I sighed. This discussion was quickly become a regular occurrence. My parents seemed to think I would be unable to function unless I was under their thumb. Unless they were there to point me in the “right direction.”

“Mom, it’s not necessary. Viv and I split the bills and I’m fine—”

“You are not fine, Grace. Or have you forgotten that?” my mother snapped.

“As if you’d let me forget,” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough that she couldn’t hear me.

Mom closed her compact and put it on the table, then folded her hands in her lap as she regarded me levelly.

“We just worry about you. You put your father and me through a horrible ordeal and we want to make sure you’re okay.”

I clenched my fist and then forced myself to relax.

Don’t engage. Don’t rise to the bait.

“It was almost two years ago, Mom. I haven’t had a drop to drink since. I have a job—”

“A part time job, Gracie. I’m not sure that even counts,” my mother cut in derisively.

“I also work at the library,” I reminded her, but it was as though I hadn’t even spoken.

“Please be reasonable, Gracie. You can’t survive that way.”

“I have an apartment. I have friends. I’m not going to let myself fall apart again,” I said emphatically, but I wasn’t sure she even heard me.

My mother heard what she wanted to hear.

“It will take a long time to earn back our trust, Grace,” she remarked sharply and I knew there was no point in arguing with her.

She had a way of beating me down until I didn’t want to get back up.

I pinned a smile to my face, trying to resurrect the perky girl I had once been. “I know, Mom. I’m trying though,” I said, my voice unnaturally high.

“Sometimes trying isn’t enough,” Mom intoned critically.

I was more than happy when I had stayed long enough that I could politely make my excuses to leave.

My weekly visits to the Cook house were akin to torture. I knew they were necessary but god, how I hated them.

“I told Vivian I’d go to the grocery store with her, so I’d better get going,” I lied, wishing I could run for the door.

My mom dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled some money out, handing it to me. “I’m sure you need this. I doubt you make enough at that magazine to live on, let alone go grocery shopping,” she said.

Not a question, just a statement. I didn’t want to take the money. I hated how she always assumed I couldn’t take care of myself. That I wasn’t even capable of paying for my own groceries. My part time job paid me more than enough to cover my rent and utilities and yes, even have some left over for food and other essentials. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that to my mother. Again.

So I took the money, with no intention of using it, and tucked it into my pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, my smile fake and brittle.

“I really think it’s best if you move back here. Let’s plan for the end of the month, okay,” she said as I was leaving. She held the kitchen door open for me, letting in a blast of cold, January air. It looked like snow, which sucked majorly given the fact that my tires were on the bald side.

I hoped my mother wouldn’t notice as she followed me out to the driveway. I half expected her to inspect the car before I left. It wouldn’t have been unusual.

“Mom, I’m not moving home,” I replied, feeling like I was banging my head into a brick wall.

She waved away my words, pretending I hadn’t said them. “I’ll take you to lunch on Friday. I have a hair appointment. We can meet at the café on 7th.”

I wasn’t sure I could stomach more than one meal a week with my mom. “Fridays are usually my day for interviews,” I excused.

“I’m sure you can rearrange whatever you have planned. It’s not as though you run the magazine or anything,” she dismissed, cutting me down so easily.

I jangled my keys in my hand and started to get twitchy with my need to flee. “No, it’s not like I run the magazine,” I agreed through clenched teeth.

“Okay, well I’ll see you then. Kisses,” she chirped, her smile as fake as mine. She gripped me by the shoulders and air kissed my cheeks.

Finally, I was allowed to escape and I couldn’t get away fast enough.

“Hey, you’re looking decidedly manic today,” Vivian commented after I arrived back home twenty minutes later.

My roommate and friend was on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table with some sort of reality show on in the background and her phone glued between her hands. Her fingers never stopped texting as she looked at me. Her ability to multitask was impressive.

I slammed the door behind me, kicked off my boots and hung up my coat. I joined her on the couch, tucking my ice cold feet under the blanket Viv had draped over her lap.

“Visit with Mommy Dearest,” I explained, grimacing.

Vivian winced. “Ah, okay then.” Her eyes returned to the screen of her phone.

“Cole?” I asked. I really didn’t need to pose it as a question, because Vivian spent at least three hours a day either talking or texting with her boyfriend, Cole Brandt, former male whore, now reformed one woman man, and lead singer of the rock band, Generation Rejects.

Vivian nodded, her fingers moving at a speed almost invisible to the naked eye. “Yeah, the boys are on their way to Pittsburgh,” she responded distractedly. She giggled and by the red flush on her cheeks I figured I didn’t want to know the exact nature of their conversation.

“Pittsburgh, huh? How many more stops do they have on the tour?” I asked. At one time I wouldn’t need to ask Vivian for secondhand knowledge about anything involving the band. I would have heard myself from Mitch Abrams, the bassist of said rock band. He was my former BFF who refused to speak to me because of a disastrous one-night stand over a year ago.

Vivian finally put the phone down on the coffee table and turned to me. “Only a few more weeks. There had been some talk about adding a few more dates to the tour. The label is pressuring them to, but I don’t think they will. The guys are talking about taking a break.”

I frowned. “A break? Why? They’re not fighting again are they?”

About a year ago the band went through a rough patch, mostly to do with Cole Brandt, the Generation Rejects’ lead singer, and their former manager wanting to push him as the star. The other guys didn’t appreciate being sidelined and it created a lot of tension that led to the band breaking up for a period of time. But they had come back from it stronger than ever. Or so I had thought.

It was tough getting details after-the-fact. I wanted to know exactly what was going on with my friends but I felt as though I had lost the right to ask.

Vivian chewed on her bottom lip. “No, nothing like that. It’s other stuff. Last year they were selling out venues. But now they are barely filling smaller places and their downloads and album sales have declined significantly.”

“That doesn’t sound good at all. Now I understand the pre-mature wrinkles,” I commented, pointing to her face.

Vivian gasped and started stretching the skin at the corner of her eyes. “Wrinkles? Are you serious? But I moisturize religiously!” she screeched.

I laughed, the mood momentarily lightened as she glared at me. “You’re so easy to wind up, Viv,” I chuckled, dodging a pillow that she threw at me.

“Bitch,” she muttered but her lips twitched and I knew she wasn’t really mad.

“So what’s their plan then?” I asked, returning the subject to the guys we both cared about.

Vivian gnawed on her bottom lip and looked worried. “I’m not sure they have one.”

I wished I could be surprised by what Vivian had just told me.

But the truth was that I wasn’t.

The writing had been on the wall for months but it broke my heart to hear it confirmed.

Generation Rejects had been on the fast track to dominating the rock charts. After firing their shitty manager, Jose Suarez, Pirate Records had released their debut album, Current Static, to considerable critical acclaim and great sales. Their first single, Dying Days, had peaked at number 15 on the Billboard Charts. It seemed only a matter of time until they were headlining tours and winning Grammys.