25. REEMA

As the older sister of the bride, I should be organizing this wedding week like a maestro. I've got experience since I've been married before, and, sure, it ended poorly, but the wedding itself was a fairytale, albeit smaller than what my sister has spun for herself this week.

But instead of helping, here I am, slinking into a chair in front of the henna artist so she can spiral patterns on my hands. Esha did say immediate family can go first, I justify to myself. I'm not hiding.

Okay, I'm fucking hiding under the guise of following instructions.

I landed this morning, and my family has already exhausted me.

My mother, Kavya Patel, is a short, round-ish woman with impeccable style. Her eyeliner and blushy lip color are permanently tattooed on, so she never looks bare-faced. You might think the enhancements would be gaudy, but she vigorously grilled every beauty boutique in her city and went to one that showed copious evidence of natural results. The efforts paid off.

Her eyeliner is perfectly even and lip color is roguishly pretty as she asks me why I've lost weight and demands answers about my eating habits. It's not like I can say the cafeteria food at work supplies most of my calories and that snack is my second biggest food group. She also has Big Opinions on my hair. I'm told it's different repeatedly, by which she clearly means different-bad. I've stuck to an updo, pinning all uneven layers into submission, sacrificing many bobby pins.

My father, Preetam Patel, is a thin wiry man whose under-eye circles I've inherited. He's a straight-shooter and asked me point-blank about the timeline of my re-marriage and whether he needs to start saving for that. His expression was very man-held-hostage.

On the opposite end of things, my grandma, Bebe, is a firecracker of glee. As an old woman prone to worsening arthritis, her new electric wheelchair has come in. She's zipping after me, asking whether I still get my period and if it's—gross—robust enough? Something to do with aging womb health.

My sister, Esha, watches this and laughs, then sniffles. It's so weird. Typically, our love language is mild to moderate bullying, layered with loads of sarcasm. But today, she launched at me with a hug. I'd almost dropped to the ground and rolled away, but her long, bridal-worthy nails had gripping power. I then heard her go on about how she's glad I'm here, that we're both winning, and how moving on with my life is long overdue.

Of course, I shouldn't blame my family for immediately crowding me. I've been absent for two years, even when I've been in the same room as them. Sometimes it meant I was pretending to be okay, and sometimes it meant I was talking like a robot, giving generic answers while my mind was stuck working, back in my office chair, crunching numbers for how many more clients I needed to win and where else can I cut costs, and how much harder I need to work so I can finally make something of my life…

The henna artist turns my hands so she can work on the tops.

"This is so beautiful," I tell her. But can you go slower, please?

Three minutes later, I am forced off the seat so the next person in line can get their designs done. Today is Ladies Henna Night. Most guests won't arrive for another two days because the latter half of the week is when the bigger events happen. That being said, since my dad is one of seven siblings and my mom is one of four siblings, our close family is already a big crowd.

With still-drying henna hands, I'm forced to mingle again. Trying to run out the clock, I linger off to the side. There's definitely enough space for me to snatch a corner to hide in.

Bells Estate is the name of the venue, a historic building lauded as a hidden gem for any wedding, gala, or special event. It boasts multiple grand ballrooms I can hop between, curving staircases with plush carpeted runners and gilded handrails to make my escape accessible, and a gazebo surrounded by lush lawns with mature trees, if I want a moment of stunning scenery to catch my breath.

Right next to Bell Estates is The Bells Hotel. You can tell great effort was made to duplicate both buildings, so they present as twin establishments preserved from a forgotten era of horse-driven carriages, but the jig is up when you enter the hotel. There's a new smell they can't get rid of, not to mention the modern ventilation clearly running through the walls, and how each hallway is perfectly symmetrical with its straight lines.

Inside Bells Estates, the hall for the Henna Night is brightly decorated: bulbous golden balls hang from the ceiling like glowing mini-suns, plucked daffodils cluster generously everywhere, forest green bows dangle from centerpieces, and dashes of hot pink fabric curve around banquet chairs and tables.

From where I'm standing, I see cousin Manu is pregnant again. How many kids is she at? I've lost count.

The triplet doctor sisters are also here. Jiya, Miya, Priya. All of them matched to different residency programs this year. Neurology, cardiology, and… dermatology, was it?

And there is my twenty-one-year-old cousin, Serena, waving her ethically sourced mega hunk of an engagement ring around. It's as radiant as her skin. Seriously, she's glowing and fit and I wouldn't say no if the devil wanted my soul in return for a chance at her life.

Not that my thirty-five is the end. I'm not a hag, I tell myself—even though, this morning, right by my forehead, another faint line came out to play. It did not get smoothed out by my fingers, no matter how much I rubbed. Guess after I got rid of my pimples, the age demon now terrorizes me. Sneaky bitch.

