43. REEMA

If you are a guest, the wedding starts for you at nine in the morning. If you are part of the bridal party, the wedding starts before the sun rises. It's dark out when I meet my sister in her suite. Her bridesmaids, Jyoti and Pooja, are already there. They both look positively hung-over from the Jago last night and are getting their make-up done while sprawled out on chaises.

Sitting in the middle of the room, my sister looks like she's got a spotlight on her, except the glow comes from her own dewy skin. I'd accuse her make-up artist of black magic, but really, that's just how Esha is when she's in love. And right now, she's swimming in that feeling. Gurinder wrote her a private letter that she's reading now on the morning of their wedding.

At the thought of getting such a letter, an ache tugs at me somewhere behind the ribs.

"You must be Reema," says an older woman in a smock. "I'm Zara. I'll be working on you this morning."

She walks around me, making tsk sounds. Then I'm pushed into a chair. The pins in my hair start getting plucked out.

My hand goes up. "We don't have to do that."

My protest was too little, too late. She was quick, so most of the pins have already hit the ground. There is no mirror in front of me, but I feel my hair opening and spreading along my back. I've not had it loose in front of others for so long. A very large part of me wants to sink and hide. I'm already cringing so hard.

Zara's hand strokes my mismatched layers. She's petting them like a lost dog, as if that dog has wandered the streets for a while, but shouldn't be afraid any longer. Rescue is imminent.

Esha so nicely pulls her attention away from Gurinder's letter and shouts across the room, "Oi! What have you done to yourself?"

Cutting your own hair is a lot like putting on eyeliner when you can't get both sides to match. Instead of giving up or starting over or asking for professional help, I kept trying to fix it. Why? My explanation floats in my throat. Pity me, I'm poor. Can't say that, though. So what do I do? I shrug at my sister, as if it's so cool my head can be a safe haven for birds.

Zara shakes her head. "I'm sorry. Most of it will have to go."

"Most? It's not that bad?—"

She touches my shoulder. "Do you trust me?"

"No.I don't know you."

"You have no choice."

I mean, I do—or I would've, if she hadn't kept going.

"If you want to look beautiful for your sister's big day, you must do this. We have to get everyone looking to the same high standard. Think of the photos. You don't want to stand out, do you?"

I don't. "But couldn't you put my hair into an up-do?"

"Don't worry, I'll make you beautiful again."

That's not an answer, but no one else seems to notice. The group rallies their support for Zara's expertise. As if I need to accept that I'm her personal makeover project. Mom is basically drooling as if she's been waiting for this exact moment since she first saw my bun-loop.

I let out a defeated noise. "Fine. But can I have a mirror?"

So I can watch… Supervise…

"No.It's better this way." She pulls scissors from her smock, and in one quick move, cuts a chunk of my hair off.

Well, that's it, isn't it? It's started. Worst case, I'll go back to work in a hat. Considering the athletic headband I've worn these last few weeks, my coworkers won't bat an eye.

Over the next twenty-minutes, my head feels progressively lighter. When the snipping stops, I'm told to close my eyes. It's time for make-up. With my eyes closed, I mentally prepare myself for the day. The ceremony is at least two hours, lunch will be served afterwards, and then most of the guests can rest and recuperate until the evening dinner starts.

I am not among most of those guests.

My sister has arranged a limo-style party bus to pick up the young, and the energetic, and those lucky enough to be counted as her closest people. That group will dance, drink, and party, while the limo-bus takes us to some forested scenery where the couple can take wedding photographs together.

Think of it like prom mixed with a club, but on wheels. After that, the broken off group comes back here to rejoin the rest of the guests. More ceremonies take place, then dinner, then maybe more dancing.

It's going to be a beast of a day.

"All done," Zara whispers in my ear.

I open my eyes.

"Put on your outfit," she instructs, handing me the garment bag. Going behind a little privacy screen, I put it on. It's another traditional Punjabi outfit, but this one is custom made for the bridesmaids, gifted to us by Esha. Compared to the outdated styles I've worn this week, this one is modern and sewn to the latest fashion trends. Not only that, but the measurements are accurate to my current size. The fabric drapes taunt over my curves. I suddenly have a waist, breasts, and the shape of my butt has a great lift.

When I step out, dressed and ready, audible shock ripples through the room.

Esha is up. She comes and tugs us both towards a floor-length mirror. In the reflection, two women stand beside each other, looking more like sisters than they have in a long time. One sister has long flowing hair that's been swept into a half-curled updo with delicate ribbon woven through, reading for her wedding day. The other sister has a healthy bob styled into subtle modern waves around her face.

But the person staring back at me isn't someone who has gone through what I have. She hasn't experienced these last two years at all. She's not been run ragged to the bone and hasn't ever slumped over in defeat. That Reema has been erased and replaced by someone with brilliant skin, raspberry-stained lips, rosy cheeks, and the kind of contouring that makes a nose perk up with cuteness. Iridescent highlighter is everywhere, making my cheekbones, eyebrow arches, and collarbones look as if they've been quenched with the power of a super hydrating moisturizer.

