Page 228 of Snap Shot

My Guy:And ruin the surprise? No way.

“Ugh!” I groan, my neck and jaw clenched to the max.

“And you've lost phone privileges.” Gabe swipes it from my grasp and drops it in her clutch. “Can't have a stressed bride when it's almost time to go.”

Sheena grabs one hand and squeezes. Gabe and Bea do the same with my other.

They goad me to the window, which faces the manor's main circular drive. Amplifiers rumble with a thumping bassline, the animated dholi keeping a steady beat. The four of us smile at the animated procession, my future in-laws dancing, their hands reaching to the sky as they take jaunt steps in time with the music. They're encouraged by my extended family with a few classic dance moves.

Then, like the midday sun breaking through the clouds, Landon appears, riding in the back of his beloved white Porsche, convertible top down. The white sherwani stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, its gold brocade print glistening in the autumn sun. His teammates surround the car, cheering and clamoring in their matching pastel green kurtas like true hypemen.

Bea moves the curtain aside as Gabe unlatches the window. The smell of damp earth from the previous day's rain wafts through. Landon's gaze lifts toward me and I shrink back, not wanting him to see me yet. The party whoops from below as my friends wave their arms beyond the open glass.

He says something in Jaeger's ear, then hops out of the car. Wade and Fletcher, Szeczin, Olsen, Jaeger, and his brother-in-law, Seth, throw on dark shades and form a huddle. A raspy, forlorn voice sings from the speakers and the dhol slows to match its taal. The guys stagger into lines, lifting their chins in arrogance, folding their hands over their groins like wanna-be gangsters.

“Sheena, I'm afraid,” I admit. “I think Landon got a littletooinspired by Anika and Ash's wedding.”

“You have no idea,” Gabe mumbles.

The boys flip, backs facing us, bending over to twerk to a “hey, hey, hey, hey…” Song bursting as the boys leap up and turn in unison, they break out into a coordinated bhangra sequence to Selena Gomez's “Come and Get It.”

My jaw hangs somewhere by my boobs. They hit every phulka, side pump, and pataka with style.

Landon raises his hands to me and beckons, screaming while bouncing his shoulders, “Whenyou're ready, come and get it, na na na na, na na na na!”

An atrocious laugh escapes. I didn't know being loved like this—so unashamed and sincere—was possible. He learned how I needed and wanted to be loved, and, in turn, taught me how to accept his love while allowing myself to love him.

“Where—when the hell did they…?”

Anika and Esha peer up through their oversized sunglasses, singing along while double pointing at me to the live dhol beat while rolling their hips. Of course.

My arm shoots out the window as I whoop back, the crowd below roaring louder in reply. A few minutes of dancing warfare between our loved ones peters to a stop when they approach the arched entrance where my mom and family formally welcome the groom.

As they lead him inside, we retreat from the curtained view. The rush of adrenaline has my hands shaking, and my girlfriends apply pressure on them while forcing me to drink water to calm.

“Indira.”

It’s my mother's elder brother. His mouth takes a downward turn as tears stream down his tanned cheeks. We're both unprepared for the onslaught of emotion and I run to him, unable to think of anything else to do. The bond Chirag Mama and I share is inexplicable. I only saw him for a few short weeks in summer when visiting Mumbai as children, but the amount of care and love he showers is nothing short of miraculous.

He sniffles as the tears slow. “Anjali always called you Mallika-e-Hindustan. Today, you look the part.”

I threaten to weep again if he doesn't stop, and he dabs at my cheeks and chin with his clean handkerchief.

Gabe laments upon checking my phone. “We should probably head down.”

“Why? What happened?”

Her lower lip pouts through a smile. “Wade texted saying Radek's about to cry. He's jittery and keeps asking if you're there yet.”

The assistant nods toward the door. “You ready?”

I'm not gonna cry, not gonna cry, not gonna cry when I see him.

Bridesmaids ahead, we walk under the canopy of strung-together jasmine my cousin-brothers hold over our heads. Yet another wave of emotion rises upon hearing the Mangalashtak, sung by Mom's sisters.

“Your Kalyani Masi is off-key,” Chirag Mama whispers.

A good effort at breaking the tension and nerves from everyone's gaze as we stride down the marigold-petal-covered aisle. Somehow my uncle hoists me onto the mandap as the song trails off, forty extra pounds of lehenga and all. Our guests clap and cheer.

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