Page 70 of Not Your Basic Love Story

Once the margarita was in my hand and, more importantly, in my belly, I felt better.

“So, what are we doing about the bachelorette party?” Priya asked.

Shawan tutted. “You will not be attending. You are too young! They will want to go out.”

Priya pouted. “That’s not fair!”

Angelina chimed in, “We don’thaveto go out. Why don’t we rent an Airbnb in Whistler or someplace cool and have a house party? Old school girls slumber party!”

Priya squealed. “Ohmygod, YES!”

“Great! I’ll get planning it.” Angelina grinned.

“Wait,” Miranda interrupted. “I’m the Maid of Honor. I plan the party. Remember? And I definitely don’t think underage drinking should be part of it.”

“Oh, lighten up. You really think Priya hasn’t been partying since she was fourteen like the rest of us?”

Priya tensed as Shawan glared at her daughter. “Better not be!”

My mother perked up. “Well, I can always be there as a chaperone! Shawan, would you feel more comfortable knowing a responsible adult is present?”

Shawan glanced from my mother’s half-empty margarita glass, which she’d already refilled once since the pitcher arrived, to her innocent teenaged daughter. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what she was thinking.

“Do we even need a bachelorette party?” I asked. Imagining a scenario where I’m stuck in a house with my inebriated mother, two wild teenagers, and my sober, pregnant best friend did not sound like a good time. I’d rather skip the whole thing. With the clock ticking on my upcoming wedding, we didn’t really have time for it, anyway.

“Um, yes! You definitely do! Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll take care of the planning,” Angelina said, gripping her sister’s arm.

Miranda rolled her eyes and shot me a look that said, ‘kill me now.’

The rest of lunch was fine. Priya and Angelina had their own, very loud conversation. My mother was quite engaged with Miranda, talking about all things pregnancy-related, asking questions I’d never thought to ask her, which made me feel like a shitty best friend. I’d had no idea how exhausted she was, how she spent most mornings wrapped around a toilet. It made me feel guilty roping her into helping me with my spur-of-the-moment wedding when she had a child to plan for.

Shawan and I sat in silence. I kept thinking of things to say but then couldn’t bring myself to say them. Small talk was never my forte. Wherever Dev got his ability to make any situation feel comfortable and not awkward, it wasn’t from his mother. I kept imagining myself sitting across from her at the dinner table at her huge house, her quiet, penetrating gaze silently judging me as I worked my way around the extremely spicy food they’d all been eating since they were toddlers. I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face when she walked in on Dev and me together, the horrified expression she’d worn, as if I were defiling her baby boy.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted—emotionally and physically drained. I hadn’t really had time to digest everything that was happening. Between the wedding coming up so fast to moving in with Dev’s family in two to three years, I was done.

I popped open a bottle of the good wine I usually saved for special occasions and turned on some junk TV to unwind with. Then, I opened my beaten-up old MacBook, minimized the drawings and plans and data for my turbine, and navigated to YouTube.

Search: ‘Sikh Indian Wedding’

I should have done this ages ago.

Turns out, Sikh weddings were gorgeous. The dresses, the jewelry, the henna; it was all so beautiful. It was an honour to be taking part in something like that. As a Canadian of muddled ancestry and an atheist, I didn’t really have any traditions to take part in and often felt unmoored.

I wondered what colour my lehenga would be, but hoped red. It looked like Dev would be dressed traditionally, with a turban, and I imagined how he’d look. Dashing, probably. How could he look anything but?

I began Googling Sikhism and the history of Punjabi immigration to Vancouver to get a sense of my soon-to-be new family’s culture.

Halfway through an article on the differences between Sikhism and Hinduism, my phone lit up with a text.

Graham.

I took a deep gulp of wine and opened it.

‘hey.’

Seriously, what the fuck! How had I ever put up with this guy?

‘What do you want?’ I texted back.

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