54. REEMA

The morning is when the rest of the talking is supposed to happen. When more unsaid parts of ourselves are drawn out with bated breath and nervously shared, as if they aren't shards of our very sensitive souls and fears. A conversation hangs suspended above us about what we are or have become to each other, especially now under the inkling of a fresh dawn.

But frankly, this is my life—and it doesn't work that way.

I'm slammed with loud text messages, and then loud calls at five in the morning. There's a secret dance performance at the reception to surprise Esha tonight, and to be ready in time, I have to join in now and practice.

Jake reacts to my whispered explanation by covering his face with a pillow because it's the bum crack of a time no one should be up at. There is no good luck or kiss goodbye. I punish him by turning the light on before leaving the room.

The last thing I hear is his promise of revenge, though it's not as scary when he's using my first name. Maybe his brain is still bleary and confused. Or maybe?—

We're Reema and Jake to each other now, outside of sex where we can blame it on horniness and hormones.

Can't I still blame horniness and hormones?

It would be so much safer that way. I'm sure both are why there's this vast swell of hope growing in my heart, and why I'm humming nonsense tunes to myself, and why I'm almost bouncing down this hallway, even though it's painfully fucking early. And why I've got this not-so-small urge to turn around and go back into the room to be with Jake for a few minutes longer, even when he's at his grumpiest.

You know what? I simply need more dick.

That is it, Reema.

Brilliant conclusion.

Because the alternative would be how I miss him already, even though we've been apart for minutes. And that happiness—even after such a distressful purging of my past—continues invading my whole body like an eager, soppy little parasite. That I've become hopeful instead of remaining disenfranchised and bitter about love in the middle of this wedding paradise. Not that I'm thinking of marriage and forever and vows because I'm not!

Downstairs, there's a studio space in the hotel set up for fitness-related activities. It's cozy, mirrored, and has mats on the floor already.

Since I got a little lost and had to double-back, everyone was already there waiting for me. So are coffee and donuts. I take turns launching both into my mouth like everyone else is doing, between the muffled yawning.

Pooja is in charge, having the most experience at this with her being a former bhangra performer. The whole routine is mostly decided, because this group has already been meeting up. Apparently, I was invited to participate earlier this year over video calls, but I never returned Manu's message. And she didn't try again because I was known to be busy and distant since my divorce.

I'm not surprised I missed the message, but I apologize.

Miya waves her hand, insisting it doesn't matter since we've all reconnected so well this week. And that she's glad I'm here now. The conversation moves on to what everyone is going to wear tonight as we finish breakfast. I'm listening, but also thinking about life back in the real world, specifically my schedule. It fills me with dread and determination.

These last few days I've had regular sleep and nutrition. Shockingly, that makes a person more clear-headed. Who would have thought? Anyway, with a hundred percent surety, I know I can't go back to how things used to be.

Sure, when I was in it, my constant treading water to survive didn't seem that bad. But now that I'm away from all that, I look back at this year and see it differently. It wasn't treading. It was slow-drowning, and it's not something I can go back to doing. No parking lot working, skipping meals, or wearing clothes-designed-as-blankets anymore.

If I shut my eyes, I can imagine a better life. My day is full of client hunting, but evenings… I'll have my own space. A super modest apartment. Mostly empty, because the cost of new furniture is a lot, but cute secondhand pieces slowly fill it up as I get more financially secure.

Jyoti passes me a napkin since I have powdered sugar on my nose. That's another thing. I'm so used to scarfing food down that I can't remember the last time I savored a proper meal. Eating for pleasure. The possibility tantalizes me. Like, I am so giddily excited by it.

Manu tells us to put away the food. Then she guides us back to the floor so we can stretch our muscles before dancing. That concerns me. Like how vigorous is this routine? I'm already sore.

A memory from last night intrudes. He'd finally gotten me on his lap, my hands palming the bed frame behind his head as I worked myself up and down the length of him. This was the third (or fourth?) time, so he let me set the pace as I like, swallowing my gasps with his greedy mouth, but keeping his hands soft and unhurried on my waist, calling me his good girl until I–

"You're so smiley," says Pooja, as she somehow pulls her leg up by her ear. "Someone had a good night."

Good night? My face suffuses with warmth. Yeah, you could say that.

"Bet she did," says Jyoti, bending her elbows like an acrobat. "We all saw them making out in the rain yesterday. I mean, I would call it dry-humping, but it was quite wet."

Miya laughs, standing up, then going down into splits. "So romantic," she sighs.

"It was," admits Serena, who, like me, can barely touch her toes. "That got me thinking."

