Chapter Four
Four
The next day, I got a call from my editor.
“How are you, Aurora?” Claire asked. Her voice oozed with sympathy and warmth, which I knew was trouble. It meant she’d seen the blowup on social media and assumed I was falling apart. A self-help, motivational figure whose mental health was suddenly being questioned would not sell a lot of books. Or maybe it would for the drama, but the book wasn’t about that. I’d broken the trust the moment I sobbed at my own party.
“I’m much better, thank you,” I said, trying to sound forceful and confident. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the incident this past weekend. I’d planned to call you myself and let you know there’s nothing to worry about. Last week, a few triggers appeared, but I’ve worked through them and I’m ready to finish this book.”
Claire hummed over the line, her tell for when she was about to delicately suggest something I might not like. “I’m thrilled to hear that. Truly, I’ve been so worried about you, and slightly guilty that I’ve pushed my own agenda when you’re still struggling. But I actually have news I think you’ll agree is quite wonderful. We’ve decided to push out the due date to give you the time you need.”
“Oh? How long will that delay publication?” I closed my eyes, dreading the answer.
A pause. “Two years. That will give you another year to work on the book, and then a year to get it ready for release. And if you need more time? Well, that’s fine!”
No, no, no…
“Claire, I can’t thank you enough for trying to work with me, but I’m so much better. In fact, I began writing this morning and I’m flying through the pages. I’m sure I can deliver the manuscript within the month.”
Sure, I was lying, but if I had to write, All work and no play makes Aurora a dull girl , I would. I’d do anything to keep this contract. Pushing it out ruined all my carefully built plans. I couldn’t guarantee I’d be at the top in two years, or as relevant. The book was slotted for the spring, to coincide with the podcast and events Penelope had been securing to overlap with my publisher’s book tour.
Now? I would be pushed aside to make way for other leaders, the ones nipping at my heels and hungry for the spotlight. Hungry to steal my spot.
Claire laughed, startling me. “You are simply amazing. I appreciate your work ethic, but it’s already been decided. This way, we’ll be able to have the best book possible for our team to sell. Your job is to take the time you need and heal.”
“I’m healed,” I said desperately. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to keep our pub date, Claire? Honestly, I know I can deliver a great book.”
“This is good news, Aurora! You keep the advance, and I’ll send over an amendment letter with the new deadline date. It will be worth waiting for. I know your audience will love it.”
The air whooshed out of my lungs. There was no convincing her, so I’d better pretend to like the decision. “Thanks so much for your thoughtfulness,” I said, trying not to choke. “I truly appreciate it.”
“You are so welcome. Let me know if you have any questions, but we’ll be in touch.”
I thanked her again and hung up.
My short-lived ambition to tackle my email and shoot a motivational video withered away. I looked at my laptop and camera lying out on the desk, abandoned. I needed to return several voice mails, go food shopping, and work out. But I was still clad in my robe, pj’s, and socks on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.
The yawning emptiness was waiting to devour me. I struggled for a bit, then gave in. It was so much easier than trying to be fabulous and have all the answers. Like a trail of dominoes, each part of my life had begun to topple, leaving me with nothing.
Jason was gone. I was angry for a while, but then the fear and loneliness wiped it out, leaving me in a panic state. The apartment was eerily still. I’d picked up the phone to call my mother, then remembered she was gone and I’d never talk to her again. Never hear her warm laugh or feel her hand in mine or gaze into her beautiful dark eyes. Losing Mom had triggered my grief over Dad, so now it was as if I were right back where I’d been after the car crash. I’d never golf with him again or listen to his crisp British voice as he called people he disliked wankers like in Ted Lasso . There was no one in my life to share their memories with. I felt as if I were floating in a vast ocean, clutching a raft and wondering if anyone could really see me in order to rescue me.
You rescue yourself , the inner voice whispered. Get up and own your life. Show the world how winners live.
