Funeral for My Living Wife

My wife—Nancy Valente—had been "missing" for three months after some fake skiing accident. I spotted her at a bar.

She was draped over Finley Bennett's shoulder, laughing like she hadn't wrecked my life.

"Good thing you came up with this plan. I almost forgot what freedom felt like."

Her crew kept clinking glasses, asking when she planned to pop back up.

She glanced down. "Maybe in a week. I'll show up once he's lost his mind."

I stayed in the shadows, watching her bask in her little escape act. Then I grabbed my phone and called a buddy at the Vital Records Office.

"I'm filing Nancy's death certificate."

"You're done looking?" my friend asked, voice low through the phone.

I stared at Nancy, curled up in Finley's arms. My throat tightened. "She can't be found."

What's the point of finding someone who wants to disappear?

I hung up and headed back to the booth.

Hugh—my ride-or-die since forever—clocked the look on my face and handed me a drink.

"Nancy's been gone three months. There's no way she made it. You gotta let her go."

I stared at the glass, then knocked it back. The burn stung my eyes.

I cleared my throat. "You think someone would ever fake their disappearance just to mess with their husband?"

He shot me a glare. "That's messed up. Anyone who'd pull that crap? Dead to me."

I wiped my eyes, grabbed my coat.

"You're right. Time to let her go." Then I walked out and headed home.

The house was dead quiet. It always was—but for the last three months, that silence hit different. Every night, I'd flip on all the lights, make Nancy's favorite coffee, set out her favorite fruit. Like she'd just walk through the door.

But if she didn't want me, why not just get a divorce? Why stage a fake ski accident and vanish?

I sank onto the couch and picked up the little figurines of us from the coffee table.

Back then, she'd leaned against me, laughing. "If I'm ever not around, let these two keep you company."

Her voice from the bar crashed into the memory.

"Jensen wasn't so bad before. But after we got married, he got annoying. Wouldn't let me drink, wouldn't let me eat junk food, always hovering. He drove me nuts. Faking my death? Consider it a lesson."

Finley topped off her drink. "Aren't I the best? All these years, and I've never treated you like that."

"Yeah, yeah, best guy friend."

They kept tossing the word 'friend' around, but their legs were tangled under the table.

The memory made me want to puke.

I chucked the figurines in the trash, grabbed my phone, and blasted out a group text.

[Nancy Valente passed away in an accident three months ago. Funeral's next week.]

Yeah—no body, just the funeral.

The replies came in fast:

[You didn't even find her body. How can you hold a funeral?]

[Jensen Johnston, are you seriously losing it? What if she's not dead?]

[If Nancy shows up and sees her own funeral, she's gonna flip. You sure you wanna piss her off like that?]