by Lauren Asher
The latter reasoning wins, beating back my worries.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
2
Santiago
The blades of the ceiling fan spin above me, blurring together in one big circle. I check the time on my phone again. Only five minutes have passed since the last time I looked.
This is my life. Uneventful. Isolated. Gloomy.
I’ve become a shell of a person because it’s easier than facing my pointless future. Anything is better than that, including debilitating sadness.
I should call my therapist again and make another appointment.
I should go on a road trip and visit my parents.
I should do something—anything really—but I can’t find it in me to beat back the mist taking over my brain.
My therapist calls it depression. I call it my life post-accident.
I shouldn’t have read the article last night. The one that gave a detailed report of my three-year anniversary since my accident. It was a mistake. Any hope about returning to my previous life is extinguished with every negative sentence or article headline. They don’t talk about my successful recovery. Or how I’m able to walk like a normal man, even though I look anything but.
Although I’m physically fit, I’m mentally not. Even after three years, I still cling to old ghosts of my past. That’s what happens when I have all the time in the world to think. But with overthinking then comes my escape into numbness because it’s easier to slip into the mental space where I don’t need to care—to shut off my feelings toward my situation. Apathy is my battle armor in my harsh new reality. Because if I cared, then I’d have to embrace the awful articles published about me.
Santiago Alatorre’s new maid gives a tell-all about his disability.
Read about Santiago Alatorre’s struggle with morphine addiction, alcoholism, and depression.
Santiago Alatorre visits his therapist for the first time in months. Exclusive reports say he is actively suicidal and was rushed to the hospital.
Headlines blur together, with one essential bottom line: everyone wants to watch me fail. I thought success was what people were interested in, but in reality, they’re more invested in my downfall. Defeat sells headlines while success sells sponsorships. Not that I deal with the latter anymore. I went from being treated like a god to being nothing but a whisper of a headline once a year.
In the end, reporters are right. I’m not the same person. I can’t drive a car faster than the average speed limit without getting nauseous and paralyzed with fear. So, yeah, I’m the last racer who belongs back on the F1 grid.
My trauma gives me the perfect excuse to hide. It’s just me and my massive house, sequestered in some small lake town surrounded by Italian mountain ranges. I call it my personal hell, surrounded by paradise.
My phone’s alarm rings again. I press snooze, ignoring the tiny voice in my head pleading with me to get out of bed. The sane part of me urges me to drive my car down the winding coastal road. To shave off my beard because it’s a physical reminder of my lack of motivation. To reach out to my family and ask for anyone to visit me because I can’t stand the silence in my house for another day.
No. Everyone has moved on, and you’re just a loser stuck living in your past memories.
The hopeful thoughts scurry as the darkness takes hold again. I turn over in my bed, allowing the afternoon sunlight to warm my back. Colors drain around me as I shut my eyes, forcing myself to hide in my gray world for another day.
3
Chloe
I stare at the log-in screen of the testing company. The mouse hovers over the sign-in button, but I pull back.
“Are you planning on looking at the screen all day or…” Brooke leans on the counter next to me.
“I’m scared,” I whisper as if the computer can detect my fear.
“I’d be afraid too. But think about how you’ve spent the last six weeks anxiously waiting for this.” She bumps her hip into mine. “Is it easier if I press the button?”
I nod my head, shutting my eyes. “Yes.” There’s no use lying to myself. While I might be optimistic, I’m not delusional. I half expect the test to come back empty with meaningless information. That I can handle. The alternative option—the hopeful one—now that seems unrealistic.
“Okay. You got it, dude.”
My heart lodges itself somewhere in my throat as Brooke clicks the button.
“Oh shit! It worked!” Brooke’s scream makes my ears pop.
“What?” My eyes fly open.
“You have a match!” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands together. “Yes!”
I blink at the screen. The results in front of me make it difficult to produce any words, let alone a reaction. Much to my shock, the test linked me to a man I share almost fifty percent of my DNA with.
Oh my God. It actually worked.
It feels like after all the hard breaks I’ve had in life, I finally won the genetic lottery.
“You have a dad!” Brooke grabs my hand and spins me in a circle.
We laugh up to the ceiling, allowing hope to fill our tiny apartment to the point of bursting.
“Hey, Chloe, would you mind covering the rest of my shift? You can obviously keep the tips. I hate to do this, but my mom forgot to pick up her seizure meds. I need to rush to the pharmacy before they close for the night.” Teri, one of the older waitresses, looks up at me.
I’m tempted to say no. The bottoms of my feet ache after running around the daycare all morning. My head throbs from a permanent headache, forcing me to squint every time I enter the brightly lit kitchen. All I want is a nice shower, enough Tylenol to knock out an elephant, and my bed. The simple things in life.
But…I need the money. Any dollar counts toward flying to Italy and my father faster. According to a Google search and Brooke’s social media FBI skills, Matteo Accardi, AKA my long-lost father, lives his best life in some small Italian lakeside town. Flights cost about the same as donating one of my kidneys. Sadly, I checked on giving one away, but Brooke warned me against it. She said to be patient and save up money. But it’s easy for her to say that. Who can think, let alone save up money, when my dad is literally alive?
