Page 15 of Fake It 'til You Make It

‘Roman and I… We never meant for you to find out the way you did.’

Huh? Roman and I? They never meant for me to find out.

But they didn’t mean to not do it? She isn’t sorry? Regretful? Disgusted with herself?

‘We loveeach other, Ted.’

My order number is called and a server behind the counter holds out a box for me. I rise from my seat to collect it, unsteady on my legs, as if they’re made of sand.

‘Chopsticks and soy sauce are on the side,’ the server tells me.

Not wanting to seem rude, I wait until I’m outside the café before I throw the dumplings into a trash can. My appetite is obliterated.

Love?

They’re in love?

Roman doesn’t even dolove.

Roman has a bang ’em and leave ’em approach to women.

To the long list of recent derogatory terms I have collated about myself in respect of my ex wife-to-be, I can now add fool.

My appetite came back somewhere along Manhattan Bridge, when I realized Fleur and Roman can’t hurt me any more than they already have. Yes, I miss her. I feel like one of my limbs has been cut out from under me. But monogamy is a hard line for me.

Things don’t make much sense at the moment. My best friend is now nothing more than a business partner and I have no idea how or if we can move forward in that relationship.

But I know, deep in my bones, that Fleur and I were done the moment she transgressed. No matter whether it was with Roman or a random guy.

Trust and loyalty are important to me. Perhaps above all else.

Her thinking that she and Rome are in love just puts the final nail in the coffin. It stops the need for any attempts at getting back together. Trying for the sake of what we had. For those honeymoon days in our whirlwind romance that, with hindsight, was altogether unlike me.

Fleur and I are done. Caput.

Unravelling our life together won’t be fun.

But, ironically, my life is more entwined with Roman’s than Fleur’s.

With this realization, I stop to add a takeout pizza to the mass of things I’m carrying back to Blake House.

I’m ravenous and crabby as hell as I wrestle my way into the apartment block.

One of my bags gets caught between the entrance doors and as I tug it free, I drop my precariously balanced pizza box.

‘Goddamnit,’ I gripe, retrieving and rearranging everything I’m holding and making a move toward the wall of mailboxes.

As I do, I see Lady Big Panties, still dressed in the clothes she was wearing in Saks but now sporting a salon blow-dry and holding a fancy pair of sandals in her hand. She’s barefoot as she reads her mail.

She’s so engrossed in the contents of the card she’s holding that she doesn’t seem to notice me.

Then she sinks to her haunches and the arm in which she holds her mail flops to the ground. What looks like an invitation falls to the floor.

I see the wordsVow Renewalon the gold embossed card.

Oh dear, she’ll need a new outfit, how truly devastating.

Okay, that’s unfair – a reflection of my foul mood. I don’t know this girl.

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