Platinum

By Sandra Alex

A rock star. An author. A relationship like oil and water. A miracle is their only hope. And then one happens.

Tommy Stopliewicz is the insanely talented yet troubled lead guitarist in one of the world’s top rock bands, aptly named ‘Stop’. The band’s works have never seen platinum status, and then a band member threatens to remove their gold status for good in one fell swoop. Never one to back down, Tommy is suddenly headfirst in the pursuit of his life and livelihood. Until he’s invited to a charity fundraiser that changes his life forever.

Debbie Branscombe has just become a New York Times bestselling author, but the status doesn’t live up to its expectations, especially since she’s raising two teenage girls on her own. Holding a full-time job and squeezing in time to write, while she and her girls continue to mourn for their beloved father and husband, is no easy task. When she’s invited to donate books to a charity fundraiser, and recite a reading, she jumps at the huge PR potential. Little does she know that one of her favorite bands has also donated to the event. When Tommy sits in the sidelines as Debbie does the reading of her book, he’s instantly enthralled and a spark strikes him unlike any other. But is Debbie ready not only to enter into a relationship so soon after her husband’s death, but, to a rock star?

Debbie soon learns that there are elements to the lifestyle that are dangerous to say the least, and Tommy is soon begging her to stay. But it isn’t just Debbie’s life at stake here, it’s her kid’s lives, too. Tommy must give up the one thing that he’s done his entire adult life, or he’ll lose the one and only woman that he’s ever loved, forever. But the saving grace for him is that that one thing isn’t his guitar...

A heartbreaking, tear-jerking story about second chance love that will tug at your heartstrings. An eye-opener, a lesson and a heartwarming story are all baked right into this epic romance that will leave you wanting more. Fall in love with this unforgettable rock star romance today!

HEA (Happily Ever After)
Rock star romance
Second chance romance
Medium heat
Drug abuse
Alcohol abuse
Mild violence
Course language
Third book in a standalone series
Sneak peek into 'World Tour'

"I loved this story and the characters and I can’t wait to read the next book in this series and I definitely recommend this book." - 5 Stars from Caroline Doig, Booksprout reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Alex
• Release date: Aug 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989427507

Sandra Alex

Meet your next book boyfriend.Love stories that could actually happen.About the AuthorSandra Alex introduces the Ford brothers. Five sexy, rich, swoon-worthy men that will make your toes curl. Each book features one sibling. This sizzling series will knock your socks off!Proceed with Caution:"White knight, prince charming romance. This book was an awesome read. I enjoyed every page. Who doesn't love a prince charming and white knight! I liked the story, the characters, how it was written, the hot scenes and the HEA. I'll be reading more from this author." -5 stars from M. Hebert on Goodreads and BookBubEnter at Your Own Risk:"This book was a great read! I loved the main characters and how they were able to deal with what life threw at them. Sexual situations that were steamy and hott! Relatable heroine. I wanted to cheer for them as a couple. Bridezilla was funny too!" - 5 stars from C. Kasner on GoodreadsHandle with Care:"This poignant story draws you in and touches your heart. Garrett and Nora are a testament that true love never dies." - 5 Stars from M. Jelks-Emmanuel on GoodreadsJoin Sandra's newsletter to get an exclusive prequel and an extended epilogue, plus other....treats.Visit https://www.sandraalexbooks.com to subscribe.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tommy

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The door slamming is what wakes me up and makes me open one eye. With my retina burning from the morning sunshine, I feel my stomach lurch and my head pound, and curse the asshole who slammed the fucking door. A half full bottle of whiskey lays on the floor next to me, as does a mirror with remnants of last night’s hit still dusted on it. Stomping feet approach, and another door slams behind me, as I lay my head back down on the floor, defeated. Whoever it is they can fuck the hell off. I’m not ready to get up yet.

Tommy, you fucking loser, get up! my bandmate, Russell, shouts, or at least I think he shouts, because any sound is amplified with the huge hangover I have. I checked your mail, man. When was the last time you walked to the box? The shit was pouring out of it.

He walks past my head, dumping a pile of mail beside my face, as he picks up the whiskey bottle and observes it, and then puts it back down where he found it. You didn’t drain it, man. You slipping? he teases.

Fuck you. I sneer, my voice is gravelly. Hand me a beer from the fridge, will you?

Russell scoffs. Like you fucking need it.

Hair of the dog, man. Works every time.

