Chapter Two
Mia
“Open up. I come with food!”
I figured the pity party would be put on hold until I was alone again because the sound of my sister’s voice reverberated through the door.
As soon as I opened a path for her, she waltzed right in with two bags in her hands.
Her gray eyes scanned me in a way that was so much like our overbearing mother. Then, she went about setting the table with whatever food she’d brought over.
Sushi. I could do sushi.
“Any better today?” she asked.
I shook my head but then noticed she wasn’t looking at me, so I answered, “Nope.”
Until recently, I’d ignored whatever mental issue I had going on—denial at its finest. Family was worried, coworkers had mentioned something a few times, and … well, if I had friends, I’d bet they’d care that I was acting weird too.
“You should really see my therapist. Michelle would help you so much, like she did for me.”
Gia and I were only two years apart. She was younger than me, and despite the similar appearance of being five foot six with caramel-colored hair, gray eyes, and tan skin, we were quite opposites. I had been set on taking over the hotel corporate world. She wanted a husband and babies. Although, for a brief moment in my life a few years ago, we’d wanted the same thing. However, that’d ended, and she had gone on, living her dream. She’d fallen into postpartum depression after her third kid and managed to get out of it via help from a therapist.
“Maybe I will.” I stood slightly taller, although it didn’t help me feel any more confident that I’d follow through with my statement.
“I think my plan to kidnap you and drop you off at her office has a higher chance of probability than you going yourself.” She motioned for me to sit in front of the many trays of food.
We were Italian. Our parents had come straight from Mantua, Northern Italy. So, one thing that had been drilled into us from conception was family and food. Whenever we had issues, we ate, and we bitched to our family. My mother loved to hear everyone’s problems, be in everyone’s lives, and stuff them up like an Italian sausage.
How I’d managed not to gain so much weight was beyond me.
Maybe it was because I tried not to be around my parents as much as I could. The whole family got together every Sunday to celebrate life and eat. I worked, much to their dismay.
Maybe you had to actually remember to eat in order to gain weight?
“Thanks for bringing this over, Gia.”
She was stubborn, refusing to give up on me, even with my darkened moods.
“That’s what family does.” She sat in the chair next to mine and dug in. “So, what’s new?” She scooped up a piece of sushi with expert chopstick skills and waited for me to talk.
My eyes threatened to water with overwhelming emotions. She was here because I wasn’t okay, and she knew I needed help. I’d been refusing help for so long, and I was tired. I was so tired of feeling this … whatever the hell I was feeling. I just wanted happiness. I wanted to smile and feel joy. I wanted it so badly that I finally broke right there over raw tuna, cucumber, avocado, and rice.
“I’m sorry I’m so messed up right now. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me to fix it. I want to though. I signed up for some program with a life coach today, that might help me today. I’m sorry I’m agrande sacco di pazzi Italiano.”
Sometimes, when I got emotional, my language bounced between English and Italian.
“You’re not a big bag of Italian crazy, Mia. You’re just going through something, and I know it’s hard, believe me. But saying it out loud is a big deal. I’m so proud of you. Now, tell me about this life coach program.”
I did. I spilled everything the commercial had said and the documents I’d read in obscene detail. I even mentioned thein case of deathpart. Gia did not gasp or shake her head like I’d thought she would. Maybe we were both crazy. I’d debated for a while that my family was nuts.
“I think it’s a good idea. Anything is better than this.” She gestured to me and then the world around me.
I was dressed like a businesswoman, wearing a pantsuit in fact. But I knew what she meant. My hair had split ends and was dull; my face was void of makeup, clearly showing the bags under my eyes; and I might or might not look like a hobo dressed for business.
I didn’t argue with her there. I’d really let myself go the last few months.
“Hope so.” That was the honest truth.
