright. His grip is firm, possessive, and gentle, all at once.

Uncle Monty reaches us first. Aunty Sharon is right behind him.

I jump into the introductions.This is my boyfriend. We met six months ago. We met at work. We are really happy together.

Rinse and repeat for the other relatives that come behind them until it gets harder when he and I are attacked from both sides. Multiple conversations start, and I worry our story won’t stay united. Though he seems to do well with the triplet doctor sisters, making them laugh about the hospital antics his brother pulled off when he broke his nose. Grant, I think?

At the same time, Uncle Sammy starts badgering me to sign up for his pyramid scheme.

From the corner of my eye, I see Aunty Nita pull Coleman to the side.Uh-oh.Here comes theMy sonbrags. Uncle Sammy is so boring that I can drone him out to overhear them. It starts as I think it will, with Aunty Nita not letting Coleman get a word in, but then he interrupts her story about her son mountain biking some alps.

“There’s been a rise in skin rashes recently from helmet sharing.”

Aunty Nita blinks. “My son could have been a doctor, so he would know not to sha?—”

“You know what chafes? Bike shorts. There are special ones you have to get that have built-in cup support.”

“Oh, I know he has those?—”

“Because there’s nothing more painful than an in-grown hair near your groin.”

That last comment leaves Aunty Nita bumbling, and that’s when Coleman and our eyes meet. His are twinkling.

Omigod, he’s doing it on purpose.

I can’t help but laugh under my breath. My shoulders relax. I think maybe we’ll get through this. In front of me, Uncle Sammy is fleetingly distracted by a passing drink tray. Taking the opening, I duck away and go back by Coleman. Aunty Nita is gone, but more relatives approach. These are not as closely related and, therefore, are more shameless. No one mentions my divorce directly, but they dance around it.

“I was so shocked when I heard you were seeing someone, but I’m happy,” says one aunty, who pats my shoulder with her thick hand. “Shocked, but happy.”

Coleman frowns.

When another aunty says she’s ecstatic about my progress, but none of them expected this from me, I feel his gaze land on me.

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