Page 81 of The Pucking Grump

Waited for a world where you’d feel it too,

But you missed the signs, left me feeling blue.

When you couldn’t see, my world turned gray,

Had to find a way to brighten up my day.

But it’s all the colors that I needed to find,

I’m the artist of my life, no longer blind.

Paint my days with shades of green and blue,

A canvas of my life, vibrant and true.

You sparked the flame, baby, that’s a fact,

You lit the fuse, and now I’m the rocket on track.

I lose myself so deeply into the song that I only realize the tumult I’ve made when I round off with the third verse. The girls are still screaming, and about two dozen more people are now packed in the bar, all of them yelling my name. I pause, almost disappointed.

Did anyone even hear the song?

Doesn’t make a difference, I realize, my fingers shaking again. The song was the easy part. My speech is what I’ve been dreading for the past few days.

“Can I get everyone’s attention, please?”

It takes several minutes and the moderator screaming repeatedly for everyone to finally hush up. More phone cameras are pointed in my direction, and the chatter seems sewn into the foundation of the building. Someone screams, “Where’s Blake? We want Blake!”

Great. Sudden tears start in my eyes, and I’m alarmed as much as I’m terrified. I didn’t think I’d cry talking about this. For a second, I wonder if that’s a sign. Do I just end it and run off backstage?

Then I look into the crowd and see something that stills me.

The girl. The one that sang my song at the bar last time before I took the stage. She sang in a croaky voice and declared she was waiting for her one true love. She seemed pure and innocent, but she lit in me a shame I still haven’t gotten rid of.

Unlike other girls her age in the bar, she’s not screaming or recording. She’s merely gazing up at me, arms folded, smiling, her face lit in adoration. Just watching.

There are thousands of girls like her around the world. Girls who got renewed hope in their romantic life because of me. I owe it to them to see this through.

My fingers are steady when I take the mic.

“A few weeks ago, after my stint here, news broke around the world about my relationship to a certain hockey player.” If I let myself say his name, I’m going to lose whatever control I have left. Plus, the chants around the bar of “Blake White” already supply the missing information. “I spoke in interviews about how well we were doing, and cameras followed our relationship. I told the world that he was a respite for me. After a lifetime of not knowing what love was, he came and made me feel it. And you thought that we were in love and happy.”

The bar is dead silent now. I know why. Being this vulnerable about their romantic life isn’t something that stars often do.

“But I lied.”

A silent gasp runs through the crowd. I have eyes for only the girl. Her face registers shock, but also disappointment. I can tell she’s not disappointed in me, though.

She’s disappointed that her fantasy wasn’t real.

“I know I keep messing up, and I’m sorry.” I imagine the millions of viewers tuned in around the world now, watching via livestream. “I’m deeply, deeply sorry. The truth is, I fell in love with him faster than I could say my name. He gave me every single thing I have ever wanted.” My voice breaks. “But still, he did not love me back. He doesn’t believe in relationships. I knew this when we started, and I still fell for him, anyway. He was ready to keep up the public pretense to help me, and I thought I needed it to save my career.”

The bar is still silent. There are several different expressions on their faces, ranging from condemnation to pity. I can’t know what they all feel about me now. I’ll have to push to the bitter end.

“For most of my career, I sang a lie about love. That it’s this perfect magical thing where everything goes right all the time. But that’s not how it works. You can be an amazing person and still never be with your soulmate.”

Is it my imagination, or are they listening more intently now? I catch a glimpse of some movement at the back of the bar. Someone just slipped in, a woman, and she looks oddly familiar.

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