Page 2 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

I am an in-betweener because people like me don’t become stars.

Back in Pine Hollow, the only thing that gets picked is whose turn it is to get laid off next. The idea of beingseen, really seen, was so foreign it felt dangerous. But I wanted it even if I didn’t know what to do with it.

Now I’m in Vegas, and I’m drowning in lights. This is the largest city I’ve ever walked through.

Everything here is loud—neon, noise, and nervous energy. Even the air is cocky. I hear they pipe in oxygen into the hotels. Why anyone would spend money on that when it’s free is beyond me. But it fits this city, because it costs just to breathe here.

I keep staring at billboards that are so tall I’m afraid they’ll fall and crush me. Every woman is gorgeous, every man smells expensive. I pass strangers on the Strip who look like they were born to belong. I try to walk like I do, but I don’t fit in, even on my best day.

The truth is, I still don’t know where I fit.

I feel inadequate no matter what I wear. Deep down, I just don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough to make it. After months on a tour bus and traveling from town to town, these accommodations are a welcome luxury.

I’ve never been in a room like this. It’s a suite that has plush carpet and a view that looks fake. One night here costs more than a month’s rent back home. There’s a velvet couch no one sits on and a minibar I’m afraid to touch.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes trying to decide if my lipstick says “effortless” or “trying too hard.”

My new agent, Henry, tells me I’m moving up. That I’m building “a look.” A brand. I nod like I get it. I’m getting good at that—pretending I’m ahead of the game instead of sprinting to keep up.

But sometimes, when I’m alone and the city goes quiet for half a second, I feel like I’m twelve again. I’m sitting on the edge of my twin bed in a double-wide that smells like grease and regret, watching mymom spray hairspray like it was free. She used to say, “You don’t need a map if you can smile your way through the room.”

So I smile even when Vegas feels like it’s swallowing me whole. Even when the glitter is the only thing that looks familiar to me. I even smile when I’m scared, and I keep walking because I didn’t come all this way just to be invisible. To move up in the world, I have to be seen.

But I’m not used to anyone seeing me. The real me, the me that’s afraid to meet Mamma’s new boyfriend. The me that’s afraid to put on a sequined outfit that shows more of me than I’m comfortable sharing.

I look out my hotel window, mesmerized by the twinkling lights that rival meteor showers. I’ve never opened for someone as big as Rose Maghee.

She’s talented. Famous.Gorgeous.

Me? Decidedly not gorgeous. Not famous. But I think I have talent, so I continue on this difficult path.

If it were easy, everyone would be doing it, is what my manager says. And he’s right. Being creative and competing against everyone trying to make it big like me, it’s tough. I worry I’ll never make it, but today is better than yesterday, and as long as I can pay my bills, I’ll continue. This is what I was born to do.

As much as I fuss with my makeup and watch YouTube videos, my smoky eyes look more like a raccoon’s as he’s caught escaping from a dumpster. I’m nothing special to look at, really.

My body resembles that of a young teenager, not a woman. God gave me a great voice, but I fell short in terms of looks.

But Rose? She’s my idol. She’s a small-town girl who made it big. And I want to be like her.

Of course, every story has a villain, and she had hers. It started when her ex-boyfriend stole her song and tried to pass it off as his. Luckily, she had copyrighted it, and it all worked out.

She even married the Maine Megaladons’ quarterback, and she looks happy.

I want that. Happiness.

I want a man who looks at me the way Travis looks at her.

He’s smitten. He’s in love. He’s totally enthralled with her and every word she says.

Some might say he’s pussy whipped, but I see a man in love.

But no matter what I wish for, I’m petrified I’ll screw up.

Like tonight. It’s the largest venue I’ve ever played. I decided that I am either going to puke or pass out.

Pacing across the hotel room floor barefoot, I kept staring at my guitar case, like it might offer backup vocals or moral support. It doesn’t. It leans against the closet, as if to say, “You’re the one who signed up for this.”

Thirty-four floors below, Vegas sparkles like a childhood dream. But the real show, my show, is just hours away, and I can’t stop picturing every single way I could blow it.