It was a motto I’d built my entire career around, but now I was simply a fraud. I had no idea how to help myself. I’d believed it was willpower, positive mindset, and determined action. But as I wandered around my silent oasis, touching books on my shelf, picking up family pictures and cradling them against my chest, I realized I’d never known what I was doing. I’d shouldered the first loss and believed I was bulletproof and knew all the secrets.
Now I was going to pay the price for my hubris.
Blinking back tears, I’d returned to my permanent perch on my couch when my gaze caught on a sleek white box. I slid it from the bookshelf and stared at the DNA test Jason had gotten me for Christmas. I’d been talking about how I wished I’d had siblings and cousins, and he mentioned many people had discovered lost relatives by doing the tests.
Curious, I opened the box and read the instructions. It was simple enough. I provided a saliva sample, sent it to the ancestry company, and they returned the results. I’d confirm my cultural heritage and be able to track down any family members via a family tree site. Taking the box, I typed the site onto my computer and quickly read the summary.
I already doubted that anyone was out there for me. Dad had said he came from a long line of only children—both his parents and grandparents. But maybe there was a hint of royalty in there from England? It would be fun to find out.
Mom had always been brusque about her past and childhood. She just said her parents had passed away when she was young and she was also an only child. After she graduated from high school, she left her guardians—whom she wasn’t close with—and worked a variety of jobs until Dad came along. Dad met her at a pizza place and they immediately fell in love, got married, and started building a family. Whenever I asked about her past, Mom just told me her life began the moment she saw Dad, at nineteen years old.
My fingers automatically reached around my neck to stroke the silver medal my mother had always worn. Dad used to joke he could buy her precious diamonds or pearls, but she’d never give up her St. Lucy medal. The simple circular piece of jewelry held a delicacy of craftsmanship. I used to get frustrated that she wouldn’t take it off even for a holiday, when she had flashier jewelry, but she’d just shake her head and tell me St. Lucy would always keep her in the light, and it had once belonged to her mother.
Now the medal pressing against my skin brought me comfort, connecting me to her and her past.
What if there was someone out there related to us in some weird way? The possibility of finding any type of long-lost aunt or uncle soothed my raw heart. I wanted someone to share my parents with, someone who would care and understand how special they were.
It didn’t take long for me to complete the sample, get it in the mail, and register for an account. A shiver of excitement raced down my spine. For a few wonderful seconds, I felt strong enough to open up my inbox and tackle some work. Maybe I needed something like this to hope for in order to get out of my rut. Any type of action begets more action and allows the universe to open up the flow of energy, pulling us forward.
I’d written that line in my first chapter. Now that the pressure was off with my deadline, I bet my muse would peek her head out and give me some words. My fingers tapped the keys, and I threw my shoulders back. I’d work, get dressed, and go for a walk. Connecting with nature was an excellent way to re-ground and move past blocks.
I clicked on an email from my producer, Eliza, for Step into Your Success , hoping for the finalized schedule of guests. We’d been shifting through candidates to find the perfect fit for the new season, finally able to recruit some bigger names. After delaying the initial episode, I hoped my audience would find the show was worth the wait.
Until I began to read.
Eliza had forwarded me the emails. All were polite and apologetic. All cited work schedule complications and offered to try again in the fall. All wished me well. One referred me to a grief therapist. Another said that she admired my bravery to show vulnerability in public. The final one mentioned self-care and pointed me to another podcast that focused on the theme.
Slowly, I began scrolling through more emails. Eliza had supplied a list of alternates to approach, citing a bunch of in-office emergencies. Penelope was frantic to pull all the current advertising to reflect the cancellations. Events needed rescheduling. New client intake forms required reading. Each task that didn’t get done snowballed into more and put me further behind.
The swirl of helplessness took hold, turning into a tsunami. I snatched my fingers back from the keyboard and groaned, trying to fight the gut-wrenching black cloud swallowing me up.
Everything was falling apart and I didn’t know how to put it back together.
