Don't Tell Mom She's Not A Rock Star: Don't Tell Mom, #1

By K.S. Thomas

A feel-good story about a divorced mom in her forties who decides it's never too late to pursue her dreams of becoming a rock star!

 

Twenty years ago, Iris McCoy traded one dream for another. Music in exchange for marriage and motherhood. She's never been sorry.

 

But now she's definitely broke.

 

Suddenly single, with all the responsibilities of her married life but none of the assets to help manage them, Iris has no choice but to come to terms with her fate. 

 

She's screwed. 

 

She either keeps living in her aunts' basement apartment, scraping by with whatever child support her ex deems appropriate to send her way, when he deems it appropriate to send it. Or she gets a mediocre job she's considered qualified for, throws her entire life into it, lets her kids finish raising each other, and maybe gets a shot at being financially independent again someday.

 

Or...she can go be a rock star.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Never Did Point North Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215280317

K.S. Thomas

Originally born and raised in Bremen, Germany, I currently reside in sunny Florida with my teenage daughter, our coyote, a three-legged roo, and a tamed wolf (AKA, our dogs). I like to think we have a bit of a Gilmore Girls thing going, except my kid is obsessed with dance not books, and I’m (much to my increasing disappointment) appropriately aged to have a teenager.    I love coffee and yoga and the ocean and cooking and asking 'none of my business' questions whenever possible. While I spent my childhood certain I could be a Disney princess, sitting here, surrounded by my crystals, smudge sticks and tarot cards, eager to get out to my garden and walk on the earth in my bare feet and chat with the lizards about not eating my plants, I’m pretty sure I grew up to be the witch. The good sort. And, obviously, I write romance novels. That is, after all, what brought us together. Our love for...well, love. And who can blame us? Love has the power to bring out the best and the worst in us. It can make us strong or be our greatest weakness. It can make us move mountains or make us do some of the dumbest shit in the history of dumb shit. In short, love is entertaining as hell.

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Copyright © 2022 - by Karina Gioertz (AKA - K.S. Thomas)

www.authorksthomas.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the author, except where permitted by law.

Don’t Tell Mom She’s Not a Rock Star is a work of fiction. All characters and subject matter are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Wild Girl Book Covers

CHAPTER ONE

Sixty-four dollars and sixty-nine cents. That’s the balance in my checking account. I sigh. Then I stop pacing and squeeze my eyes shut before I tap the screen of my phone to reload the page in my banking app. When I open my eyes, the numbers haven’t changed.

Shit, I curse under my breath and place my phone on the kitchen table face down. I just need to not look at that thing for a minute. All it ever seems to do these days is mock me.

I see the first of another month has come and gone, and your darling ex is late on child support yet again, Aunt Marnie mutters, setting a cup of tea on the table and sliding it toward me as she walks by.

He literally just spent a small fortune on the kids the last two days. I run my hands over my face as if blocking out light will somehow block out reality. He can’t possibly think that taking them to mini-golf and Dave and Busters suddenly means they don’t need to eat this weekend. My voice reaches an unpleasant screech-whisper toward the end and my gaze automatically goes for the door leading down to the apartment in the basement.

I closed it all the way this time.

There’s no way the kids can hear me.

My aunt pulls out a chair from the kitchen table to sit, only to find it’s already occupied by Solstice, one of seven cats roaming around this house. She nudges the large orange tabby, and he grudgingly scoots over just enough for her to share the seat with him. You know food is never going to be an issue here, Iris, she says, lifting her own cup to her mouth and blowing off some of the steam. Gem and I aren’t about to let anyone go hungry.

I know that. I pull out the chair closest to me. Zoey, you’re gonna wanna move, I warn the calico laying sprawled out on the daisy patterned cushion. I’m plopping down and I’m not gonna care if I squash you or not. She glares at me with her yellow eyes before she leaps from the chair. You can tell me all day long animals don’t understand us, I’ll still never believe you. If not word for word, they certainly understand the sentiments.

A second later, and I’m dropping into said seat, crumpling into myself as one does in moments of utter surrender. What the fuck am I going to do, Marnie?

"I don’t know what you’re going to do, my Auntie Gem says, wandering into the kitchen, a cat in each arm, but I’m putting things in place to hex him this next full moon."

I laugh. Between the cats, the endless array of hanging plants, the flowy, eccentric wardrobe and the fact Gem has waves of rusty hair fit for a mermaid while my aunt Marnie is rocking a silver pixy do, the whole otherworldly witch vibe isn’t hard to buy into. You’re not going to hex anyone, Gem. You can’t even kill a cockroach when one surprises you in the cabinets under the bathroom sink. How’re you going to wish ill on another person?

The cockroach is innocent, she says plainly. Andrew is not.