Tell you what. His voice is flat. If you can pick your ass up off the fucking floor, you can get it yourself.

Thanks, asshole.

Ignoring me, Russell picks the mail up off the floor, and shuffles through it. My guitar is laying dangerously close to the open whiskey bottle, and my head is only a couple of feet from my amps. I can see the wire from my microphone snaking past me, and I realize that Russell is pulling it away. Russell is the lead singer in my band, ‘Stop’, a nickname for me that stuck from back in high school, paying homage to my surname, ‘Stopliewicz’.

Russell turns the speaker on and begins talking through the microphone, both pissing me off and causing me immense pain at the same time. Your water bill came in, you want me to open it? the sound reverberates through my head, making me want to puke.

You fucking asshole! Cut it out or I’m going to fucking toss my cookies all over my amps!

He ignores me. Oh, your fucking Visa bill is large!

If I get up off this floor, you’re a fucking carcass, man! I scream, even though my head pounds.

I hear the front door open, but thankfully, it doesn’t slam.

Yo, you want this coupon, man? Twenty-five percent off at Denny’s. he continues, talking through the microphone. This time even louder. I plug my ears instead of trying to get up, knowing that if I lift my head, the Chinese food we ordered last night, well, more like at three o’clock this morning, when we finished jamming, will be all over my guitar.

I recognize Paul’s snakeskin leather boots next to my nose, as I hear him shout at Russell and pull the microphone from his hand. Yo, you okay, Tommy? Paul asks, kneeling so he can see my face. You drank a shitload last night, man. And then you snorted nearly your body weight.

I’m fine if this fucker would cut it out. I say, reaching for Russell’s leg and punching it. I manage to get only a smack in, before he walks away, snickering at my lame attempt at revenge.

Hey, take it easy, man. Paul says fairly, addressing Russell, and then he looks back down at me. "You need some water or something, man? You need to fucking puke or something? I know that makes me feel better after a bender."

No, man, I just…I need a beer or something to take the edge off. Hand me one from the fridge, would you, man? Shithead over here wouldn’t give me one.

Russell ignores us, still rifling through my mail. Paul goes into the tiny bar fridge behind us and pulls out a beer. There is a metal bottle opener hanging on a string, taped to the top of the fridge. He removes the cap and hands me the beer. You gotta get up, man. Ain’t no way you can drink that from down there.

Slowly, like a baby learning how to roll over for the first time, I manage to get up into a semi-seated position and take the beer from him. Sipping gingerly, I feel like the cells in my body are coming alive as the cold brew settles in my stomach. Paul brings the mirror with a breath of blow still on it, over to me. You need a hit?

Na, man, this is fine. I answer, watching Russell rip open envelopes with my name on them. Would you fucking stay out of that?

I’m doing you a favor, man. From the dates on some of these letters, you haven’t opened your mail in weeks.

I tip my head back, drinking more. All I get is shit, anyway. What’s the point.

Hey, what if that Robin Leach guy, you know, from the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, tries to contact you?

So what.

How about that other…that...sweepstakes guy? he snaps his fingers together, trying to remember the name. Ed McMahon?! he shouts, finally, making me wince.

You’re such a dumb fuck! I grunt, and then I raise my voice. "Why would Robin Leach and Ed McMahon try to contact me! Do you not see my fucking recording studio? My fucking huge house behind us? The stack of custom-built cars in the driveway? Shut up, motherfucker!"

He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, Tommy. Relax. Paul says warily.

Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much, or do so much blow, man. Russell says, condescendingly.

You put enough of it away, too, man. We all did. I rake a hand through my hair.

Yeah, but I’m not the dude being scraped off the fucking recording studio floor. Russell chuckles snidely.

Easy, fellas. Paul warns, lifting a hand.

What the fuck are you two doing here so early in the morning, anyway? I ask, frustrated.

It’s noon, dude. Russell says. And we agreed that we’d rehearse some of the shit we worked on last night, before Lou gets here.

Lou is our producer. He’s helped us produce all of our records, with the exception of the first one, since our other producer retired.

What time is he supposed to be getting here? I ask, sipping more beer, feeling my body start to feel normal again.

Three o’clock, he said. Paul confirms. Terry’s going to be here shortly, too. He had to run a few errands first. He was fucking shitfaced this morning, too. Worse than you.

What, are you the official wake up crew now? I ask, good-naturedly.

Someone has to be. He shrugs.

Well, asshole face over here seems to think that he’s been given that task. I gesture towards Russell, who is getting to the last envelope in my pile of mail.