Even worse?
I wondered if I’d stopped caring. I’d become the exact type of person I counseled, but my action plan wasn’t working. Hopelessness curled inside like a familiar friend and pushed me back to the sofa, back to the blankets, back to the nothingness where I could find rest.
Tomorrow. I’d be better tomorrow. I’d write my book and answer emails. I’d call back Penelope and we’d fix things. I’d print out the intake forms, make my notes, and reach out. I’d do it all.
Tomorrow.
—
“Tell me what brings you today, Aurora.”
One week later, I’d finally sought help. Fighting my sense of failure, I reached out to a therapist. I couldn’t stand back and watch my entire life shatter because I was embarrassed to admit my fail-safe action plans weren’t working on me. Dr. Sariah Peterson came highly recommended from reviews, was covered by my insurance, and had a cancellation, so she could fit me in. I liked her immediately and was positive she’d get me going again. A tall Black woman with her hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a rich voice that made me want to close my eyes and listen. I felt confident in her ability to help me. I spent the first session telling her about my parents, my crumbling career, and the separation from Jason. I finished with explaining how important it was that I get back to work.
Amber eyes reflected concern as she stared back at me, matched with a tiny frown creasing her brow. “I appreciate your wanting to get back to your life and become productive again,” she said gently, “but that’s simply not going to happen, Aurora.”
I blinked, trying not to panic. “What do you mean? If you think meds will work, I’m willing. I just need to get over this hump. That’s the reason I’m here.”
A sigh escaped her lips. “I don’t think you’re appreciating the challenges you’ve been faced with. Grief is unique to everyone, and there’s no timetable on when it finally integrates into our lives. You lost your mom without warning. You lost your dad only five years ago. The man you trusted walked away, wanting to fix you. Your public show of emotion ended up being a punishment and caused you further trust issues. There’s a lot to unpack here.”
Hearing her list, I began to realize that maybe I was dealing with more than I originally thought. I was so used to not allowing a self-pitying story to control my life, I’d pushed away the reality of my circumstances. “What do you think I should do? I can’t keep lying on the couch and hoping for motivation. I can’t be afraid to meet with people in case I cry or break out in hives. It’s ridiculous.”
“I think the first step is trying to be kinder to yourself. Sometimes, the greatest teachers are the worst students. All of these solutions that helped others aren’t working for you because you’re too close—there’s no neutral observer to see what you’re capable of and what you’re not.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. I’d come here for solutions, but the session was over and I’d gotten nothing. “No pills?”
“Not yet. I’ll need a few more sessions before I can diagnose you with clinical depression. For now, let’s see each other next week, and your job is to do one thing a day that makes you feel productive.”
“I need to do thirty to get out of this hole.”
“For this week, it’s just one. One daily task of your choosing. If you feel like crying, cry and don’t judge it. Instead of fighting or criticizing the emotions that come up, welcome them in. Emotion is energy, which promotes healing.”
“I know that.”
A slight smile curved her lips as she scribbled in her notes. “I know you know. With your head, not your heart. We need to break through some of your emotional barriers to get to the other side.”
“I know that, too,” I muttered. I wanted to explain that I had no emotional barriers, and other than my parents’ dying and leaving me alone, nothing else was wrong. I was still angry at Jason, but in some weird way, I agreed with his plan. We’d never set up our relationship to be needy. It was wrong for me to suddenly expect him to be fine with changing the rules. Once we got past this hurdle, I’d need to make some changes between us so we didn’t have this issue again.
I allowed Dr. Sariah to dismiss me and made an appointment for next week.
I headed home and walked into my lonely apartment. I made myself a protein shake and forced myself to drink it, even though I was having the strangest dreams about pasta. Mom had mourned my decision to stop eating pasta and bread, but I’d never wavered or had regrets. Until now.
