Page 2 of The Pucking Grump

Right.

My father is way less exuberant. He has his usual expression on. Like the one a judge would wear when sentencing a man to life in prison. “What’s going on here?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. A dizzying sensation hits me, and I sway. Immediately, my dad’s arms grab me. His hold is rough, and he steadies me before quickly pulling away, as though he cannot bear to touch me for longer than absolutely necessary. A still-working part of my brain ruminates on the fact that Ben hasn’t even tried to reach out for me.

“Careful,” my stepmother says with a titter. “We paid a lot of money for that dress, and there are way too many cameras out there. You wouldn’t want to get a stain on it.”

Again, I observe how neither of them asks what’s wrong with me. But I’m also focused on other things, like her words.

We paid a lot for that dress.

The wedding was never truly mine. My opinions had mattered little during the planning. I had always wanted a small, simple wedding, not the gargantuan monster my stepmother orchestrated.

This reminds me of my career. How it got kickstarted when my father decided to push me into the music industry as a teen. How even now, I find it easier to just go along with what he wants—like coming out with song after song about Ben—than actually doing what my soul tells me.

Most days, I don’t even know what I want.

My father notices the lipstick stain on Ben’s face and seems to finally put things together. I watch as my stepmother follows his gaze and horror dawns on her face.

This is it, I think, and in spite of the circumstances, I feel a thrill run through me. I have watched plenty of movies, and I know what’s going to unfold. My dad going for Ben, maybe throwing a punch at him for daring to betray me like that. Then holding me close and telling me he is sorry.

Not that my dad has ever been one to show his love for me that much. The most I’ve gotten from him in terms of affection was an approving nod after my first album went platinum.

He doesn’t do any of that.

“Jesus, Ben,” he spits at my fiancé. “You couldn’t wait five goddamn minutes for the ceremony to be over?”

His words wash over me and leave a sickening feeling in my gut.

What is happening?

“Wash your face off,” my stepmother says, her voice muted. “We’ve got a lot of important people down in the hall, and we have to give them something to see. We’ll resolve this later, as a family.”

Something to see.

Even infidelity does not supersede the fact that the show must go on. Because that’s what my whole life is. A show.

“I’ll get the makeup artists to come for you.” My dad’s voice is mechanic. Kind of how he sounds when directing my instrumentalists off stage. “You’re a little sweaty. Diana, I need you to make sure all the other bridesmaids are ready. Ben, go get your guys in order. We only have twenty minutes until you both walk down the aisle.”

I stare in a daze as Diana shuffles past me, closely followed by Ben. My stepmother casts a nervous glance at me before slipping out. My father meets me with the same measured gaze before he walks out as well.

I stand in the room, alone again. My mind races with the lyrics of the song I released half a year ago.

In your eyes, I find a truth so bold,

A story untold, in whispers and gold.

You’re the missing piece, my heart’s refrain,

In your embrace, I’m whole again.

When I was writing it, I yearned for those words to be true. But now, I face the cold reality I’ve been hiding from for a long while. Even now, seeing what Ben just did, I feel nothing but disbelief. I don’t feel hurt, betrayed, or outraged.

Quiet tears run down my cheeks as I close my eyes.

I have no idea how long I have been content living this lie, pretending I’m in a dream relationship with a man who worships me. Talking my dad up in interviews as a perfect father when I know he doesn’t speak to me apart from giving me directions regarding my career.

Right now, it’s too suffocating. It’s hard to exist one second longer in this space. I’m suddenly filled with a desperate need to leave, but not just the room, or even the hotel. Rather, my very own skin.

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