In any event, Aunt Marnie jumps in, forever the voice of reason, not just when it comes to her wife, but with all of us, hexing is probably out since Gem isn’t skilled in witchcraft nearly as well as she is in bullshit.

Gem sighs dramatically, setting down Cosmos and Jupiter before moving on to the stove where she fixes herself a cup of tea as well. Well, if we’re not hexing him, what’s the plan?

I cover my face with both hands, fold into my lap and groan, I need to get a job.

Generally, I’m not opposed to getting one. I could even make a case for my love of jobs given the wide array of gigs I tackled in my early twenties when I was wild and free and moving to a new state every six months or so. Alas, a career cannot be built on gigs, and my resume, while extensive, hasn’t been current in about sixteen years. And from what I hear, mom-ing doesn’t impress a lot of potential employers in terms of qualifications.

A job, my aunt Marnie says flatly.

You have time for one of those? Gem sounds so incredulous, I can’t tell if she’s being serious or poking fun at me.

I lift my head just enough to look at my aunts through splayed fingers. If I could get a shift working from, like, ten pm to six am, I could still do everything I need to do during the day and be home with the kids.

Right. Marnie looks unimpressed. And you’d sleep when exactly?

I’d still have two nights for that on the weekends, I reason. No. Reason’s not the word I’m looking for here. Or, I try another approach, I could work double shifts on the weekends and then sleep during the week. I twist my mouth back and forth, trying to subdue the bitter feeling working its way from the pit of my stomach, up my throat and across my face. I wouldn’t see the kids much outside of schoolwork, driving them around all week and during dinners, but at least I could buy the groceries and gas to make the two latter of those things happen.

Maybe we’ll put that on the list of possibilities, Gem says dryly, lifting Alfredo from her chair to join us at the table. As soon as Gem is seated, she lowers Alfredo to her lap, letting the little white and orange cat curl up the same as she (yes, Alfredo’s a girl) was. I swear she’s asleep before Gem even finishes the thought she started before she went to have a seat. We’ll put ‘get a job’ under ‘hex the ex’. You know, keep things in order of practicality.

I pull myself upright again. Well, upright enough to lean fully into the backrest and go into a sort of reclining slouch from here. I’m serious, you guys. I’ve been trying to find a new, stable sort of rhythm for me and the kids for seven months now, and all I’ve actually accomplished is to mooch off of you two and max out all my credit cards. I shake my head, accepting what’s been right in front of me for months now. I can’t depend on Andrew to do the right thing. Couldn’t the whole time I was married to him, don’t know why I thought now would be any different. I fold my hands in my lap to keep from running them over my face a million more times, a nervous habit I picked up somewhere over the course of the last sixteen years of my life. If only someone had pointed it out to me then, maybe I would have taken a moment to wonder why the hell I was constantly trying to shut my eyes to things. I’ll talk to Avis. There’s resolution in my tone. It’s both comforting and depressing as all hell. Her job let’s her work around her kid’s schedule. Maybe they’re hiring.

This is bullshit. Gem slams her mug so hard, tea laps over the edges and onto the white lace tablecloth.

It’s reality. I look back and forth between both women. Every one of the single moms I know is working and raising her kids at the same time. Why the hell should it be any different for me?

He didn’t just leave you to raise the kids, Marnie points out. He was kind enough to commit to all their extracurricular activities knowing full well he’d never be around to have to drive them to any of them.

I should be an Uber, I interrupt her rant with another idea. I could probably fit in driving gigs between drop offs.

Gem just rolls her eyes.

Marnie goes on as if I never said a word. He also had the foresight to leave behind a menagerie of animals for you to care for, and lest we forget, your commitment to continue to homeschool your children was put into writing in the divorce on his request.

Yeah, but I wanted that too. It was easy to agree to. Even if I knew it meant locking up my time on something no one, least of all him, was ever going to see me compensated for.

Of course, you wanted that too. Same as you wanted your kids here with you. Same as you wanted out of that damn house. And away from that damn man, Marnie scoffs. But in the end, he walked with all the assets, the career he built while you built a home, and all the financial freedom and security accumulated throughout your marriage. And you? You got all the responsibilities and no means to properly care for them.

It’s not a new problem, I whisper, the threat of tears suddenly cinching my throat. This happens all the time. We saw it with Aunt Mona when her husband left her the second their youngest graduated. And the same thing with Ma’s friend Georgette. And both her freakin’ husbands. Last I saw her, she was on the verge of going back to rehab for her drinking, a shell of the woman I knew growing up. I swear, something breaks in these women who give their all and wind up empty and abandoned.

I never wanted to find out how it happens, but there are days I wonder if I already did.

Maybe it’s about damn time, we find a new solution. Marnie pushes off from the table and stands. You think getting a job is the answer, fine. She nods. Do it. Ask around. See what works. You know me and Gem are here to back you up in whatever way we can.

