Page 73 of The Pucking Grump

Fuck. Did she make a post about us? Make our breakup public before we even had a chance to discuss it?

“How?”

“Well . . . she canceled all her upcoming shows without warning and took down all her social media accounts.”

My heart misses a beat.

Faye canceling everything and disappearing into the wind. That sounds familiar.

She ran away . . . again. And this time, I’m the flame that lit the fuse.

23

HEARTBREAK HANGOVER

Walking into Kevin’s kitchen, I brace myself for ‘the look.’ The same one he’s been giving me for the past three days, combining pity and sadness and barely restrained frustration into a single, silent stare. Yet, when I emerge from the bedroom under the stairs and walk up to him, I still feel a pang of hurt when he fixes his eyes on me.

“You’re up early.”

He is already at the stove, frying sausages for our breakfast. I’ve come to learn a lot about Kevin’s domestic habits over the past few days, but the most impressive tidbit yet is that every morning, he prepares an elaborate breakfast. Surprising when I think about the fact that Kevin has gained so much notoriety for being my manager, he’s literally sinking in deals and should by all accounts have no time left for cooking.

On the other hand, though, he might basically become blacklisted if I don’t dig myself out of this depressive hole soon.

My dark mood, which already feels like a heavy cloud enveloping my body, dampens even further. I slide onto the stool and watch as Kevin dumps some eggs and sausages on my plate. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep.” One way to stave off depression is to keep talking and not let the thoughts settle. Like they had last night.

Kevin gives me that look again. I let out a breath, anger seeping into me. “You can say it.”

He raises his brows. “Say what?”

“It.” I have no right to be mad at him. He’s done more than any manager would have, including not dropping me the moment I canceled my shows. I did that without telling him and showed up at his doorstep, crying like a little girl. And he took it in a stride and let me stay with him over the past few days.

But I am mad. Because he’s walking around on eggshells and treats me like a pathetic, weak person.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” Kevin goes off to a drawer and pulls out two forks. He hands me one. “Really.”

My fingers ball into fists. I’ve got to say, it feels good to finally feel something that’s not misery. Even if the new feeling is misdirected anger. “What you’ve wanted to say for the past few days. That I’m an idiot for not listening to you about Blake, and that you always knew this would happen.”

My heart thrums with pain when I say his name. I’m thinking about him literally every second, but I don’t let myself talk about him. I didn’t even tell Kevin what happened, but judging by his expression, he put it together real quick.

Kevin looks almost surprised. “Faye, I’m not thinking that. I swear.”

“The way you tiptoe around me says otherwise.”

There’s a wan smile at the corner of his lips. “I do no such thing.”

“Sure, you do. You’re annoyed that I’m moping around your house. You’re frustrated that I’m working hard on ruining my career again, and you have no idea if you’ll be able to save it this time around. You’re mad I didn’t listen to you about Blake and that I’m now going through this heartbreak, but you still feel sorry for me because I’m just plain pathetic.”

Kevin seems shocked by my little rant. I can’t remember ever expressing myself like this to anyone, ever. Maybe it does show I am growing in some ways, trying to detach from being a pretty little princess and speaking my truth. Living with Blake propelled me into a whole new identity, and I’m now walking all over it.

Blake. My heart twists again, and this time, I cannot help the tears that start to gather in my eyes. I blink them away, feeling beyond stupid. They don’t go so easily. In a few seconds, I have both hands to my face, and I’m bawling almost as hard as I did when I first walked into his house.

Kevin is on my side of the counter in a few seconds. “Oh, Faye.” His firm hand is reassuring on my back. “I don’t think any of that, I swear it. You’re not just a client. You’re a friend.”

For some odd reason, that makes me bawl harder. Maybe because it reminds me of my fake wedding, not having friends to serve as bridesmaids and having to enlist the help of my backup singers.

Kevin waits for me to cry it all out, which takes a good five minutes. Then he pulls up the chair beside me and repeats, “I promise I don’t think that of you. You’re not an idiot for falling in love.”

Falling in love. He makes it sound so simple. But that’s what I did. I’ve been singing about love for seven years without ever knowing what it felt like. And now I do.

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