55. JAKE
Gurinder is talking to me about love. A poor excuse to interview me on my dating history. He’s not the most subtle person, but it’s clear he’s trying to see if I’m a good man or not for Reema. Either he cares about his new sister-in-law enough to be separated from his friends and family for this, or his wife, Esha, has put him up to it. Seems to be both.
We’re at the bar. He’s using alcohol to make me more honest, but also joking about how little I’m drinking. The goofy persona isn’t fooling anyone. Everything I do will be reported back.
For the record, continuously sipping a single whiskey neat is acceptable.
“How much do you like her?” asks Gurinder, licking the salted rim off his frothy pink margarita.
“Ah. That—I mean—” Fuck.
“Not an answer,” says Gurinder, clearly amused. “Let me make this easier for you. Is it more than the others?”
“What others?”
“Good, you’ve forgotten their names. I’ve forgotten my exes, too. My life had no purpose or meaning and was completely flavorless before Esha showed up.” He claps his hands. “Now, will you take care of Reema when she needs support? When she asks you to be there for her, will you show up?”
Has he met Reema? She doesn’t ask. No, she digs herself out of an incredibly difficult financial hole, doesn’t go to her family or friends for help, and works so hard that she misses fucking meals along the way?—
That last part—and all of it, really—but so much that last part… throttles me. It’s a choking kind of pain. Inside my head is a chorus: feed her, take care of her, spoil her. It’s been going on since yesterday.
No, before then.
If I’m being honest, it’s been there for a lot longer, but the volume is deafening now.
Unclenching my jaw is important. I’m in danger of cracking molars, but also I’ve become a man desperate to make a good impression on anyone Reema cares about. She’s reduced me to this. If Gurinder asks me to crack open my life for him to vet everything, I’ll do it. Want my fucking social security number? Here, I’ll give it to you. How about the clothes off my back? Sure. Here you go.
“If the question,” I finally answer, “is whether I will wait for her to ask for help, then the answer is no.”
Gurinder puts his margarita down.
“Because I won’t wait. For as long as she wants me—I’m not waiting. Not again.”
I think he is going to demand more of an explanation, but his smile is instant. “Good.”
He pulls out his phone and starts texting.
“Are you telling Esha I passed the test?”
He laughs. “No, I’m calling my boys so they can meet you.”
Soon after, groomsmen join the party. Instead of Reema, the conversation moves to other topics. Sports. Fantasy sports leagues. Politics. Some new game. Pottery.
When it’s time for us to head to the reception, six men get up and slap each other on the shoulders. When they get to me, they tell me I’m good people.
“Way better than Harry,” says Gurinder’s best friend.
Gurinder tries to shush him, but it’s too late.
My jaw clenches. “You know him?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t,” confirms Gurinder. “They just know what I’ve told them.”
“Which is?”
“That I’m glad he hasn’t showed up to my wedding, even though he RSVP’d.”
“He was supposed to come?” I’m having trouble concentrating. “She knew he was supposed to come?”