Page 112 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

Looking down at my hand, I grimace. I defiantly wear the engagement ring that started it all. I tell myself it’s just to avoid talk, but I know the truth. I wear it as a reminder—of what could have been.

I think about texting him, telling him about finishing the film, about how I finally understand what he meant about needing quiet to decompress. My fingers hover over his name in my contacts.

But I don’t.

Because sometimes, the hardest part of caring for someone is knowing when to let them go.

Instead, I go through the photos I’m not ready to delete, like those of me and the Wild Band. The pictures of us having dinner with his mother. I curiously pull up recent online photos of Nate, zooming in before I can stop myself, searching for signs that he misses me as much as I miss him. But all I see is the careful distance in his eyes, and my heart aches. Raising my head, I take a deep breath and put my phone away. Then, for the first time in weeks, I breathe—really breathe—without feeling like I’m performing for an invisible audience. Turning, I go to bed—alone.

The next morning, the L.A. sunrise looks different, gentler somehow. I’ve just finished my morning run. The quiet exercise gives me space to think, breathe, and just exist without expectations.

Rachel sends over the future schedule for the movie’s press tour. Numerous cities, countless interviews. Before, the thought would have overwhelmed me. Now, I scan the itinerary with clear eyes. I can do this. I’ll take it one day at a time.

“Ready for the movie to be finished?” My sister asks during a morning call.

I smile, genuine and unscripted. “Actually, I think I’m ready for whatever comes next.”

She pauses, and I can hear her concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “But I will be.”

And the thing is—I actually believe it.

Later, as I put away my laundry, I find Nate’s t-shirt. The one that I kept—the one I couldn’t bear to leave behind. I hold it against my chest for a moment, remembering how he looked in it stretched across his impossibly broad shoulders and his text when he said it looked better on me. The memories hit like waves, threatening to pull me under.

I could mail it back. Should, probably.

Instead, I tuck it into my drawer. Some memories deserve to be kept, even if the story didn’t end as planned. But then I give a hallow laugh. We planned for our fake engagement to end after six months. So why does my heart feel like it’s being ripped from my chest? Why does every song on the radio remind me of him? Why do I still catch myself planning to tell him things before remembering I can’t anymore?

My phone vibrates—a text from the movie’s director. The first cut is ready for screening.

I close my eyes, feeling something settle in my chest. One chapter ends, and another begins.

And this time, I’m writing my own story—even if it doesn’t include my very own prince charming.

Thirty-Six

Nate

We’re in Miami tonight for a one-night-only sold-out show.

I slam into the drums harder, letting the vibrations rattle through my bones as the Wild Band tears through our latest single. The crowd is wild, their energy electric, but it barely touches me. The music should be enough—it used to be enough. But not anymore.

Now, without her in my life, every beat, every rhythm pounds in my chest without meaning. The energy of the crowd washes over me, but it doesn’t sink in. The music, once my refuge, feels empty—it’s just noise. Without Lacey, it all feels off, like playing a song with the wrong rhythm, the melody slightly out of tune. Sweat drips down my neck, my muscles burning as I poureverything I have into the beat. It should feel good. It used to feel good.

“Good night, Miami!” Cass’s voice reverberates through the crowd as we make our final encore. The audience roars with approval, clapping their applause. It’s an energy that always previously felt like more than enough. Now, it just echoes in the spaces she left behind.

Another few days have gone by, and I can hardly think straight. Sleep barely comes, and when it does, it’s restless—filled with half-remembered dreams of her laughter, her touch, the way she felt against me. I skip meals without thinking, my stomach too twisted up to care. Conversations slip past me, and I catch the guys exchanging worried glances, like they’re not sure how much longer I can keep going like this. But the truth is, neither am I.

The loss of Lacey haunts me, creeping into every quiet moment, every beat of the music. I go through the motions—playing the shows, doing my job—but the spark is gone. The guys are really getting concerned. They keep glancing my way like they’re just waiting for me to crack.

But it’s Emily who’s finally brave enough to try one more time to get through to me.

The green room is strangely silent as the rest of the band leaves me alone to stew. The door quietly opens, and it’s Emily. “I wasn’t sure if I should share this with you or not. But I think you need to know.”

At my confused look, she hands me her iPad so I can read the emails.

My eyes scan the first letters from Family First’s board of directors. Words jump out at me: ‘unprecedented response,’ ‘donation surge,’ ‘expansion possibilities.’ My throat tightens as I scroll further.

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