Serena is showing Bebe her ring. In Bebe's lap is Manu's older toddler, giggling at nothing.

Something twists in my chest. This is why I've been dreading this wedding, even if it's my sister's big week. It's hard seeing people's lives move on when yours feels as if it's been waiting on a platform where the train hasn't come by in so many years.

Just get through it. Soon, you'll be back on track again. Just a little more time…

As if she's got a Reema radar, my mother sees me standing by the wall. Noticing her approach, I brace myself for more investigative reporting.

"Is he here yet? My future son-in-law?"

"Please stop." I groan. "He's my boyfriend." Evil office nemesis. Destroyer of all happiness. Troll-in-hiding. "And remember, you won't see him today. He's had a long flight, so he's going to the hotel next door to rest. Plus, it's not like he needs his henna done. This is a ladies' event."

"We can make an exception for him," argues my mother. "If he's with my daughter, he's part of this family." Her eyes are voluminous with hope. Mom looks at me as if this new development is the answer to all her stress. Let both of my babies be settled in life!

"Tell him to stop by for a few minutes," she insists.

Not a chance.

"Sorry, mom?—"

"Wait!" My mother grips the sleeve of my outfit and exclaims, "Someone just came in through the door." She squints and gasps. "Is that him? He's so handsome!"

"Doubt it," I mutter, not bothering to turn around. I gave Coleman very clear instructions. He goes straight to the hotel. Later we'll meet up and get our fake-dating story straight. My plan is to limit his exposure to my family as much as possible, so he won't?—

My sister appears out of nowhere. "That man. His hair looks perfectly windswept."

Fuck me.I look at the entrance.

And sure enough, there he is.

Before the rest of the crowd can spot him, I rush over to him, sensing my mother and sister following on the heels of my feet. Pushing myself to an almost-run, I outpace them and reach him first.

His eyes widen, unsurprisingly. I'm like a bat swooping down. He's here. Coleman is here. When he said he would come, part of me didn't believe he'd show up.

But he's here. And he found time to go to a barber. The effect is criminal. His sides have been trimmed into an undercut, making the top tousled waves even more thoughtlessly perfect. A strand curves over one eyebrow, once again making you think of bed, woman, and hands.

Huffing and puffing, I loom in his personal space.

He tries shaking me off. "Patel."

I'm about to hiss that he can't call me that if we're pretending to be together, especially not in that uppity tone of his. But before I can lecture him, we're no longer alone.

My mother and sister have caught up. They are shamelessly checking him out, head-to-toe.

"What are you doing here?" I say, backing up a little. "This isn't the hotel—" Darling? The word clogs in my throat. I can't—I can't make myself say it. "You need to go next door with your luggage. That's where our room is at." He better understand my pointed words. Go to your room. Stay there. Don't move. Wait until I find you. Leave now.

"Nonsense." My mother comes between us like a forceful piece of construction machinery. Beep-beep, get out of the way. "You must be Jake!"

"Well done," Esha whispers, not as quietly as she thinks she is considering the smug amusement that settles on Coleman's face.

He inclines his head. "You must be Patel's younger sisters."

My mother chuckles, swatting at him.

"I am," confirms Esha. "Much younger."

"Patel?" wonders a voice. "Why is he calling her that?" There's my father. He somehow snuck into our little group, and—frantically looking over my shoulder—I see that so have many others.

"That's a thing we do," I say loudly. Too loudly. Almost banshee-like. "We call each other by our last names. We saw it in a movie once and thought it was cute." I'm going to throat-punch you for this, Coleman. "We're so flirty."

"Look at him," my mother coos. "He's Reema's boyfriend."

Yes. I must pretend we are a couple. Getting closer, I move to put my hand on him somewhere, but at the last moment, remember the henna designs on my hands. So my fingers just hover around his arm, and that isn't awkward at all.

My father yelps. Bebe, his mother, has nipped her wheelchair into the back of his feet.

"Let me in," she yells. "Let me in. I want to see him!"

Others in the hall are turning their heads. Bodies move slowly over as if Coleman is fresh meat for the horde of gossip zombies inching over to devour him.

"My family is a lot," I say, passing off my warning as a good-natured joke. He better not freak out. I still don't know why he's agreed to be here, but I bet he didn't expect to be bombarded like this. Full Indian siege coming.

The wave of questions waiting to be asked makes the air feel thick, and now I'm sweating. Is this where it all falls apart? Did I make a huge mistake? For a second, I'm struck with the possibility that he isn't here to pretend to be my boyfriend, but has come to humiliate me in front of everyone. Not that it's his style, but my scoreboard victory pissed him off. Why did he agree to this?