I swallow, about to thank her, but she goes on before I can get the words out. But if you decide the job isn’t cutting it, that you want more out of life than getting by and settling for the scraps our shitty, soul-sucking patriarchal society throws your way, that you’re ready to give them all the finger and leap to meet your goddamn potential and live your wildest fucking dreams – like you fucking deserve to, she pauses to glance over at Gem, who I notice is nodding vehemently at everything Marnie says, we’ll have your back then, too.

I’m choking back tears for the second time since sitting down at this table. Kind of feel like I’ve heard this speech before. I smile at my aunt though it’s a bittersweet memory.

You have. She’s not smiling. I said the same thing to you about twenty years ago when everyone was telling you to take that admin job with benefits because it would offer you security and that it was such a goddamn great opportunity for someone like you – whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean – when all you really wanted, was to load up your beat up old Bronco and hit the road, playing your music wherever you went. She shakes her head. Didn’t listen to me then. Hoping this time around I get better results.

You know it’s not that easy, I argue. I have kids. Responsibilities. I can’t just say fuck it all and do whatever I want. Sacrificing was fine in my twenties when it was just me, but I can’t ask my kids to live like that. Especially not when their father could provide them a much more comfortable life. I stand up, conviction and anger coming together to form something new. The last thing I need is for him to start thinking I can’t take care of them. Because that won’t result in him actually supporting us, it’ll just give him reason to think he can still control me. And we all know the biggest key to hurting me is through them. I take a deep breath and blow it out with determination I don’t feel beyond the exhale. I have to make this work. I have to get it together, get a real job, and do the working single mom thing. I dare one last look at both of my aunts. Face it guys, that’s my life now.

It’s still bullshit.

Maybe. I shrug, turning to head for the stairs and the place I call home these days. But it’s my bullshit. And it’s up to me to clean up.

Neither of my aunts has anything to say after that.

The stairway leading down the basement is the only thing I truly struggle with about living here. Where the rest of the basement apartment is finished with painted drywall, hardwood floors and plenty of our old furnishings from before, the stairs are cold, damp, and dreary.

I could conjure up some positive thoughts for the brick walls, but the concrete steps, metal railing and solitary sad lightbulb dangling exposed from the ceiling, leave little to feel warm and fuzzy about.

When I reach the last step, I pause to take another long, steady breath and wipe my eyes. Jax might miss that I’ve been crying, but Stella’s too old to buy into any lame excuse for puffy eyes and way too observant not to notice.

One more inhale.

And...exhale.

My hand finds the knob and turns.

Life on the other side of the door hasn’t paused for grief or injustice.

As soon as I step inside, Rocky, the Pomeranian Andrew just had to adopt two months after we moved out because, as he put it, they both needed saving (at least until taking care of a dog while traveling non-stop for work got to be too much of a hassle), comes running over, yapping and racing around my feet while I try to keep walking without stepping on him.

I sniff. I can smell Gladiator the hedgehog as soon as I walk in. Or rather, his filth. Time to give that spikey bastard’s cage its weekly cleaning. Yet another reason to think fondly of my ex.

Stella is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, eyes glued to her tablet while her finger moves over the screen with intense focus. Her other hand is resting on Lucy, her fluffy grey rabbit sitting on the sofa beside her enjoying a good scratch.

Hey Stella, figure out how to fix that design issue? I ask, on my way through to the small alley-style kitchen attached to the living space while simultaneously forcing back the words ‘you better make sure that rabbit doesn’t poop on my couch again’. Because it’s a rabbit and, of course, it will poop on my couch again.

Yep, she says, without looking up. Just a few more tweaks and it’ll be ready for Tuesday night.

That’s when her robotics club meets up.

Think they’ll pick it as the next competition piece? I ask, glancing over Jax’s shoulder. He’s right where I left him, sitting at the kitchen table, writing in his cursive workbook.

They will if they want to win, she calls back. I can hear the grin in her voice.

That’s my girl!

I lean down to touch my finger to the page Jax is working on. Buddy, your Rs are looking gorgeous. Did I ever tell you that’s my favorite letter to write in cursive?

He tips his head back and rolls his eyes into his skull. Yes, he groans. Because it’s the first letter in the words rock star, and that’s all you wanted to be when you were a kid.

So, I’ve told you this story before? I tease, trying to squelch the sting in my chest with a laugh. Maybe this wasn’t the best moment to bring that up.

Only about a million times, he mumbles, getting back to his writing.

Ouch. The sting is spreading.

In need of a distraction, I move to the fridge and swing the door open. Maybe this was a bad move too. I forgot how little was in here.

I slam it shut.

You guys want to do a pizza picnic at the beach tonight?

