“Thank you, Pittsburgh!” I wave to the audience one last time and let the waves of their adoring energy wash over me. There are moments like this when it’s good. It’s very good. People spent their hard-earned money to see me perform live, and I gave them the best show I could. As always, I can only hope I gave them their money’s worth—the wall of rapturous applause tells me I did.

The moment I’m offstage, one of the stage managers drapes a towel over my shoulders and leads me to my dressing room. There are smatterings of applause all around me as the crew congratulates me and the band on another great show. I thank the band too. Without them I would be singing on an empty stage, probably to no one. I gulp down half a bottle of water before I even reach the dressing room.

There have been nights when I’ve sweat out three, four pounds during a show, depending on the lighting rig that tour and the amount of movement around the stage. This one is a three-sixty design, so I’m playing to the back as well as to the audience in front of me. I’m always running from here to there, all while trying to sing. My trainer would be proud of how well I did tonight.

One of my strict rules is that I be left alone after a show. I need time to decompress. Sure, there’s a lot of adrenaline flowing—especially after a great show—but I can’t be around too many people. It’s overwhelming after I’ve already left it all out there onstage. How some people party all night with groupies after giving a three-hour show is beyond me.

The dressing room is a decent size, nicely appointed. I’m used to all sorts of rooms, depending on how nice the arena is. I’ve crammed myself, my wardrobe and my makeup into rooms the size of a small closet, and I’ve had entire suites all to myself. This particular room falls right in the middle.

Most singers would have an entourage waiting for them, but I don’t like that. Another thing that sets me apart, I guess. I can’t see myself keeping a bunch of hangers-on who just want to get what they can from me so that I can appear to have a huge entourage as befits my status as a big time celebrity.

It means I’m alone a lot of the time, but I’m not lonely. I like my solitude. Just last week I wrote the best song I’ve ever written. I poured all my pain into it and it’s good. It’s really good.

I open another bottle of water and take my time drinking this one.

“It was a good show. You did great.” I stare into my eyes in the mirror and repeat this several times, then smile, but it’s an empty smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. They look defeated. Empty. I will always pretend to be happy and upbeat for my fans because I appreciate them. I know they don’t have to come out and see me, but they do, so they deserve me at my best. It is hard work pretending and now that I’m alone again, I’m exhausted.

I feel myself deflating like a balloon.

I sigh and sit on the dressing table stool. How much longer am I going to feel this way? It’s already been three weeks since the Cole Incident, which is what I’m calling it. Three of the longest weeks of my life. I credit the new tour for pulling me out of it, well to a point, anyway. At least I have an excuse to get out of bed in the morning, and by the time I go to bed I’m too exhausted to do much thinking.

It was much worse before the tour started. I think I spent the first week in bed, pretty much. I would only get out long enough for the maid to change the sheets and freshen things up. Rachael would bring the food that the chef prepared up to me even though I said I didn’t want any. She even sat with me one time and waited until I finished an amount she thought was enough.

I know I’m lucky to have such good people in my life. I don’t know if they really do but they seem to care. Maybe because I’ve always tried to be good to them. I didn’t know that would come in handy the way it has.

Since that week, I’ve been doing everything I can to keep myself busy. Always looking for something to distract myself from my issues. I don’t know any other way right now. My schedule is all that’s keeping me going. I work out to stay in shape so I don’t collapse on stage. I eat well so I have the energy for the punishing hours and the energetic dance routines.

That’s all I have. My schedule.

I cling to it like a life raft. Sure, I have my friends, but they’re hi-bye friends. They’re there, but I’m not really sure they have my best interests at heart. I think it’s hard to be friends with someone who is more successful. You can’t help the envy and jealousy. I don’t blame them. If I were in their shoes, I’d probably be jealous of my success too. I forget now, but someone said something very true once. You can have friends or you can have fame and fortune, but you can’t have both.

I pull out my cold cream and start taking off the layers of makeup. I always feel more like myself after I take it off. Once that’s done, I change out of my show clothes and into sweats, then leave the costume for the costumer to take to the drycleaners.

I sit back down to brush out my hair, but all I want to do is go to sleep. When I’m asleep, I don’t have to think about him, or how lonely I am. Or how much I was looking forward to another life with him. He made everything sound so good, so perfect that I started to believe him. I wanted it so much.

Cole Finley created the perfect illusion, but that is all it was. A magic trick by a consummate magician.

I’m right back where I started, and it feels even more empty than it did before. Even with the lights all over and tens of thousands of people chanting my name, my life feels empty. I feel empty.

The knock at the door stirs me out of my miserable trance. “Yes?”

Everybody knows not to bother me unless it’s important. It’s probably Maria wanting to pick up the costume, but when the door opens, it isn’t Maria. It’s not my manager, or one of the roadies either reflected in the mirror.

“Catherine?” I can’t believe my eyes.

It’s been eight years, but she doesn’t look a day older than when I last saw her. Just slightly more ‘preserved’. She was a beauty in her day and it is from her that Cole inherited his beautiful hazel eyes flecked with gold.

I stand and turn around.

“Hello, Taylor,” she says softly, in that deeply cultured voice of hers.

“Come in,” I say automatically. I’m just so surprised.

She closes the door and comes into the small room. Her subtle perfume and her expensive shampoo fill the air, scents I’ve always associated with her.

“What are you doing here?” I’m not unhappy to see her. I didn’t care for her husband who was openly hostile, but she kept her feelings about me under wraps. So we always managed to have a cordial relationship.

“I was in town, and I heard you were performing tonight. I couldn’t help but come out to see you.”

My eyebrows rise. “You saw the show? If I had known you wanted to see it, I would’ve gotten you box seats, or something.”

“That’s all right. We have a suite reserved for when we’re in town.”

“Oh. Of course.” I should’ve known. I always forget how well off they are. I should know better. They don’t even live in Pittsburgh but they have a suite reserved for them here. I guess they do a lot of business here. “Have a seat.” I pull up a chair for her. “Would you like something to drink? I could call for some vodka?”

“Oh, no, honey. I didn’t come here to put you out like that.”

“You wouldn’t be putting me out. It’s no trouble at all.” I go to pick up the phone.

She shakes her head demurely. “That’s all right. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I know you must be tired after … what’s the saying? Leaving it all out there on the stage.”

I laugh for the first time in weeks. Ironic how her son broke my heart but she’s the one who makes me laugh. “You got it. Very nice.”

“Thank you. I still remember some of the lingo from the old days.” She sighs, and her beautiful face takes on a bittersweet expression. “It doesn’t seem like that long ago, does it?”

“No. It doesn’t.” Did she come to reminisce? I hope not. I also hope she doesn’t want to talk about Cole, but I don’t believe for a second that she came to see me perform.

She folds her well-manicured hands in her lap, and they rest on top of her crocodile Birkin bag. She always was stylish. “I feel like the two of us need to talk, Taylor.”