18. REEMA

All the dates Leo set me up with sounded promising. Like I could actually get someone to agree to come to my sister's wedding and temporarily fake being in love with me. I was clinging to this tunnel vision of hope despite all evidence to the contrary that I should, but that, too, fell apart with each failure.

Now Friday has arrived. The last day of work before my vacation starts. Leo is tucking another mysterious package into his desk.

"What do you keep buying?" I ask.

He startles as if caught red-handed. "Gifts for Wyatt," he says. "You know how he is. I can't hide anything from him at home."

We settle down at our desks, and Leo practices self-restraint for a solid minute before breaking. "Okay, you didn't answer my texts last night, and I called in sick yesterday so we haven't caught up. How did the dates go?"

"Bad. Bad. Good."

"Which one was good? Let me guess. Xian Fleming, age twenty-nine, occupation, guitarist.

"Actually, no. He stood me up."

"Fucker."

"The good one was Wes Tsang. The thirty-nine-year-old insurance agent."

"Why was it good? Did you slag?"

"Slag? Is that a new word?"

Leo's computer makes a flutey greeting sound. I'm online already, though my machine never sounds as happy as his.

"No, I made it up," he says. "It's a polite substitute for a more dirty word. Unless—" He smirks. "Should I get dirty?"

"Oh. God."

"That sounds like a yes to me."

Even when everything else goes wrong, our bantering stays the same. That's why I want to live in it longer today. "No, I'm shutting down your love of dirtiness. Nothing of that sort happened with Wes."

"Bo-ring."

"So you don't want the details? Cool." I dig out headphones I haven't used since Leo got assigned to sit with me, and I put them on.

A scrunched up paper ball plonks my shoulder. I hear Leo calling my name. I take the headphones off, swivel my chair slightly, and raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh, did you want something?"

"Shut-up." He rolls his eyes. "Talk."

The headphones are dumped back in the back of my drawer where they belong. An odd, kind of disturbing thought crosses my mind. When they aren't turned on, our office headphones don't block out any noise. I heard Leo as clearly as if I hadn't worn them at all. That means…if Coleman has his off…

No, why would he do that?

Leo is crumpling up more paper, so I start talking.

"Wes was better than I thought. We met up on the lake, and he surprised me with a picnic. There were three types of cheese. Some wine."

"Okay, full adorable. Why aren't we celebrating? Did you ask him about your sister's wedding? Did that freak him out?"

"I did. And he said he's fairly sure he can't go."

"Oh. You don't sound disappointed."

"He said fairly sure. That means he—he might be able to go."

"Oh, honey."

"I'm trying to be optimistic! Because if I'm not…"

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Leo has come over and is standing behind me. I don't turn around, but I lean my head into his arm. There's a clogged emotion trying to come up my throat, but I beat it down. No crying. Never again crying. It's all fine. I've done this to myself.

"I'm sorry I can't go," he says. "If I could, honestly, I would."

"No, this isn't on you. It's on me. And if I don't show up with a date to my sister's wedding, what's the worst that will happen? Everyone will just know I've been lying to them for the last six months. And they'll see me as the loser I am." He starts to argue, but I interrupt. "No, let's not fight about me calling myself that right now. We're focusing on positives. Good news is that I met a nice man, Wes, and he wants to see me again, but is ninety-five percent sure he's got plans and can't come to the wedding."

"I'm not going to let you call yourself a loser, so please don't. But also, yes. Let's focus on the fact you met someone." Leo lets out an enthusiastic, "Wooo."

"Maybe. He hasn't texted me since."

"Then you text him first."

Right. That's the thing that I used to do. Be brave. Put myself out there. Cue a flashback to the cafeteria, the Colin-Perry-Sally incident. That was me thinking I was being checked out and going for it when it wasn't about me.

"Everything is going to work out." Leo bends over and squeezes my hand, crouching his body into an awkward position. I pat his arm.

"You may cry now, but don't rub your snot on me," he declares.

"I should get back to work," I say. "Go back to your desk."

He pats my bun-loop of hair. "Never change."

The next hour we don't speak, because I'm funneling my fear, disappointment, and anxiety into work. When I finally take a micro-break, I wonder if I should use this time to email my sister. She's called me a few times recently, but I haven't had a chance to pick up. I could talk to her now and make up another story.

Hey, that man I've definitely been dating this whole time that you've never spoken to since every time you called, I either don't answer or answer only at work, and occasionally at home I tell you he's in the bathroom, and then turn on the shower even though I've already had a shower…Yeah, he can't make it. But he's definitely real.

Thinking about that conversation, I groan. "Why is it so hard to find a fake boyfriend? Movies make it seem so easy! Why can't I just hire someone for Esha's wedding?"

Coleman makes an arrogant, scoffing noise. It carries.

When I look over at him, he's got his headphones on, but his eyebrow is raised. My computer pings. It's a chat from him.

Coleman:Fake boyfriend?

Coleman:Is that like an imaginary friend?

He heard me. He's been listening.

I type back: None of your business

Three dots appear.

Coleman:Why do you need a fake boyfriend for the wedding? What are you going to do on your week off? What are your plans, Patel?

The way he's questioning me is odd and insistent, but I don't know why. To cool myself down, I visualize his horror when he realizes my portfolio beats his. That's the light at the end of this terrible tunnel. After I survive the wedding, on the last day of the deadline, I'm going to gloat as he watches the scoreboard shoot up all at once.

Closing the chat window without answering, I plan to dive back into work, but then I sneeze. And sneeze again four more times. My face tingles.

Oh, no.

This only happens when Keri from Accounting brings her cat to work. He's cuddly and cute, but I am so allergic! My hands fumble to my drawer, looking for allergy pills. My finger closes around the bottle. I grab it and rush to the bathrooms so I can splash my face with cold water before it splotches into pink spots.

Seeing an opening, that's when he moves.