My fucking dog woke me up, man. Russell whines. I would’ve still been asleep.

Remind me to shoot your fucking ugly dog then. Russell has a decrepit old Jack Russell terrier that barks his face off at everything. Drives me nuts.

He ignores me and smiles, reading a letter from my mail. Hey, dude, you got a letter from some charity, asking for a donation. You want me to toss it?

Fuck…another one? Jesus Christ, that’s probably half my mail stack, isn’t it?

No, not really. This is the first I’ve seen.

What charity? I ask, curious. My beer is half empty now, and I’m loose.

Some…oh, they want you to donate a guitar, not money. He states, averting his answer. They’re going to auction it off for money. They say if it’s signed it would be wonderful, as they’ll get more coin for it.

Yeah, no shit. I mutter. What charity. It’s not that fucking Jehovah’s Witnesses one, is it? ‘Cause fuck them.

Why are you giving away your fucking money anyway, man? Paul asks. I wouldn’t.

That’s because you’re a fucking tight wad. I say flatly. "Look at your fucking shoes. And I’m the fucking Jew around here."

My ass. Russell argues. When was the last time you saw the inside of a fucking temple.

Paul gestures at Russell with his chin. Why do you care, dickwad.

I don’t. he shrugs.

Growing tired of listening to them, I finally sit upright, with my legs crossed under me. There is a bag of fortune cookies sitting on the floor, leftover from earlier. I pull one out and eat it. So, what charity is it, man?

Some children’s charity. He finally answers, handing me the letter. I read through it.

Does it look legit? Paul asks.

Yeah, pretty legit. It’s the children’s hospital here in LA. They’re having a silent auction fundraiser. It’s going to be some big to-do dinner and everything. You can buy a table for it, too, if you want.

Fuck, he’s turning into Mother Theresa. Russell chuckles snidely. You’re not going to buy a table for it, too, are you?

And so what if I do?

Why bother? You don’t have any kids. Russell argues.

So? I want them some day.

You? he laughs, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard.

What’s so funny? I want to be a dad some day.

Russell gestures to the floor, which is a disaster, full of garbage, my scotch bottle, my beer, the leftover food and blow, and my ass, still sitting in the middle of it. I’ve got a better chance of sprouting horns than you do of being a good dad. Sure, you can create one, hell, I’m surprised you don’t have illegitimate little assholes running around already, but to raise one, a good one…yeah, good luck.

Shut up, asshole. I’d make a better father than you. I pause. And, yeah, I’m going to buy a table for this thing, and I’m going to donate…at least three guitars, hell, maybe even four. We’re all going to sign them, and we’re all going to attend this shindig. It’s good PR.

Russell lifts a brow. Rock stars at a children’s charity function? his tone says that it’s ridiculous. Don’t you think we’ll stick out like sore thumbs?

Paul interrupts. We’re not going to perform, are we? Because don’t you think that’ll be just a tad inappropriate?

There’s not going to be kids there, I presume, stupid. I snap. And no, it says nothing about us performing. Besides, how bad would it be if we did? All of our songs are radio worthy. We have plenty of underage and school age fans. What’s the big deal?

"The big deal is us…playing at a charity. It sounds dumb and like we’re sucking up." Russell states.

Remember ‘Feed the World’? I ask. Lots of rockers do charity stuff.

That’s a song, stupid. Russell says.

I know that. But the point is that they did it for charity. I don’t mind doing it. Especially if it’s for kids.

Why? Russell laughs. Did you knock up that chick you banged earlier in the week?

Fuckoff. I say under my breath, reading further into the letter. Hey, it gives a list of other people who are donating stuff. This is pretty cool.

Paul takes a step towards me, interested. Oh yeah? What else have we got?

This draws Russell’s attention, too. He scoffs when he sees the list of other donors. Children’s books? Jesus, and you’re donating a bunch of guitars? This is going to go down like a clown show. Do you really want to go to this thing? It sounds more like something for the cast of Romper Room, not for a bunch of rockers.

Would you relax, man. I say, standing up. My head isn’t pounding quite as much, and my stomach is finally in a semi-happy place. These are items that are going to be auctioned off, not given to the kids. And besides, it’s not a children’s book, idiot. It says it’s a memoir.

What the fuck’s that mean?

Paul gives him a look. It’s another name for a biography, dumbass. He smiles at him. Maybe if you graduated high school and read more, you’d know that.

