Page 132 of The Fake Dating War

“I did! And I brought my girlfriend, too. I want you to meet her.”

I do, and Jake and I go around and thank everyone else for being here. There’s no brood of nosy uncles and aunties. Our guest list is perfectly curated, as I’ve always dreamed of it being. Manu, Miya, Priya, Jiya, Frank, Vikram, Pooja, and Jyoti are all here. So are Leo, Wyatt, Mel, Sally and her husband. Ms.Beatrice and her kids.

Jake’s four brothers are six foot plus giants blessed with absurdly good genes. In her high-speed wheelchair, Bebe whizzes around them, charming them completely with her zany, out-of-pocket personality. There is so much laughter.

After all the welcomes are done, I’m whisked inside to the main house. On the bed is my wedding outfit. Seeing it, my heart soars.

“Do you like it?” my mother asks nervously. “Esha and I picked it out together.”

The georgette fabric is a deep sage green, hand-stitched with delicate vines, naqshi, pearls, and small studded crystals. Despite all the work, it floats over my arms as if ready to dance in the wind. The two-piece lengha has a long-sleeved top that would have been too much in this heat, if the back wasn’t completely naked, held together by a single silver clasp.

More tears dance down my cheeks. “It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

Charlotte has a bed full of jewelry options for me. With her help, I pick a delicate kundan set.

“Thank you,” she says, embracing me. “You make him so happy and because of you, he’s opened up so much more. He’s healed himself.”

This last year, on the anniversary of his dad’s passing, Jake had gone into his dad’s office and wept as I held him. It was the outpouring he needed. After that, we’ve been back and have stayed overnight many weekends with his mother, his brothers often joining in. There have been stories told around a fire, memories of the past, the good times and the hard ones openly shared.

And now with our wedding, two families join and shower us with their love and support. At the end of the aisle is my soon-to-be husband waiting for me, dressed in a traditional Punjabi sherwani.

Our eyes meet and we fall into each other, no longer two people pretending to be sworn enemies to disguise the pull between us. Excuses aren’t made so we can orbit each other, swords raised and mouths smirking.

This time we’re side-by-side, and we fight and love together.

Coleman and Patel, together at last.

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