Page 148 of Slapshot Bride

The house is quiet when I walk in.

That’s how I know she’s asleep. I’m later than I said I’d be. I know she’s upstairs, in my bed. And the thought… it does something to me.

I’m smiling at nothing, like an idiot, as I take the stairs, two at a time, with my bag.

I’ve got something for her. Something she’s been wanting for weeks. She’d give me hell for spending that much on her, but I’ll take it.

I know she’ll love it, and that’s all that matters.

It's a camera. Brand new. The exact model she'd been looking at on my laptop back in the spring, never realizing I'd caught her browsing it.

The room is dark when I push the door open. As quietly as I can, I place my bag on the floor and walk towards the bed.

I pull the covers off, but it’s empty.

“Riley, sweetheart…” I move to the light switch and flick it on. The room is immediately illuminated with the bright light, and that’s when I see it.

The bed is empty. She’s not on the bed. She’s not home.

If she were home, she’d be in bed. Or in the living room. But the car is in the driveway.

What the fuck is going on?

“Riley…” I call out like she’ll miraculously appear, but my voice only echoes off the walls.

I check the guest room.

Everything is where it’s always been. Her books stacked on the nightstand, the sweater she wore last week folded over the chair, the drugstore frame on the dresser.

Nothing’s missing.

That should make me feel better. It doesn’t, and I don’t stop long enough to ask myself why.

I go back downstairs.

“Riley?”

The kitchen light is off. Her notebook is on the island where she usually leaves it. There’s a mug in the drainer.

She’s out. That’s all. She got a call about a gig, and she’s running late. That’s what I tell myself to ease the fear.

The one that’s nagging at the pit of my stomach.

I pull out my phone and call her. Except I see the camera.

It’s on the counter, next to the coffee maker.

The call goes through. It rings four times, and then her voice, bright and slightly embarrassed, the outgoing message she recorded in my car three weeks ago while I laughed at her:

Hi, it’s Riley, leave a message and I’ll call you back, probably.

I move closer to the camera, and something else catches my eye.

It’s squared up—a folded paper. There’s a pen laid beside it. I grab it and unfold it. Her writing is sprawled across it.

Easton,

I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. The fake thing, the hiding, all of it. It was never going to be real, and we both knew it. You gave me my life back, and now I have to go live it. Please don’t come after me. This is what I want.