I should be elated…

"There's my sister," whispers Esha. "All gorgeous now. Don't you love it?"

I don't answer. The hair and makeup team is complimented and hugged. We have to go downstairs now to gather with our immediate family. The hotel set up a conference-type room for us, away from the public traffic of the main foyer.

All the attention is given to Esha, as it should be. But then Dad grins when he sees me. "That's more like it, Reema. Now you look like a proper Patel daughter."

"Finally," laughs Bebe, rolling her wheelchair up to me. "What a beauty."

Serena angles her head. "Nice work."

When the photographer arrives, lots of pictures are taken. Esha's nearest and dearest all want a shot with her before the chaos of the day begins. I try to keep my smile natural, but it feels stiff on my face.

Be happy. You finally look good.

Yet, there's a tightness in my chest that won't go away. When it almost gets too unbearable, I take a few steps away from the group. I've already been documented from all angles. They don't need me for these final photos.

I look past an auntie adjusting her expensive jewelry and a group of men in their finest suits. They are huddled together and drinking chai. A few kids have shown up, chasing each other around, also dressed in their very best.

Then, standing apart from them all, I see him.

My heart stops, then stutters back up again, pounding much louder in my ears. It feels as if no one else in the room exists anymore.

Coleman is wearing a midnight-black formal suit, white-collared shirt, and a bowtie that should make him lean towards boyish but it doesn't. The line of his jaw and the hint of stubble are too strong for that, and the way he leans against the wall like a figure cut from onyx makes me swallow.

Green eyes take note of me, absorbing every detail before eventually pausing on the hair and face.

Holding myself straight, I walk over to him and brace for it. "Let me guess," I say. "You also think I'm beautiful now."

He gives me a small shake of his head.

Okay. No, he does not.

Tension leaks from me. Absurdly, I'm relieved and eager. This is what I need. Him to make everything feel normal again.

"Go ahead," I say. "Have a dig then. Does my hair look strange short?"

I'm desperate to find my footing, and for some reason think this is the way. That Coleman is the way. And if I'm being honest with myself, he's been my normalcy for a lot longer than this moment.

Two years ago, debt collectors harassed me daily. I'd spend my mornings and evenings crying about it, pitying my situation and feeling like the most foolish person on earth for the position I put myself in.

The only thing that kept me grounded was work. Especially him at work.

No matter what, Coleman treats me like I'm his worthy opponent. He comes by my desk, prodding about my portfolio and smirking about his own progress. We dig at each other. Poke. Jab. Snark. Stoke the fiery rivalry between us higher.

His opinion has become the rope I've held onto.

But he doesn't say anything about my new look. He simply stares.

"Don't spare my feelings," I insist. "I can take it."

Finally, he steps close enough. His fingers ghosts over the ends of my cut. "I'm not going to insult you, Patel," he says softly.

I don't understand. Then why did he disagree earlier? Why did he shake his head when I asked him whether I was good-looking enough?

I wish I could tell him I don't mind the truth. That I've been complimented and fussed over this whole morning, and it's made it feel like I'm wearing a mask I bought ages ago. One so pretty and thick it means no one can hope to reach the real me. That I'm not sure I'm breathing properly behind it all.

My mother steps in between us. "What do you think?" she asks him, waiting with bated breath. "Did her makeover surprise you? Don't you think Reema is so pretty like this?"

"No."

My mom looks taken aback by his answer. I'm about to jump in and explain that it's totally fine, but Coleman utterly destroys me before I can.

"She's always been beautiful. Now she just has shorter hair."

And with that, I burst into tears.

It's very dramatic and makes Coleman's jaw drop with shock.

My mother starts fussing around me, but my sister calls her for something important. With that, my mother tells Coleman to please fix this and to not let my makeup get ruined.

Too late. My mascara is leaking. Super waterproof, it ain't.

Large capable hands hold my shoulders. I refuse to look at him. This is beyond embarrassing. I'm sniffling and staring at a wall, scrambling to understand why it feels as if I've been pulled apart and left naked. Over and over, his words repeat in my head. She's always been beautiful. Now she just has shorter hair.

Coleman leads us into the closest bathroom. Tissues are pulled, and he offers them to me. When I don't take them, he dabs the corner of my eyes himself. Mascara smudges are lifted. He's concentrating so hard, his brows are drawn together. The mirror tells me that tear tracks going down my cheeks are the worst part. Yet they are so carefully and gently smoothed away that I barely feel the pressure of his touch.

Soon I'm good as new, but if only I felt that way.

His fingers lift my chin. There's a pained, tortured look about him, as if his very lungs have constricted. I know. It's a difficult position to be in, having to manage my breakdown. What an unwanted responsibility, and not at all what he signed up for.

"Tell me why," he begs. "Was it me?"

I guess he deserves an answer, especially if he thinks he might be at fault.

Unfortunately, I'm trying to figure out what happened at the same time, so my answer isn't coherent. "I think everyone is happy when I look like this. They—all—want me to be this—person. I thought I wanted that. It's what the plan was, you know? To become her again, but I'm starting to think the whole thing is a lie. You can't go backwards. It doesn't feel… right."

