Page 52 of Meet Stan

Ernesto got on the phone, speaking Spanish to another man. I don’t know what they talked about, but I heard the words NYSE and Puerto Rico several times. I took the opportunity to speak with my mother about what was really bothering me.

“Mom, how do you know if it’s really love, or you just want it to be?”

“I wish I could answer that,” she said, smiling sadly. “You just have to figure it out for yourself.”

I picked up the tab, over Ernesto’s protestations, and we all agreed to meet later in the week for cocktails. I headed back home, no longer feeling so tired. I was too confused and wound up to be tired.

I was starting to wonder if I should give the feelings I had for Ivy a chance. But with the hammer about to fall on our fake relationship—

Was it too little, too late?

Chapter Twenty-One

Ivy

The day of the big breakup arrived. I spent the entire night before awake, looking through all of the photos Stan and I had taken.

It was hard to look at them and see anything but lies. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment I started to get the feels. I couldn’t do it. It seemed almost as if I’d gone into the arrangement already feeling too much.

The entire thing had me discombobulated in the extreme. It wasn’t just a matter of what I felt, but what I should have been feeling, even what I had a right to feel.

Hurt permeated every thought, exuded from every pore. I knew that’s what I felt. But part of me believed I shouldn’t. I’d gone into the fake relationship thing with my eyes wide open. I should have been relieved the whole mess was about to be over.

Then, I wondered if I even had a right to feel so hurt. Had Stan ever led me on? Not with words, no. He never explicitly stated he wanted us to be anything than pretend boyfriend and girlfriend,

His actions, however, told a different story. There were so many times when we were alone, snuggling on the sofa, or thrashing together in bed, and it seemed so perfect. Too perfect to just be-pretend.

I didn’t know if what I observed was real, or just a product of my own mind, however. Without solid evidence, all I could do was suffer in a prison of my own making.

Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion as I finally gave up on sleep and dressed for the day. I went into the shower, joylessly washing my body and conditioning my hair. The sun remained hidden behind a blurry fog of rain clouds, perfectly suiting my mood.

I brushed out my hair, trying not to focus on how miserable I appeared. Cosmetics helped hide both my lack of sleep and mental anguish. I intended to look absolutely my best. I chose a thin silhouette dress paired with a blazer and hose. Take off the blazer, and I was ready for the rooftop gala planned for later.

Sheer determination not to think about anything else than work kept me from dwelling on my misery. I finished up my work all too quickly, leaned back in my chair, and dropped off into a restless, haunted sleep.

I dreamt something, but I couldn't remember what. All I knew was that it had been harrowing. I straightened up, got a fresh cup of coffee, and proceeded with the afternoon workload.

I didn’t feel like eating. Everything seemed so tranquil, and yet it was as if an explosion were going off in slow motion. Though the flames hadn’t reached me yet, I knew that they would eventually. Inevitably.

When the sun dipped low toward the horizon, I knew it was nearly time. I forced myself to eat a croissant with chicken salad spread over it. I didn't want to faint from hunger and exhaustion before my big moment. The performance of a lifetime.

Stan had it all planned out. Toward the middle of the evening, there would be a series of ceremonial champagne toasts, to celebrate an excellent end to the fiscal year. When it came to his turn to toast, he would say something mean and/or crass in a toast to me. Then I would snap at him, perhaps even using my own toast to make our breakup official.

I made my way to the party by myself. That was another aspect of Stan’s oh so ingenious plan. He thought it would make it look like we were having problems before the big, dramatic breakup.

The party took place at a building a few blocks away. I chose to walk. I showed my invitation to the doorman and was directed to an express elevator up to the top floor.

When the doors slid open, I looked out over the party guests and sighed. At least, after that night, I would no longer have to lie about the fake relationship. Plus, I had real-world pain, so I supposed I was doing my penitence.

I saw Stan talking to Jonathon near an ice sculpture of a goat. He cut a handsome figure in his tuxedo, though it looked to me like he might have missed a bit of sleep as well.

He smiled at my approach, though his eyes remained cold.

“My dear, you look lovely tonight,” he said.

I moved in and we did a stiff, formal hug. Jonathon eyed us both closely, a concerned frown on his face. Well, he was picking up on the awkward iciness. I thought bitterly that it would make our performance that much better.

“Thank you.”

---