Page 49 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

“Traitor,” I spat, but honestly, I’m glad she’s not lonely.

I ring off with Shay, because I have work to do.

I grab my guitar and journal before I head to the solarium. I really want to explore my new surroundings and see the neighborhood, but duty calls. Luckily, I’m in my creative zone.

I sit on the white leather couch and strum a few chords.

I write notes and try them again, keeping a mental note of the time. We’re to fly to Connecticut for my show tomorrow. I’m meeting with Rusty, my guitarist, to go over my songs before the show tomorrow night.

By 3 PM, I’m packed and ready—but Finn’s nowhere to be found.

I called him, but it went to voicemail.

“Hello, this is Finn, you know what to do.”

I’m not going to dignify that with a message. How could he forget my concert?

I make arrangements for a commercial flight. Then, I rip a page from my journal and write: “This isn’t working. —K.”

I leave it on the kitchen counter.

Then, I throw my luggage and guitar into the white SUV, grabbing the keys off a hook in the laundry room on my way out.

He wants me to be independent? Well, this is what it looks like.

22

FINN

LIFTING THE CUP, DROPPING MY GUARD

“The Cup”Moment— The Happiest Play in Hockey

It’s Blake’s day with Lord Stanley, and we’re doing it right.

The sun is overhead, we’re standing with beers in hand, and the music is blaring from the Bluetooth speaker. Blake’s boat—more like a floating condo—rocks gently beneath us as we cast lines and talk trash.

Alexandre is dancing shirtless with a beer balanced on his head. Mikael is reeling in a fish while quoting The Godfather. Blake’s cackling like a madman as he dumps another catch into the Cup like we’re making some redneck bouillabaisse.

Someone snaps a photo—Mikael with a fish tail sticking out of the Cup and Blake mock-toasting it like fine champagne—and posts it with the caption:Greatest day ever. #StanleyShenanigans.

It probably goes viral.

But I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about how damnfunthis is. How rare it is to relax, to laugh until my stomach hurts, not to be anyone but one of the guys.

We drink. We fish. We swear like sailors. And for once, the world doesn’t feel so heavy. By the time I drag my ass home, the sun’s down and my hair is dusted with salt, sun, and beer. I’m hot and tired.

I walk into the house grinning like a fool, expecting to see Kate, but I’m greeted by a quiet house instead, and the disappointment hits me. The house istooquiet.

“Kate?” I call, already knowing she’s not here, because she would have greeted me by now. And when no one answers, I check the kitchen. Nothing. The bedroom. Empty. Her notebook’s gone. So are the shoes she hates and that denim jacket she wears when she’s feeling small.

Then I see it—a note on the counter.This isn’t working. —K.

I freeze. The words, scrawled in her handwriting, hit like a slap.

Shit. I fucked up.

I grab the note with my shaking hands. I read it a second time. Then a third time, and the words finally sink in.