Page 88 of The Fake Dating War

“I just want to call it now,” she says. “He’s the one for you. He’s nothing like Harry!”

“Who is Harry?”

That’s Coleman. He’s come up behind us.

My sister looks back at him, then at me. She’s eyeing me down, clearly shocked I haven’t told him about my divorce.

Nobody speaks?—

Until the driver barks at us to enter.

Almost blindly I get on, shuffling through bodies to find a spot for myself somewhere. My mind is racing. Coleman heard Esha. He’s asking who Harry is. How do I explain that to him? What do I tell him? The sanitized story I’ve been giving everyone in my life? Or the raw, ugly version?

Everyone is wet and somehow that makes the space feel more crowded. As the last of us board, more bodies reshuffle. I see Coleman wade through people until he comes to stand behind me. His hand grasps the pole I’m clinging onto, fingers curling on a spot above mine. He doesn’t bend closer and ask any questions. He doesn’t say anything.

The joints of the bus creak as it pulls out of the lot and shudders its way back onto the road. In this weather, even our crap driver is taking it slow. Voices rumble around us, but those become muffled when the overhead speakers start playing music. It’s not the exuberant noisiness of bhangra music, but the wistful ghazals of a woman crooning in Hindi.

When the tires hit a bump, my bum knocks back into him.

I think about moving forward again when the rockiness evens out, but I don’t. His hand comes around and grips my hip possessively. He encourages me to stay there.

There is fire in my blood.

It’s not the rain that has made me wet.

I know he’ll ask me about Harry soon. And I’ll have to explain why I kept him and the divorce a secret, even though I’m not sure of that answer myself. Probably because I don’t like talking about that part of my life to anyone, so I pretend it never happened.

But Coleman doesn’t miss a beat, so I know he’ll ask, but for now I don’t want us to go there. All I want is this. Our bodies pressed against each other. That slow falling feeling again that intoxicates your veins with pleasure. Where you’re not thinking straight or being logical, but swept away, unbothered about whether you are headed towards disaster or not. Happiness. Thrill. New discovery. Hearts racing.

As soon as the bus pulls up to the hotel, everyone escapes. People are tipsy, yawning, and drenched. Promises are made to meet later, but for right now, rest is needed. It’s been a long day.

Coleman lingers behind, distinctly telling me I should go to our room first.

It’s so he can sneak to his own room when the halls are more empty.

Not knowing what else to do, I leave him. But then when I get to my room, I can’t seem to unwind. I’m pacing back and forth. It feels as if I’m too warm and this buzzing inside me won’t settle down. It’s making my skin feel hot, tight, and so sensitive.

I want?—

I need?—

There’s a knock on the door.

I run to open it.

It’s him. He’s there. “Patel I?—”

“Come inside.”

He does, and he’s scrubbing at his face. “We should talk…”

No.No talking.

I kiss him.

47

REEMA

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