Too Late, Mr. Rockstar

ache. On stage, my husband, Ethan Lester, bathed in the white-hot spotlight, raised a

the microphone, his voice raw with emotion.

orward and threw her arms around him. They kissed, a long,

y cake box. Inside was a custom-made, multi-layered black velvet cake, deco

le. The box felt like it

he throng, heading for the backstage door. I needed t

es first, huddled i

in, asked Ethan as he swaggered over. "You just

vin's cigarette and scoffed, t

deal. Gabrielle ju

ut a har

h girl playing dres

leather jacket I wore, the ripped fishnets, the heavy black eyeliner-it was all a costume I put

I turned and walked away, my vision blurring. Outside, in the grimy al

fect, intricate dessert I had spent two days creating. Then I shoved the whole thing deep