With the bhangra music blaring from the back of the bright red Ford F-150 truck that was starting to lead the procession of men on a slow wind through the Denver hotel’s parking lot, Ashni Singh made a final adjustment on her cousin Reeva’s bloodred sari.
“Sure you want to go through with this?” she teased, barely keeping her voice grave, even after her years of performing in high school and college musicals.
“You have a better idea?” Reeva played along like she always had.
“There’s this new rooftop bar that just opened up on California Street. They have a specialty cocktail with the word orgasm in it.”
“Shshshsh” Reeva bit off a shocked giggle and hip-checked her. They both smiled at the collection of aunties pressing their noses against the double glass doors waiting for their cue to spill out to greet the approaching groom, groomsmen and men attending the afternoon wedding. Reeva’s mom was reminding everyone about what to do, as if they hadn’t all done this dozens of times before for different brides and different grooms.
But now it was Reeva’s turn, and Ash wanted the day to be perfect.
“The aunties are definitely misbehaving.” Ashni flipped her scarf gracefully back over her shoulder. “They were rating John’s friends, especially Caleb.”
“He is ratable.” Reeva looked at her, a bit more calculation in her expression. “With the kilt, his muscular calves are totally on display, and he’s very single.”
“I’m not.” Ashni felt her mood dip despite her determination to ignore the expected but hurtful barrage of questions lobbed her way the past couple of weeks. The main one—when was she going to get married? She’d just turned twenty-nine, and the reminders that she was “nearing the end of her shelf life,” had been anything but subtle.
“You are tonight.” Reeva winked. “Walk on the wild side, flirt a little, dance, maybe sneak a kiss. You’ve never even kissed any other guy except Beckett.”
Whereas Reeva had happily dated in high school and college and after, sharing many of her adventures over coffee or cocktails or FaceTime, Ashni had left Denver to work in the marketing department for the pro rodeo tour to be closer to her long-time boyfriend and one of the tour’s stars. Then Reeva had met John on a dating app, five months after finishing dental school and getting a job in a thriving downtown practice. She’d called Ashni in the middle of the night after her first date with John. She’d met the one. Six months later they were marrying.
And Ashni, who’d fallen in love with Beckett Ballantyne in high school, was still unmarried.
“I don’t tell if you kiss.” As Reeva turned the words of the familiar phrase around, her beautiful dark eyes heavily lined with black eyeliner and dusted with gold, shone with happiness and mischief.
“Just as your secrets are safe with me.” Ashni pulled Reeva into a hard hug.
This was it. Her best friend and cousin was getting married. Her life would be with John now. Her happiness and sorrows would first be shared with him. Ashni felt as if something inside of her ripped wide open, and a cold wind blew through.
“I’m so happy for you.” She meant it to the marrow of her bones.
“Before this time next year, you’ll be married too. I know it,” Reeva hugged her back. “And we’ll both be knocked up and the aunties will complain that we’re gaining too much weight even as they shove food at us and remind us that we need to eat for two.”
A wave of dread swept over Ashni so fast she feared she’d drop to her knees and pull Reeva down with her. This was Reeva’s weekend. Her wedding. Her moment. And Ashni would never let the hurt that had been building since last Christmas interfere with a molecule of her cousin’s happiness.
She could hear the song “Dholna” kick on as the truck made the first turn in the parking lot—a large group of men dancing behind and John festively regal in a sherwani and a turban, riding on a decorated horse, surrounded by his male friends and family in suits—Caleb, always original in a kilt—all dancing.
Ashni dropped a kiss on Reeva’s sleek head—her beautiful blue-black hair was twisted elaborately into a low updo threaded with pearls and gold.
“No turning back now.”
“Don’t want to,” Reeva said, her eyes shining more beautifully than diamonds.
“Let’s dance,” Ashni sang out in her best David Bowie impersonation. She linked arms with Reeva and pulled her into the center of the vibrantly colorful women—family and friends—as they spilled out into the beautiful, sun-drenched Denver afternoon.
As Ashni spun in a circle, she easily incorporated a few of the popular moves in the newer Bollywood movies into some of the traditional dances she and so many of her cousins had studied growing up in their Shastriya Devesh weekend dance school. She twirled and sang and reached her arms up gracefully—her fingers, dance moves, and facial expressions told the story of love. She watched the flare of the saffron skirt of her lehenga as she danced to celebrate Reeva and love and Reeva and John’s sparkling future.
And she hated that even surrounded by so much joy and family and friends, she’d never felt more alone.