No one speaks. I've got an odd feeling we are all waiting for a punchline or some sassy roundabout questioning attack from Serena, like whether there was kissing or it was all light refractions from the rain crafting an optical illusion.

She stops stretching and goes cross-legged, looking at me from across the circle. "I've been meaning to apologize, Reema. I know I've been a prick to you—and everyone." Serena turns to look at Manu. "Like when I asked if you liked your kids, that was rude. And when I said you didn't seem excited to be married, Pooja, that was rude."

So she's been on a rampage with everyone. That does make me feel better.

"I had a session with my therapist over the phone this morning," she admits. "She helped me understand why I was lashing out."

"Is… everything okay?" I ask.

"No." She sighs and looks away. "My boyfriend… He proposed to me, but only after I caught him sending snapchats and memes to my best friend which he claimed were innocent selfies of his workouts since they're both into fitness, but then when I dug deeper I noticed he's the first one to like all her pictures, and that some of her messages would come late at night, and he got so panicky when I tried to pass his phone to him. But then he blamed me for being paranoid and yelled at me for being insecure. That I should trust him without needing any proof. That I should be glad he's still with me."

The rest of us older women share glances. Buried underneath the mystical rituals of young people dating is a universal truth that persists across millennia. Some men just ain't shit.

Sympathy and outrage. From us, Serena gets both. We tell her if this man is playing games, he isn't worth her precious time.

"I should be smarter than this!" she exclaims, followed by a quieter, "Why aren't I smarter?" in an almost-whispered question.

Answers are tossed around, one-after-the-other, almost merging into one voice.

"Because it's not one situation that you have to stay strong against, but a whole system built to keep you insecure. And feeling like you are never enough."

"Not thin enough, pretty enough, or bold enough. But also not curvy enough, humble enough, or quiet enough."

"And sometimes you want to believe in men's promises so much."

"Because high standards are you being difficult or too picky! Tick-tock, you are wasting time. Fall in love already and settle down."

"Or you know there are red flags and you ignore them, desperate to find that slice of the fairytale ending everyone else seems to have."

"And their potential sounds so good."

"Even if potential is a check that will aways fucking bounce."

"Okay, but you all have figured it out," Serena says, half-helplessly and half-hopefully, as if waiting for our secret formulas.

"You're young," says Pooja. "Experience helps a lot. You'll learn what you like and need."

"Actually," says Manu, looking solemn, "I'm going through marriage difficulties. Not because of any abuse or cheating, but because we want different things. Even so, it's been hard since I found out I'm pregnant. I don't exactly know how to start over if we separate."

I don't know what to say, but a voice speaks inside me. Me, too. This was… me, too.

"If you figure it out, please tell me how to start over," says Jyoti, piquing up. "I hate my job, but I'm afraid to quit because I'm pretty sure I lucked into it."

"Same. Saving lives sucks balls," says Miya, the doctor.

At our stunned expressions, she quirks a smile. "Kidding. It's the debt that sucks. I mismanaged it, and it should be paid off, but it's not. These days I'm scared to open my bank account because it's depressing."

This is also… me.

Serena is aghast. "So it never gets better?"

"That's not true," says Pooja. "Through all this, you get to know yourself better. And you realize it's you and this body in this life together. And you start respecting it and giving no fucks, and you stop being so uncertain about making demands. Like every Saturday, I kick my husband out with the kids for the afternoon so I can practice self-care. It's been so nice."

"My happy place is bleach," says Jyoti with a straight-face.

Subtly, I inch away from her.

"Not for murder-ey reasons," she defends. "I'm just happy when I'm organizing and restoring order. Before coming here, I got an old toothbrush and a bottle of bleach and went to town on some tile grout."

Serena is horrified.

"If it helps, I don't organize," says Manu. "My house is a hot mess."

I'm a little pigsty, too.

That voice inside me gets bigger. It can't get enough. It can't hear enough. Everyone is sharing. They aren't expecting or needing me to add anything, but…

"I've had a rough two years, too."

My statement quiets the room. Old embarrassment tries to keep my mouth shut, but I press on.

"I let my ex-husband become the center of my world. His wins, losses, tantrums, weird desires… anything he wanted, I morphed myself to satisfy like a—" I grind my teeth. "Like a shapeshifter. Because I couldn't handle failing at marriage. Because I thought it meant failing at life."

The women pour their sympathy and outrage out for me. It feels so good. Justified. Nourishing. Redemptive.

We talk about the caretaking label slapped on all of us. How we're so pressured to fix everything, from basic life needs (someone is hungry? guess you have to cook for them) to the fun minefield of understanding emotionally constipated men (yes, pulling from my Doctorate in grunting and moody silences, I know what is wrong with you!). It's kind of sad and hilarious at the same time.

