Page 20 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

I chuckle despite myself. “I don’t know. I’m so overwhelmed, but water is the safest bet, unless everyone on the plane is getting pregnant on it.”

Shay bursts out laughing, and I chuckle with her. Thank goodness that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.

“Maybe this whole sordid affair is just a blip—and it'll all blow over in a few days,” I say, pulling out my leather-bound journal and jotting down some lines on my mind. I owe my label six songs before Christmas.

“Yeah, let’s see how that goes,” she mutters.

We spent the flight quietly conversing, sans phones, because we’re in the air, and I suppose that’s a good thing.

My brain’s fried. My stomach’s still doing tequila cartwheels. And when we arrive back in Tennessee, everything’s different. I don’t know why, it just is.

I’ve been sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment for an hour, my journal in my lap, a half-written song lyric under my pen. But I can’t finish it. Not when my hand keeps catching the light. The ring is mocking me—the ring.

It’s big, bold. It makes a statement, but I don’t know what it is. Is it, “She’s mine,” “I have tons of money,” or was it a mistake?

It’s beautiful. Too beautiful for a girl like me.

And I don’t remember awedding.

I remember dancing, his award-winning smile, and how his long fingers caressed my body. He has the cutest dimple in his cheek. I remember shots, music, heat, and a laugh that felt like it cracked my ribs from the inside out.

But after that?

Blank.

I touch the diamond, like maybe it’ll tell me the story. Perhaps it will whisper the truth back to me like a scene from a movie. But it doesn’t. It just sparkles and taunts me.

Shay yells something about caffeine and Jesus and crime shows from the kitchen, and I barely register it—until her voice gets sharper.

“Kate!”

Oh god. What now?

Sheburstsinto my room holding her MacBook like she’s delivering a court summons.

Her eyes are enormous, like they’re popping out of her head. Her ponytail is crooked. She looks as if she’s priming herself for Halloween.

“You need to see this.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Youreallydo.” She slaps the laptop down in front of me and hits play.

The video’s grainy—shot on a phone, probably from across the room — but there we are. Elvis is in the picture.Elvis?

Then I focus on the couple.

Me andhim.

I’m in that fire-engine red minidress. He’s in those painted-on jeans. His arms were around my waist. My hands are in his hair. And we’remaking outlike we invented kissing.

The caption reads: “Stanley Cup Champion Finn Callahan and mystery girl GOING FOR GOLD #vegas #nhlchamp #whoisshe”

The comments are even worse.

“Damn she fine tho ”

“Wife???”