Page 44 of The Pucking Grump

Because there’s nothing funny about my life falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Brit justifies herself quickly. There’s a wail on the other end of the line that tells me she’s currently taking care of her toddler. I hear her shuffle away, before she adds, “It’s kind of karmic, though, isn’t it? When this situation happened to me, you were seconds from kicking Alex’s ass. But now, you’re in my shoes, and?—”

“Difference is, I didn’t plan this,” I spit at her. How could she, of all people, not get the point. “You kissed Alex in front of cameras to convince Dad to back off. In no way did I plot and stage this shit.”

No one seems to understand. In the first half-hour after Faye kissed me publicly, my phone rang off the hook. Less than half of the calls were from my friends, who were both amused and stunned, asking how the hell this happened. Ken left a long voicemail where he went on and on about the questions I asked him the other day and how they tied to me getting cozy with Faye Strummer.

While this made me completely furious, what started the skull-crushing headache I’m still experiencing are the other calls. All of them were from various news and media stations, asking me for a quote.

I’m livid.

Thing is, I can’t exactly blame them for their confusion. I’m as surprised as they are. How did taking the wrong turn while attending a wedding end up in this, a video of me reposted five million times and dozens of blogs offering a “closer look” into the life of Blake White, Faye Strummer’s new boyfriend?

Really, how the hell did this happen?

“I understand,” Brit says now. The calm in her voice soothes me, but only for a second. “So . . . where is she now?”

“Not here.” I try not to dwell on the events of last night, how damn mad at her I was. “She packed a small bag and asked me for my credit card. She called a cab and said she’s staying in the motel by the gas station until she goes back. I suppose that means to Brooklyn.”

Brit hesitates. “Really? You aren’t worried about the mob she’s going to attract? She’s all alone out there.”

I bite down on the urge to yell at her. “Why don’t we stop worrying about her and start considering my feelings? You know, before the owners of the Philly Titans decide this is too much drama for them and ban me from playing in the next season?”

“You’re being overdramatic, Blake. No one is benching you for kissing a girl.”

A fresh wave of fury hits me, and I flop down on the couch. It’s been days since I had the cabin to myself, and I expected to feel a sense of peace and connectedness, the way I always felt when I was alone.

But now, without her here, it just feels hollow and empty. My eyes land on the book lying open next to me, Rumi’s Guest House, the collection of poems she insisted I get from the library.

I scan the excerpt the page is open to.

“The minute I heard my first love story,

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

They’re in each other all along.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth as the words mock me. Damn Faye for crawling under my skin like this. And damn me for still wanting her back, even after the stunt she pulled. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the poem’s lines keep repeating in my head.

“Can I ask a question? Without you threatening to hurt me?”

“Depends,” I growl. I really should be on a call with the PR team, figuring out how to contain the damage. But the thought of talking to a stranger about my messy life makes me want to bash my head against the wall.

“Why are you mad?”

I sit up, not believing she just asked that. “Want me to give you bullet points, or will a long rant do?”

Brit huffs. “Seriously, why are you mad? Are you annoyed that you’re all over social media as her new boyfriend, or?—”

“Yes.”

“Or are you annoyed that she used you without letting you in on the plan?”

“What do you mean ‘used’ me?”

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