It takes him a moment to sort out what I've said. "You… don't feel like this is the real you?"

I can only nod my head in agreement.

His hand lifts to my hair. Carefully, he gathers the bulk of my waves in his fist.

I blink rapidly. "What—what are you doing?"

"Trying to get it to go back into your old hairstyle, but I don't think it will."

"The bun-loop?"

"Sure."

"No, that possibility is gone."

He lets go of my hair. I'm now weirdly more upset about that loss. There was a certain tug against my scalp when he held me like that I enjoyed?—

"Do you miss it?" I wonder, referring to the bun-loop.

He shrugs. "It's what I was used to. If you keep this, I'll get used to this, too."

"You're telling me you have no preference?"

"My preference is when you laugh."

I suck in an audible breath. There's another tug, but this one comes from around my heart-area accompanied by this soft longing I want to wrap myself with.

"Or when you are mean to me," he hurriedly adds.

I force a snort. Anything to keep myself from falling over his words. "I always knew you were a masochist."

"Spank me, mommy," he deadpans.

I clutch a hand to my chest as laughter bubbles inside me. I can't believe he said that. Now we're smiling at each other, and my anxiety has receded like a tide chased away. He's made me better. This bathroom is warm and safe, and nothing feels wrong here.

"Patel?"

"Yeah?"

"I should say—" He clears his throat. "No one sees anyone else as correctly as we think. So it shouldn't matter what anyone else wants you to be. That's a reflection of their own beliefs and perspective. It matters more who you feel you are. And who you want to be."

Oh.

How does he make it sound so simple and obvious at the same time? That all I should worry about is not who I'm supposed to be, but who I want to be.

"I—I have a feeling you might be right."

His green eyes gleam. "Say that again."

"Not a chance." Wanting to keep my hands occupied, I go to the sink and wash them. "But I will say this. You're a good boyfriend. Very convincing. Rescuing me, comforting me, and handling my crying before anyone else can see." After wiping my hands dry, I throw the tissue paper in the bin. "It was perfect. What anybody would want. Like you knew what was going to happen and handled it without hesitation."

It's like I want to say thank you for everything, but it's coming out wrong, like I'm rating him or something.

"You think I knew you'd cry?" There's a sudden stiffness to him. "I'd never predict that."

"Why not? What do you mean?"

His jaw clenches. "Because I don't like your tears."

"How inconvenient for you?"

"That's a mild word for it, but yes. And not where I thought it would be inconvenient." He rubs a fist over the middle of his chest, his mouth pulling into a deep, displeased scowl. "Don't cry," orders Coleman. "Seriously. You can't cry."

I can't help but laugh. Only he'd try applying rules to something as unruly as an emotional breakdown. "Yes, sir."

And that was the absolutely wrong thing to say. Silence falls between us with a whole different energy thickening the air. It's electric, almost to an unmanageable degree.

I briefly see his hands curl into fists before he slides them into his pockets. He turns, glancing back at the door. Desperate for escape? Well, I've inconvenienced him a lot. I should be pushing him out myself. Crying in front of another person is the absolute worst. I can count on one hand the times I've done it, and each memory haunts me when I remember it.

"Better you don't say sir to me," he eventually says, his voice brusque.

Never one to easily follow orders, I debate ignoring him and saying Sir again.

But no. That's mad. My hands clasp together, fingers fidgeting. Intrusive thoughts have taken over my brain. I'm wanting to know if that's a Bedroom Thing for him, and then because I'm a pervy lowlife, I'm also wondering what his bulge feels like and how much it'll dwarf my palm in comparison.

"Thank you for saving my face," I finally say, proud of how non-moany my voice is. "The woman who did my makeup would be mad if I ruined all her hard work."

"No problem, Patel. Ask me to be your hero any time."

His smug tone is back, and he's back to facing me. Guess he's ready to move on from this topic of conversation. I should be smart and do the same.

That means I shouldn't imagine his hand in my hair again, and how I could pull his in return just to hear him snarl—and force him to tug mine harder?—

"You can't go backwards." Coleman tilts his head at me. "What did you mean when you said that? What's going backwards for you mean?"

The man's attention to detail is unrivaled, so, of course, he caught that part.

"Maybe you don't know all the facts about me," I answer, trying to be vague and aloof, my hip cocking out.

"So tell me."

"It's not…relevant."

Instead of answering, he raises an eyebrow.

Right. It was only the complete source of my breakdown.

"It happened two years ago," I hedge.

"What happened?"

I lick my lips.

His green eyes immediately lower… staring at my mouth. Something intense crosses his expression. He steps forward and puts his fingers assertively on my chin.

"Don't do that," he gruffly chides.

"Do what?" I ask, blatantly licking the edge of my lips again.

His pupils enlarge.

"Don't," he whispers, warning me again and tilting my head up so it's closer to his.

"Or?"

Is this… Are we going to kiss?