I fiddled on my phone and opened up IG. I’d been sneaking peeks at Jason’s social media feeds, half hoping he’d tag me in one of his posts, or at least hint that he was having a hard time. Instead, it was a festival of muscled pics, motivational quotes, and shots of him in the gym. His followers had increased after the third gym opening. I scrolled past a video of him gazing into the camera with those striking blue eyes, naked chest glistening with sweat.
“Commit to a better self and I’ll get you there,” he said in that rumbly voice.
Irritation hit. God, was he trying to sell sex to gain traction? Because he was definitely succeeding—there were a million hearts and comments about all the ways his followers wanted him to commit.
He still texted me every day, but it was always a GIF or quote centered on motivation and belief in self. At first, it was comforting to still be in communication, but as time passed and he never bothered to personally check on me or try to talk, I got pissed.
Muttering under my breath, I tried to push Jason out of my head and focus on my own career. I had a few FaceTime appointments with clients today, and I was determined to show up as my old self. Maybe I just needed one appointment with a therapist to feel better. I quickly typed out an action list. No tears today. No couch. I was dressed with makeup on and ready to work.
I opened my inbox and spent a few moments skimming until I saw the results of my DNA test. Biting my lip, I hovered between waiting to read the results later as a reward and diving in right now. Curiosity won. I’d just take a quick look and study it more later.
I started with the DNA report, which confirmed a mix of English, Italian / Southern Italian, and a small percentage of Greek.
I was surprised there wasn’t a bigger mix of nationalities scattered in, which must have meant both my parents were close to one hundred percent English and Italian.
Dad’s side confirmed there were no close DNA matches, which meant no English relatives, but a few names were listed as possible ancestors going way back. As I scrolled down, Mom’s maiden name jumped from the screen.
Serafina Lucia Romano.
I lifted my hand and touched my finger to her name. I wished I could have asked her more about her childhood, even though it made her sad. I would have loved to hear some stories about my grandparents. She’d only told me they were Italian and both passed when she was a teenager. I’d tried to probe a bit more, but Mom shut down behind a wall and I always let it go.
But back then I had figured I had my whole life to talk and laugh and argue with Mom. If only I’d known our time would get cut short, I would have done so many things differently. I counseled living with no regrets, but now every time I went to sleep, I was haunted by all the unspoken words and missed moments with her. Especially my regrets over our last visit. I wished I could have stayed to eat after fixing her TV instead of rushing out. I tortured myself by wondering if I could have saved her by staying late that night and making her happy. The doctors said it was arrhythmia, and there was nothing I could have done, but maybe CPR? Calling 911? Instead, I’d left and gone to dinner with my boyfriend. My rational brain knew this wasn’t a productive thought train to chase, but I couldn’t seem to help it.
Tears stung my eyes. Instead of heeding Dr. Sariah’s advice, I choked them back, determined to salvage the day. I was about to close the email, but my gaze caught on the top of a heading.
DNA Match
Holding my breath, I read a long list of names underneath.
Grandparents:
Bellomo Romano, Rosa
Romano, Giovanni
Aunts:
Caruso Romano, Philomena
Uncles:
Romano, Agosto
Cousins (First):
Caruso, Catena Isabella
Caruso, Teodoro Alberto
Romano, Emilio
Romano, Luigi
Romano, Teresa
My heart began to beat crazily in my chest. Were these my grandparents who’d passed? But if my parents were only children, why were there aunts, uncles, and cousins listed?
I read through a few times, then slumped with disappointment. These couldn’t be exact matches. I knew the site gathered thousands of names from registrants and they could be several generations removed. The first cousins must be a mistake. I knew Italians usually had large families, and that was another reason Mom didn’t like to talk about her childhood. She’d been lonely, she’d said several times. I’d always felt guilty she didn’t have any siblings, but I guess sole children ran in our genes.
Maybe I’d do some research later on the site, but right now, I wanted to complete at least one task while I was still feeling motivated.
I drew in a deep breath and began writing emails.
A few days later, for the second time, my entire world blew up.