I've got an urge to tell these women I was the idiot who should have known better, but I don't. Not that I think I'm blameless, but it's because I don't feel like yelling at my past self. Actually, I think I want to hug her.

"Your parents or Esha never said anything about you having a tough marriage like that," says Serena. "I had no idea."

"They don't know," I admit. "But I'm going to tell them more about it after. When the wedding is over."

"I appreciate you sharing," she says, sounding wiser than her years. "All of you. It helps."

"What are you going to do about your guy?" I ask.

"Dump his ass."

Everyone cheers.

Then we get to practicing since there isn't a lot of time to get this right. The routine isn't easy, and we're not the most coordinated. It's a tribute full of love, we say. But also, we decide to perform it later in the evening when everyone is drunk.

Around noon, the group splits off. Esha is messaging me. She's asking if I want to get ready with her. Typically a husband and bride get together for their reception together, but she wants to surprise him with her outfit. Plus, they have their honeymoon to spend alone time together.

I go back to my hotel room to shower and get my clothes, finding it empty. Not a problem at all. No, I'm not disappointed.

Before I leave, I message Jake.

He responds right away. Gurinder has taken him out.

He's being included and welcomed. That makes me happy and thinking something vague about beginnings. But also, we need to talk. There are those unsaid things between us. Deep down, I know the conversation is going to change everything between us. Thinking about it makes my heart pick up speed. There are so many emotions that will become moored, and rooted, and certain when we talk.

Outside of all that, selfishly, I want more of us being alone in this room together. Not only for the hot sex, but to have more of the sharing of memories, thoughts, opinions, witty insults and laughs. It can't be over already.

In my sister's room, she has lunch ready for us. We chomp on cheese and bread, both giggling and happy. It's like we've never grown old and are the same sisters sharing our old room, surrounded by unicorn plushies and pop-star posters. Together we predict shenanigans of who is going to drink the most tonight, who will dance hilariously, and who will dress the most ostentatiously to compete with her. Then we practice her walk-in.

Indian receptions also have a dance battle, so she has to practice beating Gurinder with her moves. I pretend to be him as we pump up the music. Halfway through, she apologizes about mentioning Harry at the party bus. I tell her not to worry, that Jake and I talked about it later and everything was fine (I think. We still need to talk again. Soon). Afterwards, we reminisce about the week, even though it's not over yet. That part makes me wistful, like something is being taken away from me that I've finally gotten back. I tell Esha to visit me after her honeymoon. Maybe I'll have my new apartment sorted by then, but maybe I might not. And I'm—okay with that? Guess I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to tell my family the truth. I've had practice doing it, and it's not as excruciating as I thought it would be.

For example, I'm not immediately flinging myself off a cliff. Only nervous, certainly still embarrassed, and somewhat pained. But?—

It's manageable. So much more than I thought it could be. And I don't have to share everything, but some of it. There's a power in that choice of opening up at my own pace.

Esha wonders what Jake and Gurinder are doing right now. We cackle imagining it, considering Gurinder is more silly bro-energy when compared to Jake's blunt properness.

She pours me a flute of champagne and some juice for herself. We're still in bathrobes. Her makeup and hair are already done, so she helps me with mine.

"No pressure about a future wedding or doing this for yourself again," says Esha, smudging eyeshadow along my eyelid. "But how excited are you about your future with Jake?"

Excited… future… It's way more complicated than she knows.

"What if love turns me into an idiot?" I ask instead of answering, voicing the secret demon of a fear that lives inside me.

"You're already an idiot," says Esha with fondness. "But also, I think it's supposed to do that to a degree. Like I'm so excited about blending baby food. Isn't that idiotic?"

"Blending baby food? But you hate mushy food."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"My back already hurts, I throw up, and I'm going to get huge. But like an idiot, I can't wait for when Gurinder has to massage my swollen, stubby feet every night. Or when I tell him to trim my hoo-haw cause I can't reach it myself."

"That man is a saint," I tell her with utmost sincerity.

"Please, I'm a catch. Every week, I rub oil into his hair before he washes it. He loves it. Don't tell him I told you this, but he's the one who is all, ‘Should we have a spa day, babe?'"

A wave of jealousy washes over my heart.

What my sister is talking about is a real, equitable partner.

And sure, in a fair and perfect world, I don't mind giving more than taking sometimes, because not everyone has the same strengths. A good partner is supposed to forgive, accept, and nurture the other, even when they aren't doing great. Setbacks happen. Life can be a real kick in the ovaries. Men, too, need support. It's not like I expect to be treated like some grape-fed goddess. Sometimes. Occasionally. Here and there.