I read enough when I read our set lists. Russell comments, satisfied with himself. Besides, the only reading I need to do is reading music.

And even that’s a little sketchy at times. I comment.

Only when I’ve had a few. He shrugs.

We hear the front door open and Terry walks in, carrying his bass guitar, or, most of it. Yo! he throws his thumb in the air, smiling. Check it out! he lifts his guitar in the air. The neck is broken in half, and the strings are hanging like spaghetti. The body of it is crushed, as if it was stepped on. Yet, he’s surprisingly upbeat considering it looks like his guitar is a mangled mess.

What the fuck happened? I say almost in awe. To me, as a guitarist, it’s like losing one of my children when a guitar gets creamed like this.

Never mind that. Russell says. "Donate that to this stupid fucking charity event that Tommy is making us go to."

You’re such an asshole. I say to Russell. This guitar is done. It’s…kindling. I inspect it as if it needs to be inspected.

What’s the loser talking about? Terry thumbs at Russell.

I wave, dismissing the question.

The loser doesn’t take the hint. Tommy wants to donate a bunch of guitars to this children’s hospital.

Terry looks me up and down. Dude, you look like hell, man.

Thanks, man. I say quickly. Your guitar looks worse.

What’s this? You want to donate guitars? To a children’s hospital? Terry repeats.

And he wants to buy a table at the fundraiser dinner…and we all have to go. Russell adds facetiously, like you couldn’t pay him to go.

Terry frowns. I’ll go. Any chance that chicks are going to be there?

Probably. Russell answers.

"Like…hot ones?" Terry adds.

Chick doctors are hot. Russell says, and I’m growing irritated.

"Nurses, stupid. Paul corrects. Chick nurses are hot."

The door opens again, and I look up to see Lou, our producer, walk in. Heeeeyyyy!! he calls out, smiling. When he reaches the recording pod that we’re standing in, he looks around at the junk on the floor, as if seeing exactly what he expected. His tone is flat. So, Tommy. You drunk still or tying one on again?

This is my first beer. I say, holding the bottle up. I’m ready to go once this guy tells us who the fuck ate his guitar. I gesture with my chin towards Terry.

Yo, Lou! Russell calls as Lou walks to the soundboard in the room next to us, as if ignoring the banter. You want to go to some swanky fundraiser for a children’s hospital?

Would you let it go, idiot? Paul says.

Lou gives me a look. Fundraiser? Since when do you give anyone financial support, other than your junkie?

Fuck you. I mutter. And they’re not asking for money. They want me to donate a guitar.

And a table at the shindig. Russell reminds.

If you’re trying to impress the ladies, I’m all for it. Lou states. But I think that some of your fans will think that you’re a pansy for it.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, shithead. I argue. More than half of our fan base is female, and they love that kind of shit. And it sets a good example for the male fans, too. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to have a press conference there or anything. Not much publicity will come from this, if any at all. I add. And I’m not doing it for anything, other than the fact that it’s for a children’s hospital.

Because he wants to be a daddy someday. Russell teases, using a baby voice.

"Shut up, loser. With those tight pants you wear, at least I have a hope in hell of procreating."

Yours are tight enough, too.

Whatever, dude. I raise my hand, palm flat, out to him.

Suddenly, the phone rings. I pick it up. Yeah.

A female voice is on the other end. Mister Stopliewicz?

That’s me.

Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to bother you. It’s Melanie from the Fund Development Department over at Oaks Children’s Hospital.

Oh, yeah, hi. Yeah, I just opened your letter.

Thank goodness. She says. I’m not sure if you noticed, but there is a deadline to respond on there, and it passed already.

Oh, no. I hadn’t noticed.

Yes, sir, I’m afraid the letter was sent over a month ago. There must have been some sort of delay, which is why I’m following up.

Yeah, sorry. I don’t check my mail that much. Bills.

I understand, sir. She pauses. Are you interested in making a donation to the fundraiser, sir?

Yes, actually, I am. I look up at the guys, they give me blank looks, all except for Russell, who is shaking his head. I’d also like to buy a table.

Oh, that’s awfully gracious of you, sir. Would you like to take care of that now?

I say yes, and she takes my credit card information to purchase the table. I tell her that I’d like to donate some guitars and she is so pleased she must say thank you a dozen times. After the event, I’ll be sure to send you a tax receipt for all this, sir.

Oh, that’s okay.

