Page 46 of The Pucking Grump

“She was only happy because she finally sang her truth,” I reply tonelessly.

“Doesn’t matter. People saw her happy, and they want to know more. You can help with that.”

Again, she’s right. I close my eyes as my headache begins to abate. A PR relationship had seemed like a great idea for Alex and Brit at the time but look how it turned out. They got married for real. Knowing Faye is a die-hard romantic, she’s going to think there’s something deeper at play here. And I like her too much to lead her on.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Don’t think it’ll work for me.”

Britney sighs. “Blake, maybe you should start thinking of her. She’s stuck in that motel, alone and probably miserable.”

A pang of guilt stings me. I didn’t kick her out exactly, but my anger had been overpowering, particularly when the first phone calls started to roll in. Perhaps she left because she was sure I was going to do it soon.

Faye was a mess the first night she spent here. Being alone now, after yet another scandal, means she is going to be even more of a wreck.

I didn’t turn my back on her when this saga first started, and I don’t want to do it now either.

“Fine. I’ll go get her.”

“Just remember,” Brit says tentatively, “faking a relationship between the two of you would go a long way for her. She just needs a couple of months. Then you can go back to never existing in each other’s worlds.”

Never existing.

“Great. I’ll tell you once I know what I’ll do.”

I hang up the phone and stand up. Deciding to get Faye back fills me with new spirit, and I realize how much of my misery today has been because of her absence. I slip into my car, mulling over Brit’s words.

I’d have to be insane to consider entering a PR relationship. Especially with Faye Strummer. How many times have I loudly made fun of her and her music? My friends are going to be insufferable.

Also, I don’t do relationships. I haven’t been in one in years or . . . ever. Don’t know how I could pull it off. Dating Faye is probably going to be like being in a reality TV show, with millions of cameras on me at all times and having to do horrible interviews.

It’s sickening, just thinking about it.

I’m at the motel in less than ten minutes. Like most other places in town, it’s deserted. My car is the only one in the lot when I get out of it and stroll to reception. A pimply teenager looks up from his phone as he hears me come in.

“All the rooms are available,” he says with a bored drawl. “You can pick any one you want.”

“All the rooms?” I repeat, hating the pang that arises in my chest. “I’m looking for a guest who’s supposed to be staying here. She’s?—”

“Faye Strummer,” he sputters, eyeing me with renewed interest. “You’re the guy in the video, aren’t you? The girl who covered the last shift told me Faye was here. But she hasn’t come out since, so?—”

“Is she still here?”

“Yes, but she’s about to leave. Didn’t pay for another night, and she should be out of here in thirty minutes.”

I feel another pang. “What room is she in?”

The teenager eyes me suspiciously before he answers, “Room three.”

I march past him into the low-lit corridor. I spot Faye’s room instantly. I had no idea she is planning to leave tonight, and it’s hard to pretend that I don’t feel relief that I caught up with her before she took off.

I knock on the door. Nothing. I wait thirty seconds and knock again. I still hear nothing.

I turn toward the corridor, another pang echoing in my chest. Maybe she left, and that teen was too much of an idiot to even notice. Or maybe . . .

The door creaks open. I turn around, wrenching my neck in the process, but barely noticing the pain.

Faye is standing in front of me. She’s still wearing the jeans she’s had on yesterday. Her face is red and blotchy, and her hair is a rat’s nest.

But it’s her. And the relief spreading through me makes it impossible to pay close attention to anything else.

---