But even before the gambling messed it all up, back when Harry and I were dating, any time I complained, saying how it would be nice to not think, plan, and base all my actions around his schedule, he insisted that I was so good at balancing everything. That I was the perfect, nurturing girlfriend.

And like someone who has always been an Achiever, I let the compliment feed me. It made me so proud. Yes, I am the shield keeping this man together.

Now, I know better.

A partner is worth so much more. Maybe even better than an earth-shattering, squirt-astic orgasm… which I've never had happen to me. The squirting part. Yes, I'm manifesting. That's how that works.

"You haven't said I love you," Esha guesses, finishing up with my eyes.

"No."

Here is another opportunity for me to come clean. To tell her the real story of why Jake is here, but I'm afraid it will pull attention from her special moment. This is the eve of her reception, not a session for us to dig into my life. But as soon as she is back from her honeymoon, I'll share the truth. I can't stand her not knowing any longer.

"Do you love him?" she asks.

"No, of course not," I scoff.

She gives me a very snooty eyebrow raise.

"I don't love him," I explain. "Not that I loathe him, either. I'm not saying that, but only warning you not to get overly excited like you do. These things are never guaranteed and you don't know what's going to happen in the future. All I know is we'll be back at work soon, and sure, he is going to be there across from me. I mean, he has to be there. Always, he's there. It's what I count on—and—and what gives the day certainty." I wave my hand in the air. "Only because we compete against each other. That's why we're at each other's desks all the time, checking to see how the other is getting on with clients. And sure, I'll probably toss him a compliment here and there. He carries a lot of worries on his shoulders about people he cares for and should decompress way more—but everyone in his life probably thinks that."

"Do they?"

"Obviously. All you have to do is read his eyes. They get darker when he's stressed, but a different kind of brightness and darkness mix when he's worked up in a good way. And his mouth—is a really, really good mouth." I clear my throat. "This is not me being a pervert, although it is fucking clever in certain naked-y situations. No, this is me saying that if you look at his mouth, you can guess his feelings. It doesn't just smirk at you. It can be exasperated when you've done or said something outrageous and he wants to shake you a little, but is trying to be patient. I really lo—like when that happens. It's fun. Bothering him. Actually, there's this meter in my head."

Esha runs a serum through my hair, polishing the waves. "What kind of meter?"

"It's more of a vague score. And I'm sure he has it, too. You see, we try to keep the other person distracted. Bonus points if they break and laugh. A snort counts. Jake does that when he's trying hard to keep a blank face and his nostrils are flaring, but I've really amused him. He also does it at night in his sleep. Do you know he dreams in colors but not shapes?"

She hands me a shimmery lip gloss. "That is… interesting."

I glide it on while rolling my eyes. "Not interesting. Weird. I told him it's because he punishes his brain with spreadsheets. He has one for his expenses every month. And his investment budget is like a hundred pages long. The man is obsessed with a good formula and thinks it helps make his life easier." My eyes narrow. "I called it a kink. Why else give such a blank check for others to send him anything to organize and strategize? He totally gets off on it."

"Others?"

"Well—no. Me. He said I could send him anything, but I assume others, too."

Esha's shoulders are shaking. She's biting down her lip, as she puts highlighting touches on my makeup.

"I might let him do it," I say with a casual shrug. "Just to see. But only after he gets glasses. The man squints at his screen. I already told him there's an optician that is walking distance from work. We'll go during lunch when we get back."

"You'd go?"

"Because it's my duty to suggest fucking ugly frames."

"And he agreed to this?"

I scowl. "Only if I try out his recipes. He's learning how to cook."

That one he said wasn't related to me going hungry. He said it's been on his list for a long time.

Esha steps back so I can examine my face in the mirror. The woman who stares back at me has crinkles in the corner of her eyes, faint marionette lines around the upturned corners of her mouth, and slightly thinner skin on her neck when compared to her face.

She is stunning.

This time, I don't shrink away from it. I'm flushed and grinning.

Esha rests a hand on my shoulder. "Yes." She nods. "You definitely don't love your boyfriend. Thanks for explaining all that to me."

"Sure. No problem."

See, everything is reasonable. Even though in the depths of my heart—and not even that deep—I know my denials are whisper-thin, holding no weight whatsoever. All Jake has to do is reach his hand out, and I'll run into his arms.

We spend the rest of the afternoon gossiping and dancing, before it's time to put on our sparkling outfits and get ready for the big party.