Stuffed crust? Jax asks, excitement in his baby blues which seem to have lost their desire to roll backwards now that I’m talking about pizza.

We could do stuffed crust. Personally, I find that much cheese in one meal a tad revolting, but I get that nine-year-old boys think cheese is the shit, so, I can roll with it.

Can we get two pizzas? Stella calls out from the sofa. I want thin crust. And lots of veggies.

Jax makes a face.

What the hell. I’m broke either way. Sure, two pizzas it is.

CHAPTER TWO

Mama? Jax asks, looking lost in thought over his third slice of pizza.

Yeah, bud? I’m still working on my first. Somehow, I don’t seem to have an appetite.

Do all grownups stop wanting to be what they wanted to be when they were kids? he asks, ripping the crust off and taking a bite of just dough and cheese.

What do you mean? I reach to close the box on his stuffed crust pizza before the wind can blow half the beach inside and he winds up with a crunchy topping he won’t enjoy.

Well, you always say you wanted to be a rock star when you were little, but now you don’t want to be one. He swallows before he goes on, and Dad always says he wanted to be a cowboy, but he doesn’t even know how to ride a horse.

For the record, I do have the skills required to be a rock star. As you recall, I’ve been singing lullabies to you for years, and before I had babies to hold, I had a guitar in my arms nearly all the time. Frieda. My first baby. I don’t know what your dad’s thing is with being a cowboy. Only time I ever even saw him around horses he seemed afraid of them.

Jax seems temporarily distracted deciding between eating the crust or the actual pizza part. I’m guessing his stomach is starting to fill up and he’s not quite sure which he’s willing to sacrifice. The crust wins and he drops the floppy bit of dough and marinara back onto his paper plate. Do you still have it? he asks, shoving the last bit of crust in his mouth.

Have what? I hand him a napkin. The amount of sauce on his face is making it hard to think.

Your guitar, he mumbles with his full mouth.

Sure, I still have it. Somewhere. What’s all this about? You worried you’re going to wake up one day and no longer want to be a veterinarian? I remember watching him play as a toddler, pretending to tend to his sick or wounded stuffed animals and then later, asking to pet every cat, dog or wild creature that crossed his path. His connection to animals is the heart of who he is.

Kind of. He wipes his hands with the napkin I gave him. He has yet to tackle the mess on his face.

Kiddo, caring for your furry friends is who you are, there’s no escaping it. I take his napkin and start to wipe his mouth, an effort that gains me a scowl and displeased grunt. But, I go on, if you wake up one day and decide there are new parts of you that you want to explore, new paths you want to pursue, that’s fine too.

Is that what happened to you? Stella asks. She’s been so quiet, staring out at the ocean, I figured her mind was way off in robot land, working out a new challenge or coming up with some brilliant new improvement to her current project.

Sort of. I lean back onto my hands and let the warm breeze sweep over me. It’s salty and comforting and grounds me in a way few things can these days. The older I got, the more practical it became to work steady jobs and the less I found time to play my music. For a few years, I guess I was kind of in limbo, just exploring life and myself. Then, I met your dad. Had you. I reach out to tap Stella on the tip of her nose. And you. I do the same to Jax. And that’s when I really found my purpose. The thing I’m most passionate about. I smile at both of them. Being your mom has been the greatest gift of my life.

We are pretty awesome, Stella teases, returning her attention back to the water.

Jax is quiet for a minute longer. Then, as if his brain turns the page and starts a new chapter, he jumps to his feet. Can I go around and fill the holes people left? It’s turtle season and I don’t want anyone getting lost or stuck.

My mouth stretches until my heart aches. Of course, buddy.

I watch as he takes off, edging my way closer to Stella. She’s back inside her mind, dancing through the reels. I love sitting near her when she’s like this. It’s like I can feel the creative energy emanating from her. In some small way, I suppose it takes me back to myself when I was her age. Only where her muse is a sucker for science, mine was in love with melody.

It’s dark out by the time we’re climbing back into the truck and heading home. The ride is quiet, a blend of exhaustion and contentment hanging in the air. This outing was exactly what I needed tonight.

Showers. I don’t care in what order, I call out as we’re walking in through the back door leading straight into Gem and Marnie’s kitchen, which is empty but for the cats who make this room their playground after dark. Something about the spice racks and hanging fruit baskets seems to encourage climbing and jumping until exhaustion strikes and they all collapse into sleep where they stand. I swear, I’ve found cats napping in the strangest places in this kitchen.

Jax can go first, Stella says, nudging him onward toward the basement door. He’s got half the beach still in his hair.

Do not! He scowls, reaching up to scratch his own head, only to have sand spray out of it like it’s a freaking sprinkler system.

Yeah, bud, you do. I laugh. "Go rinse it out.