Brooke is the realist in this relationship, and she burst my dreamer bubble before it got out of control. She’s right. Kidneys are like twins. They shouldn’t be apart. So, sadly, I have both and I’m stuck working grueling hours to save up every single dollar.
The DJ in my head plays “Work” by Rihanna, clearly approving of the decision to push through my fatigue for extra money.
I nod my head. “Sure.”
“Great! Thank you! You can check with Jamie for my table numbers.” She rushes out of the room.
Look at me being such a giver.
I find out Teri’s tables from Jamie before I take my minuscule five-minute break. People think I’m a smoker, but I like to stand in the alleyway behind the restaurant and breathe in the stale air of New York City. It’s my moment of quiet in a day filled with noise.
I step out into the alley and halt. Ugh. There’s a random couple defiling my dumpster oasis, with the man practically inhaling the girl’s face. Gross. But something about the way the guy gropes her has me nodding my head in weird fascination. What kind of couple can hook up by the trash?
The kind that are so desperate for each other they couldn’t wait to get home.
I wouldn’t know that kind of passion. The only thing close to that is my commitment to working hard to afford the basics in life. Boyfriends are only a distraction, and they require a lot more attention than watering plants. I don’t have the time or energy for a relationship. That’s why I stick to some meaningless hookups every now and then to satisfy an itch. Plus, I sure as hell don’t have the ability to trust someone to that degree. My mom made sure of that. She might have been awful, but she taught me some important lessons.
Don’t do drugs.
Don’t have sex without a co
ndom.
Don’t have kids unless I’m absolutely, positively, five-hundred percent ready because they can’t be returned at the nearest mall or grocery store.
And most of all, don’t fall in love. It’s messy, blinding, and bound to be a disaster.
I turn back toward the door to give these two lovers privacy. My old sneaker squeaks and the man turns to yell at me.
“Hey! Go away, you creep!”
Me? I’m not the one hooking up next to yesterday’s trash. I look over my shoulder to apologize. My jaw drops at what I find.
That no-good liar. Teri isn’t picking up her mom’s medication. How can she be, when she’s too busy choking on this guy’s tongue? I scowl. Teri officially sucks and if I didn’t want her tips, I’d ditch all her tables in revenge.
Why do people need to lie to get their way? Doesn’t she realize she could’ve told me she wanted a date with Mr. Dumpster Kink and I would’ve still said yes? There was no need to lie about her mother needing medicine.
People suck. Well, people have always sucked, but they suck times ten thousand right now.
Breathe, girl. You want the money. Who cares if someone you barely know lied to you?
Because it squashes the hope that there are still decent people out there with morals.
Teri doesn’t bother explaining, and I don’t stick around waiting to hear an apology. There’s only two months left before I bust out of this city. And thanks to Teri, I’ll be a few bills closer to my end goal.
Someone cue queen Riri because this girl is about to work, work, work, work, work, work.
4
Chloe
After arriving yesterday in Lake Como and knocking out from an intense case of jet lag in the run-down bed-and-breakfast near the center of town, I finally walk the main road of the village.
Lake Como is a beautiful lakeside town surrounded by mountain ranges. The village truly is something stolen straight out of history, with old stucco buildings and cobblestone roads. My charming temporary home has a population the size of La Guardia airport on a Tuesday. Seriously, Google told me less than two thousand people live here. Not to mention George Clooney has a house here.
Yes. I’m talking about that George Clooney.
Did I take a gamble by never messaging Matteo before to let him know I was his long-lost daughter who wanted to meet him after all these years? Probably. But I couldn’t risk him shutting himself off to me and claiming I was some scammer. So instead, I took a risk and decided to introduce myself the old-fashioned way—in person while shitting bricks. But first, I need to find out where he lives.
Small shops line the streets, with people waving at each other and children running around. It comforts me to see the locals caring about one another. It’s like a fairy tale, with people stopping to have a conversation. Their kindness makes me hopeful that someone knows who Matteo is and where I can find him. Unfortunately, Brooke’s stalking abilities only go so far. Matteo’s address wasn’t public information, much to our frustration.
Like a bad salesman, I visit different shops trying to find out where he lives. I attempt the same awful Italian conversation in four different shops before I hit the gold mine.
“Sto circando signore Accardi.” I gesture toward the latest prop in my hands and ask about Matteo. Brooke suggested impersonating a food delivery person.
“Signore Accardi e morto.” The store owner frowns.
Accardi is dead? I laugh to myself. That’s not right. The man updated his profile picture on Facebook yesterday. I don’t know what Accardi she is referencing, but I guess it’s a popular last name here. “Morto? No. Sto circando signore Matteo Accardi.” I emphasize his first name for good measure.
Her lips form an O. She apologizes in Italian and scribbles Matteo’s address on a piece of paper.
Italian people. So kind. So trusting. The true unsung heroes of Expedition Find My Father.
