I don’t hear from Ransom for the rest of the day and I assume he’s drying out after last night’s antics. So I focus on the person who’s really important—my husband. Tucker needs me more than anyone else right now. When I left, he was still asleep, which was surprising considering that I’ve never known him to sleep past 7 A.M. even on the weekends. I was only able to squeeze in a couple hours of shuteye when Caleb hit me up for coffee.

“Hey babe, you hungry?” he calls out from the kitchen over the sounds of Coltrane. The aromas of griddle-melted butter, fried pork, and syrup caress my senses.

“Starving,” I answer, kicking off my shoes and stowing my purse before padding toward him on bare feet. “Whatcha making?”

He waves his spatula like a magician’s wand toward the various pans on the glass range. “I’ve got scrambled eggs, bacon—the real stuff, no turkey crap—and I’m almost done with the pancakes. Champagne is chilling in the fridge along with the OJ for mimosas.”

I take that as my cue and, after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, go to prepare our drinks. Even though I was hoping to catch a few extra hours of sleep, there’s no way I can deny us this rare, uninterrupted quality time. Sundays used to be sacred to us—we’d go to the farmer’s market, cook together, listen to Tuck’s records, and just relax and recharge for the week ahead. Yet for the past couple years, we’ve used the day to catch up on unfinished projects and separate activities. Seeing Tucker move around the kitchen, grooving to “A Love Supreme” makes me miss the old us. It makes me crave the togetherness we once shared. Seeing him now is like looking through new eyes. It’s still a wonderful sight, but it’s not familiar to me. And that makes me sad.

“Feel free to change the music if you want,” he offers as he flips the last batch of pancakes. “Or turn it off if you want.”

“No, this is fine,” I smile between sips of my cocktail.

And actually, it is.

MONDAY REARS its ugly head before I’m ready, but at least I feel better than I have in ages. A lazy Sunday was just what the doctor ordered, and I get to the office ten minutes early, bearing donuts no less.

“Oh, shit,” Tamara remarks, taking a peek at the glazed confections. “And these aren’t even gluten free. Girl, Dr. D must’ve put it on you real good this weekend!”

She holds up a hand for me to slap but I ignore her and retreat to my office, shaking my head the entire way.

“We will not talk about my sex life, understand? So go eat your deep fried breakfast before I replace them with bran muffins.”

Tamara laughs me off and comes to sit on the edge of my desk. Why the hell do I let her get away with this shit? Anyone else would be limping out of here if they’d done that. Metaphorically, of course.

“So you want to tell me what’s going on with you and that sexy ass rock god?”

I power on my iMac and busy my eyes and hands with reading messages from last week. Anything that will help school my features into something other than What-the-fuck-am-I-really-that-transparent shock. “Who? Ransom?”

“Uh, duh. What other fine-as-fuck musicians were you damn near tonguing down this weekend?”

“Tam . . .”

“I’m just saying . . . that boy wants you like fat chicks want fat-free cupcakes.”

“Well . . . I don’t want him.” Lies.

“You don’t? Not even a little bit?”

“Nope. Not interested.” All lies.

A devilish grin broadens her plump, red-stained lips. “Well . . . can I have him?”

“Um . . . I don’t think you’re his type, Tam,” I snicker.

“What? You don’t think he likes brown girls?”

“No. I don’t think he likes dick.”

Tamara rolls her eyes and waves off the remark like I just told her he prefers red wine to white. “Girl, please. A man doesn’t know what he likes until he tries it. And trust me . . . once you get a taste of this chocolate bar, you won’t ever wanna satisfy your sweet tooth with nothing else. I’ll turn that pretty boy into a full blown chocoholic!”

Great. Yet, another addiction for Mr. Reed.

“Look, this has been fun,” I say, lifting a slender, arched brow. “But I don’t pay you to talk about your raunchy fantasies. Don’t you have some work to do?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers, sliding her round backside from my desk. “Just one more thing. Can I go with you to The Tonight Show taping today? My new ex-boyfriend is going to be there!”

“No,” I shake my head. “Hell no.”

“Aw, come on, boss lady. I’ll be good.”

“No, Tam. I’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t need your out-of-control libido to be one of them. Now go do your job before I find someone to do it for you. Those interns are just itching to knock you off your stilettos, and I’m starting to feel like letting them.”

“Fine! I’m going. But you can’t keep him all to yourself if you’re not going to do anything with him, you know,” she retorts before quickly shutting my office door before I can fire back.

The day crawls at a snail’s pace, and I find myself staring at the clock more often than not, waiting for five o’clock to hit. Ransom will get to Studio 6B earlier for necessary sound checks, and while I am tempted to show up for that, I don’t want to seem too anxious. Caleb is there; he’s got it. And while it’s perfectly reasonable for one’s publicist to be present for all publicized events, it just seems a little thirsty to pop up for rehearsals. Lord knows we don’t need any speculation from anyone else.

I make it a point to arrive on time to show that I’m all about business. And while I may be decked out in new Stella McCartney, my look is chic and professional. I’m here to work, and nothing else.

“You’re here,” Caleb remarked, looking genuinely surprised when he spots me in the green room.

“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head, not even bothering to finish. And, honestly, he doesn’t have to.

“So where are the guys?” The guys . . . yeah right.

“You know the drill. Quiet meditation before performances. Ransom has been insisting on it since as long as I can remember.”

I peg him with a look that screams, Oh, come on! “So you mean to tell me, even knowing about his”—my eyes dart around to ensure no listening ears are near—“issues, you never questioned what he was doing before every show?”

The answer seems painstakingly obvious. He’s getting high, for Christ’s sakes! Ransom wants to be left alone so he can get lifted in peace. Meditate, my ass.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Caleb claims before I have to say it out loud. “And you’re wrong. Music is the only thing that kid is serious about. He never performs less than completely sober, not even a drop of beer. It’s the one pure part of him that he keeps for himself. The one thing that he can offer with one hundred percent honesty.”

I stare at Caleb for a long beat, waiting for the rest of the joke, but he only gazes back with total confidence. He’s telling the truth. He really believes that the only time Ransom isn’t high is when he is on stage. Humph. Interesting. Maybe what they say about artists is true. Maybe their art truly is the source of their sanity and the villain of their demise.

We watch the show from backstage, jamming out to The Roots and laughing at Jimmy’s witty banter. He slow jams the news and plays Password with Reese Witherspoon and Josh Duhamel. It’s great, all lighthearted fun and games. But when Jimmy introduces tonight’s musical guest, Ransom, to the stage, I instantly know that shit just got real.

“Fuck,” Caleb spits out under his breath as the lights go up to reveal the foursome, all decked out in black. The music starts, and the roaring crowd simultaneously calms into hushed silence.

“What?” I know something isn’t right, but I’m just not sure what it is.

Caleb pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously. He doesn’t look up when he answers. “The motherfucker changed the song they rehearsed. This isn’t what they prepared at sound check.”