She thanks me and we hang up, after she gives me the details. The fundraiser is in one week, so there isn’t enough time for her to mail me the tickets. When I hang up, Lou is ready to go at the soundboard, and while I’d been talking to Melanie, the guys lost interest and started setting up for our rehearsal. You guys realize that this is a black-tie event, right?

I figured as much. Paul shrugs. Things like that usually are.

You guys ready to roll? Lou asks. The soundproof door between the pod and the sound room has been closed, so we can only hear Lou’s voice from the overhead speakers.

I look at Terry. He looks at me. I say to him. Yeah, just as soon as this guy tells us what happened to his goddamn guitar.

Terry looks at the floor, still covered in the remnants of last night’s debauchery. He shakes his head. You know, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

Chapter 2

Debbie

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As I unlock my front door, I can hear it. In all its glory. Silence. The whole house is shrouded in quiet. My lips curl into a smile. Nobody screaming or yelling, no fighting, and nobody running to me screaming angrily, ‘Mom, look what she did!’. It’s the best…sixty seconds of my life. My shoes don’t even make it off my feet before I’m trampled by my kids coming in the door behind me. One is laughing and the other is shouting to the other one to stop laughing at her.

Mom! Would you get out of the way?! Georgia whines. I have to pee really bad!

Alright, just give me a second. I mutter.

Maybe if you weren’t flirting with James before boarding the bus, you might have had time to pee. Mylee taunts.

Don’t you two start. I warn, getting away from the door before Georgia pees on my feet. I’ve had a really long day at work, and now I get to come home and cook dinner.

Why are you home so early, mom? Mylee asks as Georgia bolts to the bathroom, and a steady stream of urine is heard.

I have to work a little from home tonight, but I came home early. It’s a practice that I’ve been getting into for the last year, since my kids all but gave me a nervous breakdown expressing their distaste over the after-school program I had them enrolled in. It was a year of bickering back and forth, but once my boss allowed me to do some work from home, this scenario has been working out. Why Mylee repeatedly asks me why I’m home early is beyond me. She asks me at least once a week, but the therapist says that this is normal for a grieving child.

Bryan, my husband, died a few years ago in a horrid industrial accident. He was an electrician, working on a huge project with a local builder, and someone got stupid one day. He was electrocuted and died on the spot. Months of counselling and therapy later, we’re finally in a good place, me and the girls. Luckily, Mylee and Georgia are grown; Mylee approaching teenage hood, and Georgia a year behind. The first year was really tough, but we’re coming right along. Georgia even asked me the other day if I’d ever considered dating again. I laughed and sloughed her off, since Bryan and I married so young, and I’d really not dated anyone before. The thought never entered my mind.

Of course, my days of working a full-time job are numbered, since the book that I wrote last year hit the New York Times bestseller list. After dabbling in writing since Mylee was a baby, one of my works has finally made it. Since Mylee could talk, I’ve been jotting down all the funny and cute things my girls say into a diary that I kept in the kitchen, and when I finally had enough of a collection in hand, I made it into a book and submitted it to publishing agents. It was accepted and the rest is history.

After that book, I fell in love with writing, and I’ve been writing every day since. It’s become such a practice for me, that I find myself making up scenes in my mind constantly. I use a pad and pen I keep in my purse to write the ideas down when I’m on the move, and I’ve become so prolific I can create a full-length novel in six weeks if I set my mind to it. My publisher can’t crank them out fast enough, as I’m submitting before the previous book has even been released. Because I’m a single mother, though, I keep my day job. Let’s be real here; I don’t make enough money to support my kids, mortgage and all the bills…yet.

As I begin making dinner, listening to my teenage daughters bicker intermittently between listening to music in their rooms and doing their homework, I find another story idea coming to my mind. Grabbing the pad and paper I keep in my purse, I jot the idea down, capturing as much data out of the creative side of my brain as I can, before I burn the pork chops in the pan. Then I realize that my usual five o’clock phone call has not come yet. My best friend, Janice, has been calling me every day at five o’clock for as long as I can remember.

It’s like she read my mind. Smiling, I pick up the phone from the receiver on the wall next to me and answer the call. Hey sexy lady, how are you?

Heyyy, how was your day?

Long, but I’m making my favorite meal, so all is well.

Pork chops? she guesses.

Yep.

I figured. It is Tuesday, after all.

Being in a rut isn’t as bad as you think, girl. You should try it sometime.

