34. REEMA

For a moment, I wonder whether I should tell Coleman what the Maiyan is all about, but knowing him, he's probably researched it already. The internet will have told him it's a ceremony that takes place a few days before the wedding. It's when friends and family spread special turmeric flour paste on the bride and groom (although Gurinder is doing his own separate event) to cleanse the skin. Meanwhile, songs called boliyan are sung by the guests.

It's being held in the same venue that hosted Ladies Henna Night, but the space is completely transformed. Ornate backdrops are stationed across the hall. The one closest to us is a curtain made of tied ribbons of marigold garland, acting as a bountiful floor length fringe that guests can walk through. To the side of that is a heavily pillowed sitting area arranged on an intricate Turkish rug, the tufted poufs welcoming you to rest and enjoy chai as if you've wandered into a cozy den somewhere in Istanbul. Silver chimes dangle above.

Beyond that is a raised platform about two inches high, set up with decorative fans for where Esha will sit when she arrives.

There's some time to go before she does. People are still filtering in. There's my distant cousin, Avleen. She's a real-estate mogul who bagged a rich husband from Dubai. Uncle Monty is also here and good for a laugh as he makes off with a whisky bottle if left unsupervised. Sharon Aunty pinches cheeks, but not the ones on your face. Aunty Nita is worse. Regardless of context, all of her sentences start with the phrase, My son. It's reverse Oedipal.

I give Coleman a hurried run-down of everyone I see, but it's not enough. Hungry eyes across the hall spot us far too quickly. All at once, the press of attention is on me. My mouth pinches with the effort it takes not to chew on my lip.

I haven't been in a room full of so many family members since Harry and I attended an anniversary party, back when we were together. On the positive, at least it's been a long while since news of my divorce spread across the family. I know my parents tried keeping the gossip ripples small by saying there was no drama, that it was amicable, and how Harry and I remain close friends.

All lies I fed them first.

Two years later, I don't know if I'll get harassed the same way with questions. I'm the divorcee, but here with her new boyfriend. That's progress, right? I don't know. It still feels like I'm walking up to the stand having to defend my life choices, and already I'm tired, even though the interrogation hasn't started.

A calloused hand reaches for mine.

My shoulder jerks reflexively, but I don't fully pull away. Blame my slow reflexes, and how Coleman stares at me, almost with a certain awareness. As if he knows I'm freaking out. As if he can read me like that.

When he gives my fingers a squeeze, my heart leaps. If I didn't know better, I would think he was attempting reassurance, but that would mean I've stepped into another dimension. More likely, he knows I'll blame him if I run out of here before the Maiyan begins.

Holding his hand isn't an experience I want to know. It feels too close to believing everything is going to be alright. His grip is firm, possessive, and gentle, all at once.

Uncle Monty reaches us first. Aunty Sharon is right behind him.

I jump into the introductions. This is my boyfriend. We met six months ago. We met at work. We are really happy together.

Rinse and repeat for the other relatives that come behind them until it gets harder when he and I are attacked from both sides. Multiple conversations start, and I worry our story won't stay united. Though he seems to do well with the triplet doctor sisters, making them laugh about the hospital antics his brother pulled off when he broke his nose. Grant, I think?

At the same time, Uncle Sammy starts badgering me to sign up for his pyramid scheme.

From the corner of my eye, I see Aunty Nita pull Coleman to the side. Uh-oh. Here comes the My son brags. Uncle Sammy is so boring that I can drone him out to overhear them. It starts as I think it will, with Aunty Nita not letting Coleman get a word in, but then he interrupts her story about her son mountain biking some alps.

"There's been a rise in skin rashes recently from helmet sharing."

Aunty Nita blinks. "My son could have been a doctor, so he would know not to sha?—"

"You know what chafes? Bike shorts. There are special ones you have to get that have built-in cup support."

"Oh, I know he has those?—"

"Because there's nothing more painful than an in-grown hair near your groin."

That last comment leaves Aunty Nita bumbling, and that's when Coleman and our eyes meet. His are twinkling.

Omigod, he's doing it on purpose.

I can't help but laugh under my breath. My shoulders relax. I think maybe we'll get through this. In front of me, Uncle Sammy is fleetingly distracted by a passing drink tray. Taking the opening, I duck away and go back by Coleman. Aunty Nita is gone, but more relatives approach. These are not as closely related and, therefore, are more shameless. No one mentions my divorce directly, but they dance around it.

"I was so shocked when I heard you were seeing someone, but I'm happy," says one aunty, who pats my shoulder with her thick hand. "Shocked, but happy."

Coleman frowns.

When another aunty says she's ecstatic about my progress, but none of them expected this from me, I feel his gaze land on me.

"I prayed for you," says an uncle.

A mouthy younger kid confirms, "She needed this."

"Needed what?" wonders Coleman. "And I don't understand why anyone is surprised."

