Page 1 of The Pucking Grump

1

RUNAWAY BRIDE

I’m nervous. All brides are jittery on their wedding day. It shouldn’t be unusual, even for an international pop star with two albums gone platinum.

This is the first day of the rest of my life. I’ll get married and close the door to a lot of possibilities. And since I’ve been with only one man, I’m closing the door to plenty of could-have-beens.

My anxiety is rising, and I turn around the empty room, seeking something or someone that could comfort me. But there’s no one around. The makeup artists and stylists who have been turning me into a bride for the last three hours just stepped out to “give me a little bit of space.” My dad and stepmother are probably watching over the one-thousand-capacity hall they insisted was indispensable for my wedding. All of my bridesmaids—who are also my backup singers on a normal workday—are stashed in another room, mostly because we don’t know how to interact outside of a professional setting.

I take a deep breath as sweat beads on my forehead. Soon, my anxiety is going to spiral into a full-blown panic attack. I’m desperate to keep calm, if only not to ruin the thousands of dollars spent on my appearance.

I need to find someone who’s going to reassure me that I am, in fact, making the right choice. I should know by now. I have written dozens of songs about Ben and our love story, songs that made me a millionaire at age twenty and convinced other young women that there is love out there waiting for them.

And I barely had to fib when I composed the songs. Sure, I added and omitted a few details, but our love story was still a great one. At the beginning, at least. No one else knows that it had dwindled over seven years. But it was perking up recently. His proposal was flawless. On a private yacht amid the vast Hawaiian sea, we were encircled only by the sky above and dolphins below. It was a dreamy, romantic moment.

Dwelling on our dwindling intimacy isn’t necessary, nor on the numbness I feel in his presence, replaced only by a lingering ache for the man I envision him to be—the one immortalized in my songs.

I turn around the empty room again. Even the memory of his proposal is not enough to push the slowly rising panic aside. The truth is that most of the time, I’m not even sure Ben wants to be with me.

This time, someone comes to mind: Diana, my chief bridesmaid and stepsister, courtesy of my dad’s marriage to her mother. She’s not exactly a friend—not that I have many of those—but if nothing else, she could manage to calm me down.

I gather my pearl-studded wedding dress that feels as if it weighs a hundred pounds—thanks to Alexander McQueen and my stepmom, who pushed for an intricate design that ended up costing upward of two hundred grand.

“The world has been hearing you sing about your love story with Ben for seven years! We have to give them something worth looking at. This is the wedding of the century, Faye darling. Act like it.”

I need to remember her advice now more than ever.

Plastering a smile on my face, I push open the door and saunter out of the room. There’s no one in the hallway, which means I drop my smile a second later as I stride along the doors. I pass the rooms of my backup singers turned bridesmaids, my dad and stepmother, and the groomsmen. Ben is as awkward at making friends as I am. Not that he has an excuse, since he doesn’t work anymore and has all the time in the world. But most of his groomsmen are random guys my dad enlisted.

Finally, I’m in front of Diana’s suite. It’s the last one on the left, adjacent to the elevator. I look over at the lift before I take a deep breath and knock. No response. I try the handle. The door is propped open, the Do Not Disturb sign having gotten in the way. She’s probably in the shower. Even if she’s technically my sister, I don’t know her all that well. My dad got married when I was eighteen, shortly before I became a nationwide singing sensation, which did not give me much time for family bonding.

I open the door and step in, expecting to see an empty, perfectly made-up space. Maybe even the sound of running water from the shower, and Diana belting one of my songs at the top of her lungs.

But I don’t see or hear either of those.

Instead, I spot Diana, dressed in the dowdy peach gown her mother approved for the bridesmaids, pressed to the wall with her arms slung around a man who, even if his back is turned to me, is instantly recognizable as a groomsman since he’s dressed in a sparkling white suit. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, and his pants seem to be hanging loose on his hips. There is no mistaking what they are doing, and I gasp, surprised and embarrassed.

This announces my presence, and in the next second, they are springing apart. Diana lets out a panicked yell and drops her legs to the ground, adjusting her dress around her hips. And then, the man turns around, and what feels like a bucket of ice drops to the center of my stomach.

Because it’s not a groomsman that was balls deep in my stepsister.

It’s Ben, my soon-to-be husband.

I stare. I’m literally unable to think, move, or react.

Diana’s eyes fill with tears almost instantaneously, and Ben hastily pulls up and buttons his pants. She moves toward me, the very image of the remorseful woman.

“Faye, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I want you to know I didn’t plan this and . . .”

But I’m not paying her any attention. I’m looking at Ben, the man I’m supposed to marry. In a few minutes. The person everyone is convinced is the love of my life.

He’s staring right back at me. I would have expected some emotion on his face. Perhaps contrition. I would even settle for guilt.

But he maintains a hard, unflinching glare. Kind of how I imagine he would be looking if he was the one to find out that his fiancé was cheating on him.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I numbly turn to see my father and stepmother enter the room.

“There you are!” my stepmother exclaims, her voice filled with relief. “We just went to your room, and you weren’t there. You won’t believe how crazy the reporters are being. It’s like all the celebrities in the world decided to show up. I know they all RSVP’d, but! Gosh, the number of pictures I’m going to be taking today.” She pauses and takes in a small, sharp breath. “But it’s all about you, Faye, of course, and the pictures you’ll be in.”

---