I feel myself pale.

"It's lovely," Coleman says, raising his voice to address the group. "This whole place is more than I expected. Gorgeous place for a wedding."

"Thank you for noticing," says my sister. "Keep noticing. What do you like about it?"

If she could break out in song, she would. Rain down your compliments on me!

"I had no idea this kind of place existed," he admits. "It's very unique. One-of-a-kind."

"Not many people know about it," boasts my sister.

True.

Bells Estates and The Bells Hotel all belong in the small town of Bells Falls, though calling it even that feels generous. It's more of a smattering of specifically designed streets and buildings customized to serve the event industry. The illusion is that we've stumbled onto some quaint village isolated from the real world. Everything is a curated immersive experience of elegant joy.

It's also a pain to get here.

If I hadn't hoarded points on my credit card for the flight, and my parents weren't paying for a big block of the rooms for everyone they consider immediate family, this would all be out of my budget.

What that means is Coleman has flown in, but also agreed to spend this weekend not only cut off from work, but from the rest of the world. That brings up my question again. Why?

Green eyes meet mine properly. "You look… different."

"Haven't you seen her in traditional Punjabi clothes?" my mother asks.

"It's loose on her, isn't it?" says Serena, with her unnecessary commentary.

Coleman shrugs as if he's not surprised in the least bit by the bagginess of my wardrobe. Screw him, but also… facts.

"She's lost weight," says Bebe. "But we'll plump her up this week. Reema has nice birthing hips when she eats."

Birthing hips?! Might as well put me in stirrups for everyone to fucking examine!

"Do you want kids?" my father asks, drilling him. "We like kids."

My face is on fire. I go stand in front of Coleman, blocking him from the rest of them. "We can catch up later! Let him get settled in first!"

"Where did the two of you meet?" Serena asks, yelling the question as if afraid it won't reach us.

"Dating app," says Coleman, at the same time as I answer, "Work."

Laughing loudly, I nudge his solid chest with my elbow. "That's not—we said we'd tell the truth. Work."

"You like the truth?" he questions, the ghost of a condescending smirk on his lips.

He's not… Is he… He better not… What's his agenda?!

"How long have you been together?" asks Serena, deliberately directing the question at him. What am I? Invisible?

"Two—"

"Six months," I interject. "We joke that it feels like two years. Like we've been in each other's lives forever and somehow hadn't found each other. Anyway, we should focus on Esha. It's her wedding, remember? No one wants to know all this detailed information about us."

Disagreement audibly rises up, my own sister joining in as if I've said something ludicrous.

"You've been together for six months?" says Serena, with a distinct tone of disbelief. "You don't seem that happy to see each other. Is the honeymoon phase over? You haven't hugged or kissed."

The arrogance of youth. They think nothing is off-limits. And yet, her disbelief commands the room. Nobody questions her observations. It's like she's delivering a thesis doctorate to fellow researchers the way everyone is nodding.

With all this attention, I feel hot, embarrassed, and stilted. From the corner of my eye, I see Coleman's head lower to me.

In that flash of a moment, my mind careens wildly.

I didn't think this through—hugging?—kissing?—and he's going for it?!

Reacting almost blindly, my chin goes up so I can jerk it closer to him for this kiss. But the angle doesn't work since his head is now bent too low?—

To grab his luggage.

Coleman was lowering himself to grab his luggage.

And me, thinking it was a kiss, have now nuzzled my mouth against the top of his head.

People around us gawk.

I'm dying. I've died. This is so fucking awkward. I can't even look at him, but I can imagine he's either about to burst out laughing or he's disgusted I've violated his personal space.

"What was that?" Bebe wonders, which, if your grandma is voicing that question, it means you've lost all dignity.

"Head-kiss," I say, my voice going more shrill. "There you go. That was a—head kiss. Our emotions live deep inside us," I insist, further shoveling myself into an early grave. "We are—two souls in one body, not bound by the physical. Our bond—it's—much—more."

If I was lucky, some catastrophe would interrupt this moment. Nothing to ruin the wedding, but maybe a catering staff member could knock over a pyramid of martini glasses. Or the appetizer table could collapse. Any loud crash will do.

But no, the staff has also stopped to stare at me.

Before this gets any worse—can it?—I grab Coleman's luggage out of his hands, belatedly realizing that I've smudged my palm's henna on the handle.

"My work!" shouts the henna lady.

Great. She's here, too.

I mutter something about it having mostly dried, and then I start dragging the luggage towards the exit, gesturing at Coleman, signaling that he should follow me.

"I'm taking him to the hotel!" I tell everyone behind us. "We'll catch up later!"

Sure we will.

If I'm not locked up for murdering my fake-boyfriend.