Page 75 of The Fake Dating War

That’s not an answer, but no one else seems to notice. The group rallies their support for Zara’s expertise. As if I need to accept that I’m her personal makeover project. Mom is basically drooling as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment since she first saw my bun-loop.

I let out a defeated noise. “Fine. But can I have a mirror?”

So I can watch… Supervise…

“No.It’s better this way.” She pulls scissors from her smock, and in one quick move, cuts a chunk of my hair off.

Well, that’s it, isn’t it? It’s started. Worst case, I’ll go back to work in a hat. Considering the athletic headband I’ve worn these last few weeks, my coworkers won’t bat an eye.

Over the next twenty-minutes, my head feels progressively lighter. When the snipping stops, I’m told to close my eyes. It’s time for make-up. With my eyes closed, I mentally prepare myself for the day. The ceremony is at least two hours, lunch will be served afterwards, and then most of the guests can rest and recuperate until the evening dinner starts.

I am not among most of those guests.

My sister has arranged a limo-style party bus to pick up theyoung, and theenergetic, and thoseluckyenough to be counted as her closest people. That group will dance, drink, and party, while the limo-bus takes us to some forested scenery where the couple can take wedding photographs together.

Think of it like prom mixed with a club, but on wheels. After that, the broken off group comes back here to rejoin the rest of the guests. More ceremonies take place, then dinner, then maybe more dancing.

It’s going to be a beast of a day.

“All done,” Zara whispers in my ear.

I open my eyes.

“Put on your outfit,” she instructs, handing me the garment bag. Going behind a little privacy screen, I put it on. It’s another traditional Punjabi outfit, but this one is custom made for the bridesmaids, gifted to us by Esha. Compared to the outdated styles I’ve worn this week, this one is modern and sewn to the latest fashion trends. Not only that, but the measurements are accurate to my current size. The fabric drapes taunt over my curves. I suddenly have a waist, breasts, and the shape of my butt has a great lift.

When I step out, dressed and ready, audible shock ripples through the room.

Esha is up. She comes and tugs us both towards a floor-length mirror. In the reflection, two women stand beside each other, looking more like sisters than they have in a long time. One sister has long flowing hair that’s been swept into a half-curled updo with delicate ribbon woven through, reading for her wedding day. The other sister has a healthy bob styled into subtle modern waves around her face.

But the person staring back at me isn’t someone who has gone through what I have. She hasn’t experienced these last two years at all. She’s not been run ragged to the bone and hasn’t ever slumped over in defeat. ThatReemahas been erased and replaced by someone with brilliant skin, raspberry-stained lips, rosy cheeks, and the kind of contouring that makes a nose perk up with cuteness. Iridescent highlighter is everywhere, making my cheekbones, eyebrow arches, and collarbones look as if they’ve been quenched with the power of a super hydrating moisturizer.

I should be elated…

“There’s my sister,” whispers Esha. “All gorgeous now. Don’t you love it?”

I don’t answer. The hair and makeup team is complimented and hugged. We have to go downstairs now to gather with our immediate family. The hotel set up a conference-type room for us, away from the public traffic of the main foyer.

All the attention is given to Esha, as it should be. But then Dad grins when he sees me. “That’s more like it, Reema. Now you look like a proper Patel daughter.”

“Finally,” laughs Bebe, rolling her wheelchair up to me. “What a beauty.”

Serena angles her head. “Nice work.”

When the photographer arrives, lots of pictures are taken. Esha’s nearest and dearest all want a shot with her before the chaos of the day begins. I try to keep my smile natural, but it feels stiff on my face.

Be happy. You finally look good.

Yet, there’s a tightness in my chest that won’t go away. When it almost gets too unbearable, I take a few steps away from the group. I’ve already been documented from all angles. They don’t need me for these final photos.

I look past an auntie adjusting her expensive jewelry and a group of men in their finest suits. They are huddled together and drinking chai. A few kids have shown up, chasing each other around, also dressed in their very best.

Then, standing apart from them all, I see him.

My heart stops, then stutters back up again, pounding much louder in my ears. It feels as if no one else in the room exists anymore.

Coleman is wearing a midnight-black formal suit, white-collared shirt, and a bowtie that should make him lean towards boyish but it doesn’t. The line of his jaw and the hint of stubble are too strong for that, and the way he leans against the wall like a figure cut from onyx makes me swallow.

Green eyes take note of me, absorbing every detail before eventually pausing on the hair and face.

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