Janice sighs. "You know me. In this house, we’re the fly by the seat of your pants kind of people. You should try that sometime. She pauses. You hear about Hilary’s latest rant?"

And how would I hear about it? You know she stopped talking to me ages ago. I comment, scoffing. Hilary is a friend I’ve known since high school. She and I were close, off and on, until I started becoming successful with my writing. You see, she’s also trying to be a writer, but her creative sense is stunted by the fact that it isn’t something that can be handed to her on a silver platter, like just about everything else she’s had given to her in her life.

Glenda told me that she’s still trying to get an agent. Janice comments.

Glenda was back at work today?

Glenda and Hilary are mutual friends, except for one thing: Hilary does not know that Glenda is still friends with Janice, since they had a falling out years ago. We keep that part a secret, so that we have an in whenever Hilary pulls another stunt to try to settle her score with me. For the record, I have no score to settle with Hilary, aside from when she directly insults my kids. You see, she also thinks that she’s the parenting expert, since she has five kids to my two. While that may be true, she also has had a plethora of support from her family and friends, while Bryan and I had nobody. Hence, we only had two. Given the chance, I’d have had more, but that’s life.

Yeah, she sounds much better now, and she can breathe again. I’m glad I didn’t get that nasty cold. Janice says.

So, what’s Hilary saying now?

She saw you grocery shopping the other day. Evidently you don’t know how to match your clothes.

I cluck my tongue, rolling my eyes. That all she can come up with?

Must have been a slow day.

Georgia comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder.

Hang on a second, Janice.

’Kay.

Georgia addresses me. Mom, can I go check the mail? I wrote to my pen pal like a month ago and I still haven’t heard back.

Sure, honey. My keys are in my purse. I gesture to my purse, sitting on the counter.

Yeah, I’m back. I say to Janice.

So, do you feel like going dancing Saturday night? Me and Glenda are going. Janice asks. I can drop my two off, so that they can hang with your two, and we can make a night of it.

Janice has twin teenage girls, three years older than mine. Sure, that sounds like fun. I wonder what I’ll do when yours are too old to hang around with mine.

By then, yours will be old enough to stay home alone.

I bark. Yeah, right. If I want my house burned down, sure. You know that Mylee loves to be inventive in the kitchen the second I turn my back on her.

That girl’s going to be a chef. Don’t knock it.

I’m not saying I knock it. I argue gently. Trust me. I’ve offered for her to come and help me in the kitchen a hundred times, but she’s not interested. The only time she wants in here is when I’m gone.

That’s because your menu is as boring as my white, granny underwear.

I laugh. Shut up.

It’s true. Janice chuckles. You bring another dish into that house, and Mylee will be the first to make it.

Fair enough. Maybe I’ll punch it up a notch or two.

Speaking of punching it up a notch or two…can we go clothes shopping?

Sure, what did you need?

A scoff. It’s not for me, it’s for you. Janice is matter-of-fact. Hilary isn’t off the mark with your wardrobe, honey. You need to get some new rags, and I’m sick of seeing you going dancing with those sorry-ass jeans and that tattered t-shirt. No man’s ever going to pick you up in those.

Since when do you think I’m looking for a man? I ask. I’d be more offended by her comment if Janice wasn’t the best friend in the whole world and had a bone in her body capable of malice towards me.

Debbie, you’re thirty-four years old, girl. You got together with Bryan when you were a freaking zygote. This whole celibacy thing isn’t healthy for you.

Gosh, Jan, you really need to learn how to form, and speak, your opinion. I say facetiously.

It’s been three years. she says, as if I need reminding. God, your thighs must friggin vibrate to anything these days. I couldn’t survive three weeks let alone three years.

Yes, and that vibrator you bought me for my birthday was very tasteful…especially when Georgia found it and I had to explain what it was to her.

You survived. She says casually.

"Fine. I’ll plant it in your house and let one of your kids find it, then we’ll talk."

I hear Georgia slam the door, having returned from checking the mail. I turn around to address her. What are you slamming the door for?

She pouts, tossing the mail on the counter. I still haven’t heard from my pen pal yet.

Well, relax, honey. I’m sure she’ll write you back. Maybe she’s busy. I say, scrunching my face at my bitchy daughter. Dinner will be ready soon, okay? Go finish up your homework so we can maybe watch some television together later.

You’re always writing. She sours, walking away from me.

Wow, did she get her period yet? Janice asks, having overheard the exchange.

"No, but I’m sure it’s coming. She’s been like