Page 63 of Meet Stan

Going to another country would certainly accomplish that. I checked up on what projects I might be managing in Singapore. Not much to go on, so I quickly closed up my laptop and stared out the window, waiting for our turn to actually make it to the runway. Apparently, the airport was quite busy.

I just wanted to get in the air, and leave everything behind. I was sick to my stomach. It hurt, knowing that Stan didn’t care about me the way I cared about him.

A murmur rose up in the front of the cabin. I lifted my bleary-eyed gaze from my phone to see the passengers staring in disgusted shock as a big, hairy, smelly dog padded into the cabin.

“What is that dog doing here?” Asked a fifty-ish woman in a plum-hued dress.

“That’s not a dog,” her apparent grandson said. “That’s a horse.”

The dog seemed friendly at least. It wagged its tail and padded through the cabin.

“Maybe it’s one of those drug-sniffing dogs,” a man in a pinstripe suit suggested.

“I think this is just some mangy mongrel,” sniped the buxom blonde sitting beside him in a thick Jersey accent. “I bet he’s been rolling around in his own feces.”

“Hey!” A man stepped into the cabin and thrust a finger at the woman. “Don’t talk to him like that. He has feelings, you know.”

As if on cue, the dog whined and lowered his head to the ground, covering his face with his paws. It was so adorable I forgave the dog his dirty appearance. Besides, I suddenly realized I recognized the dog’s apparent owner.

Underneath a syrupy glaze—was that honey?—duct tape, feathers, and mud, I saw Stan’s face peeking out. He looked like he’d been gone over by a bear. No, make that a whole pack of bears. With rabies.

“Sir, you need to secure this canine,” said one of the flight attendants in a shrill voice.

“Hey, have a heart. He’s my therapy dog.”

“Oh come on,” the man in the pinstripe suit said. “I’m going to call bullshit.”

“I could do without your judgment pal, I’ve had a hell of a night. And the dog has already done more for my mental health than you have.”

His gaze snapped around the cabin.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I have to find—”

His mouth fell open, eyes going wide as they fell on me.

“Ivy.”

He rushed down the aisle and fell to his knees beside my seat. He smelled like garbage, and I noticed that he had a used tea bag dangling from his collar.

“Stan, what in the fuck—”

“I love you,” he blurted.

He said the one thing that could have stopped me short. My mouth snapped shut, and I stared at him in wonder.

“I love you,” he repeated, taking my hand in his own. I was so taken aback by his confession that I didn't even notice the grime. “I had to say that, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to emotionally blackmail you, I’m not, but I had to say that before something else happens or I screw things up again.”

The dog padded over and started licking the food stuck to the back of his head. I don’t think Stan noticed.

“I’ve been falling in love with you a little bit every day,” he said, squeezing my hand. The sincerity in his eyes couldn’t have been faked. Could it? I prayed this wasn’t going to turn out to be some sort of cruel trick.

“If—if that’s true,” I said in a hoarse, dry voice, “then why did you go through with the phony breakup?”

His gaze dropped to the floor, and his shoulders heaved in a big sigh.

“I was afraid of what I was feeling. You see, my mom and dad got divorced when I was a kid. And it was a damn messy divorce, too. Real ugly on a whole lot of levels.” His eyes filled with so much sadness I wanted to comfort him—or I would have if I still hadn’t been so pissed off and hurt. “I thought that meant, since my parents’ love didn’t work out,no one’slove would never work out, either. I was afraid I was fooling myself.”

I wanted to believe him, so bad, but after so long faking our emotions, I wasn't sure what was real any longer.

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