"You know," answers someone. "Her history… and age…"

Boundaries? What boundaries does a crowd of nosy relatives possess?

For his part, Coleman is taken-aback. The sidelong glance he's giving me proves he doesn't understand what is happening. I don't blame him. I blame myself. I should've prepared him for this instead of sending him a list that had blueberries as my favorite fruit on it.

When another relative questions whether it's too late to start a family, Coleman goes alert beside me, like an animal waking up. I recognize the look on his face. It's the same one he gets when protocol dictates we have to fire a client for improper behavior against our staff. He always takes those calls. The way he handles them ensures we never get bothered again. His expression is not so friendly anymore. He seems… pissed.

He opens his mouth, and I leap over to wrap my arm around his waist. My hand runs a bold line down his back. Something I've never done before. His eyes snap down at me. Green sharpens against brown. I must have shocked him, the way he's gone utterly still.

You take it and don't fight back, I want to tell him. Arguing doesn't do anything. They love the drama. Just don't care.

I should take Coleman to a corner and explain all this, but I've a feeling he'll argue with it. Barring the fact that he stockpiled clients at work, which if I had time to wonder, I'd think there was some sort of reason attached to that since it's so out of character, he is the type with integrity. Principles. He likes rules so much that once, in the heat of an argument, I muttered he was a rule-fucker. Not my finest moment.

Nonetheless, he isn't like me.

He's blunt, honest, and tells people that he finds annoying, that they are, in fact, annoying.

But we're at my sister's wedding, and she is secretly pregnant. There can be no drama. He needs to realize that if the punch-line is me, I'm okay taking it. I've done it before. Really, many of the digs aren't that off-base. And pathetically, I don't have a lot to throw back in their face. At least, I have none of the accomplishments that are traditionally recognized. I don't have marriage, children, property, riches, or a significantly impressive job.

One day, I might have more, but not today.

Since fondling his back can only distract so much, I make a fumbled excuse and pull Coleman away from the relatives. At the same time, overhead speakers kick in and play music.

My parents have arrived. We would have been with them earlier, but they wanted Coleman and me to mingle instead. Now we are being ushered over to them. The program is starting, and as the bride's older sister, I'm immediately pulled away to make sure the Maiyan Rangoli is ready, and then to make sure the plate of ladoo sweets is arranged, and then to gather the red string gaaney so they can be given out to the guests to wear later.

When my sister walks in, everyone gasps.

She's an absolute vision.

Her lush hair is thickened with extensions, enough for a heavy French braid to go down the length of her back. Rich golden brown highlights are woven together with white baby's breath, intensifying around the crown of her head to form a whimsical tiara. Around her neck are tear-drop fuchsia pink jewels held together by a woven necklace, mimicking the braiding pattern of her hair. As for her outfit, it's a modified sari with—again—more braided detail. Interlaced golden threads shape her waist and continue down her hip, spreading out there to edge the border of draped trousers.

With deserved confidence, Esha lofts over to the middle of the stage and sits. Everyone converges to form a circle around her.

The Maiyan ceremony starts.

When the photographer calls for family shots, my mother tells me to pull Coleman in.

"Stand him next to you," whispers my mother, beaming with happiness.

I dumbly don't move, because her request hits me unexpectedly. Photos. I didn't think about them. That there is going to be lasting proof of him being here with me this week. Evidence of my lie is going to live on. It's not as erasable as my living conditions, which no one but Ms.Beatrice knows about.

Not waiting for me, my dad arranges the group himself. Coleman is pushed beside me. Everything is stiff, especially the smile I've got on.

This time I jerk when he grabs my hand, but no one notices. He doesn't acknowledge it either, looking straight ahead. Taking control, he threads our fingers together. He's doing that reassurance thing again, like he knows I need it. It's a bad idea, but I squeeze back. For this moment, I'm going to pretend we are actually partners in this together. That I've got someone beside me who understands how hard this is and cares that I feel this way.

More instructions are shouted at us by the photographer. It's time to rub turmeric paste over my sister's skin. When Coleman bends down and scoops the paste with his finger, I have to laugh. He's brought it to his mouth.

"Don't eat it, you weirdo." I huff.

He shrugs as if he doesn't know what to do, even though I know he's researched the hell out of Indian wedding customs. The questions he asked my sister over lunch yesterday were too specific to come from nowhere. Regardless, I show him how to apply the paste along my sister's arm. When it's my turn, I skip over her arm and smear my portion straight across her nose.

"Spoiled trouble-maker," I say.

"Annoying harpy," she says.

I smile. "Guess I'm happy for you."

"It's going great, isn't it?"

"It is."

After that, Coleman and I go stand away from the crowd, giving room for others to have their turn at the process. He holds my hand again. I let him.

I'm not surprised at the touch, but distracted by my goosebumps.

"It's going to be okay, Patel," he says, not noticing them.

"You think that, but Bebe is waving us over to the table."

Serena is there, too.

"This is where it all falls apart," I predict.