Page 60 of The Fake Dating War

“I prayed for you,” says an uncle.

A mouthy younger kid confirms, “She needed this.”

“Needed what?” wonders Coleman. “And I don’t understand why anyone is surprised.”

“You know,” answers someone. “Her history… andage…”

Boundaries? What boundaries does a crowd of nosy relatives possess?

For his part, Coleman is taken-aback. The sidelong glance he’s giving me proves he doesn’t understand what is happening. I don’t blame him. I blame myself. I should’ve prepared him for this instead of sending him a list that had blueberries as my favorite fruit on it.

When another relative questions whether it’s too late to start a family, Coleman goes alert beside me, like an animal waking up. I recognize the look on his face. It’s the same one he gets when protocol dictates we have to fire a client for improper behavior against our staff. He always takes those calls. The way he handles them ensures we never get bothered again. His expression is not so friendly anymore. He seems… pissed.

He opens his mouth, and I leap over to wrap my arm around his waist. My hand runs a bold line down his back. Something I’ve never done before. His eyes snap down at me. Green sharpens against brown. I must have shocked him, the way he’s gone utterly still.

You take it and don’t fight back, I want to tell him.Arguing doesn’t do anything. They love the drama. Just don’t care.

I should take Coleman to a corner and explain all this, but I’ve a feeling he’ll argue with it. Barring the fact that he stockpiled clients at work, which if I had time to wonder, I’d think there was some sort of reason attached to that since it’s so out of character, he is the type with integrity. Principles. He likes rules so much that once, in the heat of an argument, I muttered he was a rule-fucker. Not my finest moment.

Nonetheless, he isn’t like me.

He’s blunt, honest, and tells people that he finds annoying, that they are, in fact, annoying.

But we’re at my sister’s wedding, and she is secretly pregnant. There can be no drama. He needs to realize that if the punch-line is me, I’m okay taking it. I’ve done it before. Really, many of the digs aren’t that off-base. And pathetically, I don’t have a lot to throw back in their face. At least, I have none of the accomplishments that are traditionally recognized. I don’t have marriage, children, property, riches, or a significantly impressive job.

One day, I might have more, but not today.

Since fondling his back can only distract so much, I make a fumbled excuse and pull Coleman away from the relatives. At the same time, overhead speakers kick in and play music.

My parents have arrived. We would have been with them earlier, but they wanted Coleman and me to mingle instead. Now we are being ushered over to them. The program is starting, and as the bride’s older sister, I’m immediately pulled away to make sure the Maiyan Rangoli is ready, and then to make sure the plate of ladoo sweets is arranged, and then to gather the red string gaaney so they can be given out to the guests to wear later.

When my sister walks in, everyone gasps.

She’s an absolute vision.

Her lush hair is thickened with extensions, enough for a heavy French braid to go down the length of her back. Rich golden brown highlights are woven together with white baby’s breath, intensifying around the crown of her head to form a whimsical tiara. Around her neck are tear-drop fuchsia pink jewels held together by a woven necklace, mimicking the braiding pattern of her hair. As for her outfit, it’s a modified sari with—again—more braided detail. Interlaced golden threads shape her waist and continue down her hip, spreading out there to edge the border of draped trousers.

With deserved confidence, Esha lofts over to the middle of the stage and sits. Everyone converges to form a circle around her.

The Maiyan ceremony starts.

When the photographer calls for family shots, my mother tells me to pull Coleman in.

“Stand him next to you,” whispers my mother, beaming with happiness.

I dumbly don’t move, because her request hits me unexpectedly. Photos. I didn’t think about them. That there is going to be lasting proof of him being here with me this week. Evidence of my lie is going to live on. It’s not as erasable as my living conditions, which no one but Ms.Beatrice knows about.

Not waiting for me, my dad arranges the group himself. Coleman is pushed beside me. Everything is stiff, especially the smile I’ve got on.

This time I jerk when he grabs my hand, but no one notices. He doesn’t acknowledge it either, looking straight ahead. Taking control, he threads our fingers together. He’s doing that reassurance thing again, like he knows I need it. It’s a bad idea, but I squeeze back. For this moment, I’m going to pretend we are actually partners in this together. That I’ve got someone beside me who understands how hard this is and cares that I feel this way.

More instructions are shouted at us by the photographer. It’s time to rub turmeric paste over my sister’s skin. When Coleman bends down and scoops the paste with his finger, I have to laugh. He’s brought it to his mouth.

“Don’t eat it, you weirdo.” I huff.

He shrugs as if he doesn’t know what to do, even though Iknowhe’s researched the hell out of Indian wedding customs. The questions he asked my sister over lunch yesterday were too specific to come from nowhere. Regardless, I show him how to apply the paste along my sister’s arm. When it’s my turn, I skip over her arm and smear my portion straight across her nose.

“Spoiled trouble-maker,” I say.

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