Wife of the Rock God

ent viral in

ersial reality show, rock legend Ethan Lester, a man who hadn

ng with my microphone, a si

nst my hair, a feather-light t

ze. I

millions of people watchi

d to be strangers, two people from different divorced celebrity co

ernet e

showed a woman I barely recognized. Jocelyn Clark, the washe

blue-collar background who got lucky, married

r way into a top-tier music journalism program, the o

ld Nathaniel' s. I wrote his early press releases, coached him for int

Gabrielle Fuller, a saccharine pop-country princess, called me. She w

o let you know, Nathaniel' s credit card is maxed out. I tried to buy this gorge

cific rustle of the expensive sheets he

scream. I

rted filling it with every single thing he had ever bought

that night, I po

things, and

"What is this?

divorce,

d. "A divorce? Over a credit

t. He wanted to be with Gabrielle, and this was his easy way

-clad NDA, his smug face telling me he thou

as w

easel named Rick, called me. H

ond Takes.' It' s a chance for you and

show to look desperate and pathetic. They would stage a reconciliation attempt, I would cling to him, and he would gently reject me, looking like

lyn," Rick continued. "He wan

told him how much I missed Nathaniel,

," I sobbed

elief was

ia. She was my former editor at Rolling Stone and wa

bait," I said, m

out this, Jo? Thi

financial records, receipts he' d carelessly left around, conversations I' d record

onciliation. It was to gather the last pieces of evidence I n

e smiles. The producers gathered the four of us on a

nto each other' s eyes for the cameras. It was a nauseating performance. Th

SO in love!

much happie

e she' s about to

nnounced the sh

partners! Nathaniel, you' ll be paired with Gabrielle! And Jocelyn... you'

l' s smile faltered. He had no idea

n Le

Grammys with his debut album a decade ago and then vanished. He was a ghost, a myth.

the entire room. He was dressed in simple black jeans and a worn t-shirt, his dark hair falling o

cond. There was no recognition in h

Rocky Mountains, a collection of rustic-chic ca

cabins: the "heart rate challenge." We were all fitted with monitors,

lted conversation, a forced, awkward kiss. Their heart rates barely moved. Their o

o fake. I'

ro chemistry.

d to my cabin. The door opene

with a tension that had nothing to do with the camera

d his hand

said, my voice

his wrist went haywire. It beeped erratically, the screen fla

in. "What happene

his hand away, his e

said, his voice a low

tching from his own cabin, looked li

use of his suspiciously low heart rate after the malfunction

aying in the

el on the outskirts of Nashville. A

stale cigarettes and regret. It was a place from a pa