I exit the store and dump the empty paper bag in a nearby trash bin. The entire walk back to my bed-and-breakfast is spent with me grinning like a madman at the townspeople.
It’s time to meet the man I’ve spent my entire life wishing for.
The screech of the car brakes pulls my attention away from my thoughts.
“Here we are.” The driver speaks in a heavy Italian accent.
My eyes slide from my lap to the car’s window. A quaint house sits at the top of a winding path, with high walls and a front gate covered in ivy. The yellow stucco walls stand out against the backdrop of the beautiful lake. It’s a house I wish I had grown up in.
I release a shaky breath and sift through the front pocket of my backpack to grab my money.
The driver accepts it with a grin. “Grazie.”
I exit the car. A quick scan of the street reveals only two houses. One belongs to Matteo and the other looks like it’s something straight out of the latest horror film. The dark mansion sits at the edge of the lake, surrounded by tall trees. Dark brick spires shoot into the sky, reminding me of a villain’s evil castle. A rotted wooden fence reveals unkempt bushes and an overgrown yard.
I turn away from the abandoned house back toward Matteo’s. “You can do this.” With legs resembling Jell-O, I walk toward the huge iron gate at the base of Matteo’s property.
Loud music plays from somewhere on his property. I stick my head through one of the gaps in the gate and check his driveway, finding multiple cars parked. Shit. Stupid me for thinking my father would be by himself.
I text Brooke to let her know I arrived at his house but he’s not alone. This moment makes me grateful that she insisted on paying the ridiculous service fee for two weeks while I got situated in Italy. I need her advice on what to do.
A car revving down the road pulls my attention away.
Do they know Matteo? Are they going to ask me what I’m doing outside, lurking by the gate? Or worse, what if they drag me inside and out me as some kind of stalker in front of Matteo? All the options would blow my chance at making a good first impression.
Logic escapes me as I panic about Matteo’s newest visitor catching me creeping outside of the property.
Maybe I wasn’t ready for this family reunion after all. My eyes flit toward the gap in the fence of the house next door. I run toward it as headlights bask the road in a glow. Branches from the bushes scrape my face and arms, but I push through the pain. Curiosity pushes me to go deeper into the property.
A howl in the distance makes me shiver. Are there wolves in Italy? “Shit. If I die tonight, I’m haunting Brooke for the rest of my life. This idea is going to hell.”
Using my phone’s flashlight, I walk through grass rivaling Africa’s Serengeti plains. I follow the stone wall dividing my father’s property from this one. My sneakers catch multiple times on thick roots, and I curse into the night.
After five minutes of avoiding fallen branches and scary-looking thorns, I make it to the part of the wall where the music sounds the loudest. Laughing and people talking forces my heart rate into overdrive. An urge to check out the other side feeds my bravery. I search the wall for any purchase to climb, but the stones are slick to the touch.
“Not even the wall could be easy?” I eye the large tree next to the fence. It looks decent enough to climb. “Just like old times, Chloe.”
My phone chiming in my hand startles me. “Shit!”
I listen for any changes in the music or conversation just in case they heard me. Nothing seems amiss, with laughter bouncing off the cement wall.
I swipe the glass to answer the call. “Brooke. You won’t believe what I’m up to right now.” After placing Brooke on speaker, I stuff my phone under my bra strap so I can hear her better while I climb.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Well. I’m currently scaling a tree like when we snuck back into our room past curfew.” I speak low as I grab onto a close branch and prop my foot on the trunk. My arms wobble, but I push through with gritted teeth.
“You always
sucked at climbing trees so this can’t be good.” She snorts.
“Don’t remind me.”
A twig snaps nearby. My arms tremble as I halt my climbing.
“But remember the time you fell on that pile of dog poop?” Brooke breaks the silence.
Ignoring the noise, I grab onto the next branch. I pull myself up a couple of feet higher off the ground. “It’s not something I can exactly forget.”
“Care to explain why you’re climbing a tree?”
“Do you want the legal or the illegal story?”
“By all means, share the illegal one.” A new growly voice breaks up the conversation.
I let out a shriek. My fingers slip, and I fall onto my back. An audible oof escapes my lungs as something sharp in my backpack pokes my spine. “Ouch.”
“Chloe! What happened? Oh, God, please don’t be dead somewhere in Italy. I’ll never be able to afford the plane ticket to find you,” Brooke’s voice calls out from far away.
“Brooke, I’m alive!” I search my bra for my phone but come up empty.
“For now.”
A chill spreads across my skin at the stranger’s voice. His words steal my attention away from finding my phone.
He lingers near the base of a tree, cast in a dark shadow. “Care to tell me what you’re doing trespassing on my property?”
I squint, trying to make out his face. The scary idea I imagine isn’t doing wonders for my heart rate. Goosebumps explode across my skin as he lurks in the shadows, never stepping into the moonlight.
Like an idiot, I remain lying on the ground, petrified and unmoving. “I...umm…well…you see…”
“If this is how long it takes you to say a few words, we’ll be here all night.” The words come out short and agitated, with a hint of an accent.