Page 79 of The Fake Dating War

REEMA

No.

My mother knocked on the bathroom door, yelling that we needed to come out.

Coleman and I had leapt apart, looking everywhere but at each other. Then we rushed out because my mother had threatened to break the door down, absolutely refusing for us to be late for my sister’s big day.

And so we exited and got separated, engulfed by the crowd of relatives.

Everyone was abuzz with excitement as they walked over to the wedding venue where the space had, once again, been transformed. This time, all the tables and chairs have been taken away. A thick cushion covered with pristine white sheets is laid on the floor for the seating. Running down the middle of the space is a special maroon carpet runner for the bride to walk down.

Everyone takes their appropriate seats, and unlike my chaotic morning, the wedding ceremony goes perfectly. My sister has arranged it down to the tiniest details, to make it great. Fans gently circle overhead, cooling the guests down, but also creating a light wind that makes it feel as if we’re outdoors with a lightly swaying chandelier above our heads, pinned to the sky.

As per tradition, men and women sit at opposite ends of the room to watch the ceremony. Here and there, through the throngs of other people, I catch a glimpse of Coleman’s broad shoulders. Or the light strikes his musculature in a way that makes him stand out to my eyes.

Not that I’m looking for him.

(I am).

I keep thinking about the bathroom. How we almost kissed, even though no one was watching us.

“You’re so flushed,” my mother whispers in my ear. “Everything alright? Are you getting sick?”

“It’s an emotional flush, mother. I’m just happy.”

She buys it. That I’m ecstatic for my sister—which I am—though the flushing has more to do with a certain finger that had bossily raised my chin—and mouth—closer to him?—

Time passes in a haze of soft nonsense thoughts, and soon lunch is served. So many people are congratulating my family, so that hour passes by in a flash. I manage to grab some daal, rice, and naan to eat. It’s delicious.

People are in a food coma and starting to yawn. Most of them will retire to their rooms for a break before the evening ceremonies start. Unfortunately, Esha’s chosen few are tasked to bringparty vibesand push forward. We’re the entourage cheering her and Gurinder on as they get their wedding shots done.

That group is led outside the building. Based on what my sister’s been promising, I expected a sleek luxury bus to transport us around. The kind of thing rich tourists book when they want to explore the outdoors without giving up leather seats or air-conditioning. This is… not that. It’s a converted mini school bus with three stripper poles running down the middle. A few stringy disco balls hang from the roof.

My sister immediately has loud words with the driver about false advertising. The driver, a bean-stocky man, insists everything is better lit up and that we should get on because his hourly rate has started. Not like we have any other option. It’s too late to request anything else, and the photographers have already left to meet us in the woods.

We get pushed onboard.

Inside, it’s clear the capacity ismorefalse advertising. Barely fifteen bodies should be on here, but the driver boasts twenty can fit. I’m pushed to the back end of the bus along with Coleman.

I look around. Where am I going to sit?

Most of the seats have been ripped out. Esha and Gurinder snag two for themselves. Her outfit is thick and heavy with sewn-in jewels, so it’s only fair. Plus, she’s the bride. Serena, Jyoti, and Pooja plop down on the other empty seats. People crowd around to cling to their closest stripper pole, but I’m in the very back, so there isn’t one beside me.Dammit.

Coleman’s eyes flick around, taking in the lack of seating, how there are no seatbelts, the one window that’s taped to stay in place, and lastly, the liquor being opened.

“We need to get off. Right away.”

I shake my head. “That ship has sailed.”

“No, it’s not.” He’s eying the fire escape critically. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled off an escape. The man is good with logistics. And he’s good with his hands. I flash back to him, running his calloused fingers over my cabinet all those months ago. He knew about stabilizing weight. Fulcrums. Latches.

I pat his shoulder. “We’ll survive. I think.”

“But in one-piece? I count ten… notwentycode violations. This can’t be legal.”

Someone overhears his comment. They yell, “Who needs safety!”

It’s not framed as a question, but Coleman looks at me and answers.

---