More to Life

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

In this stunning sequel to her acclaimed debut My Brother's Keeper, #1 national bestselling author ReShonda Tate Billingsley brings her real-deal insight to a heartfelt new novel about a wife and mother on a daring rescue mission—to save herself.

Freshly forty-five, Aja James knows that her life is good, complete with a loving, wealthy husband, well-adjusted children, and a beautiful home. Yet the truth is, she feels painfully unfulfilled, stuck in the present, haunted by a painful past. When a friend suggests a girls' trip to a tropical paradise, Aja hopes a change of scene will also change her perspective. On vacation, filled with fun and freedom, Aja is relieved to find her spirits lifting. But her good time also shines a light on what's troubling her: from her siblings to her husband and kids, she's spent nearly her whole life taking care of everyone—except herself. She's lost her spark. She's lost her identity.

Desperate to turn things around, Aja makes an impulsive decision—one that outrages her family and stuns her friends. But it may also be her wisest choice. Because it's only through learning what she could lose—and what's truly worth keeping—that Aja can transform this temporary fix into real, lasting happiness.

Release date: August 27, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 274

Sample

Living my best life!

That thought made me wiggle, shimmy, and shake. That was what I was about to finally do. No more back burner livin’ for me. After years of putting my dreams on hold, I was about to step out.

“And I’m gonna do more than just step out,” I said to my reflection as I spread the Fenty gloss over my lips, then smacked them together. I stepped back, gave a girlfriend snap, and added, “I’m about to do me.”

And it was going to begin with Oprah. While I’d made sure my family had a Christmas to remember, I had given myself the best gift ever—tickets to the exclusive “Living Your Best Life” one-day conference with Oprah as the opening speaker. The conference promised to help you “reconnect with your passion so you could walk in your purpose.” This was going to be life-changing for me.

I hooked my earrings in place, fluffed out my natural curls, propped up my girls, then admired how the magenta Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress brought out my golden overtone and gave me a glow.

I glanced at my watch: 7:57. I was making good time. “Today is going to be a good day,” I sang as I grabbed my purse and headed out of the room.

I started humming as I headed down the stairs. “I’m doing me!” I said as I hit the bottom step, almost colliding with my son as he came around the corner.

“Really, Ma?” Eric moved his bowl of cereal to keep it from spilling.

I squeezed his chin. “Good morning, my handsome son.” Eric was in his junior year at college and over the past year had become the spitting image of his father.

He pulled away and cocked his head. “Um, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m in a spectacular mood, that’s all.” I did another shimmy.

“Can you not?” He laughed as he headed into the kitchen.

I was about to ask him why he was walking around the house with a giant bowl of cereal, but before I could say anything, the front door opened and my daughter, Anika, came bouncing in. As the baby of the family, she commanded attention whenever she walked in the room, so trying to hold a conversation with Eric would’ve been moot anyway.

“Hey, Mom,” she said.

“Hello, sweetheart,” I replied. “You’re out early.”

“I had to go pick up Kelli from the airport, remember?” she said, motioning to one of her Spelman classmates who was walking in behind her. “I took your car because Dad said my car won’t be out of the shop until tomorrow.” She handed me my keys.

I extended my hand to the young Kerry Washington-look-alike who resembled my daughter so much it was eerie.

“Hello, Kelli,” I said. “Anika has been so excited about your visit.”

They giggled and hugged each other. “I’m excited, too,” Kelli said. “My dad remarried and moved here and I did not want to spend the holidays with my stepmom. She’s like only five years older than me. So thank you so much for letting me stay here a couple of days. I wish I could stay the whole break, but I have to go take part in the family drama.” She released a disgusted chuckle.

Family drama. I knew all about that. Well, I used to when I was growing up. No. I shook off those thoughts. Memories were not about to mess up my day.

“Well, any friend of my daughter is a friend of mine,” I said.

Kelli set her bag down and walked into our spacious entryway. Her mouth dropped open at the double winding staircase and large crystal chandelier that hung in the center. “Your home is beautiful,” she said, taking in the surroundings. “And your Christmas tree. How tall is it?”

“Nine feet,” I said. “And thank you so much for the compliment.” I cut my eyes at Anika. “Maybe you can help my daughter take the tree and other Christmas decorations down this weekend.”

“You know you like the stuff stored a certain way, so I wouldn’t want to mess that up.” She batted her eyes like she was doing me a favor.

Kelli continued surveying the house. I understood her awe, though. I’d worked hard to make our six-thousand-square-foot home a showcase. I’d imported tile from Tijuana, flown in drapes from Dubai, and bought furnishings from Finland. Our home had even been featured in a Texas Monthly “Best Homes” feature story.

“This place looks like it could be an art gallery,” Kelli said.

That made my smile widen. My work . . . in an art gallery? That would be a dream come true. I wanted someone to be moved by my creations, to appreciate how I pour my soul onto the canvas. Shoot, at this point, I just wanted to create, do something that brought me personal joy. That’s what I wanted to walk away from Oprah’s conference with today—the inspiration to live my best life because I wasn’t doing it right now.

Oh, I loved my family, but I wanted a life where my passion to paint could coexist. I hadn’t found that yet. But now that both kids were in college, I definitely felt like it was my time.

“Oh my goodness. Is this a Jean-Michel Basquiat?” Kelli asked.

Anika burst out laughing. “That is hilarious. No, that’s an Aja Clayton, my mom. It’s her little hobby.”

I grimaced at the dismissive way my daughter spoke of the thing that gave me my greatest joy outside of my family. But she’d come by it honestly. Her brother did it, her father did it. And when her grandmother, Judy—Charles’s mother—had moved in several months ago, she’d fallen in line and started doing it, too. I guess the fact that I just did painting on the side made them see it as nothing more than a hobby. But it was my passion, even if it was buried underneath the weight of my world.

“I’m impressed that you know Basquiat,” I said, deciding to do what I always did and ignore the condescending remark.

“Yes, he and LaTerus, the Modern Renaissance painter from Harlem, are my favorites. I’m an art history major,” Kelli said.

That warmed my heart to see someone share my passion. I’d been painting since I was a little girl. It was my escape from the dysfunction that was my life. I’d wanted to major in art but my guidance counselor, who was helping me fill out my college paperwork, had come right out and said, “Be realistic, Aja. Major in something real.”

I’d cried myself to sleep that night, then selected social work as my major.

Now watching Kelli take in my work confirmed that had been the worst choice I’d ever made.

“Wow, you could make a living off this,” Kelli said, looking at another painting that hung over the entryway table.

“Yeah, right,” Eric said, emerging from the dining room. “They’re called starving artists for a reason, and all this,” he said, pointing to his athletic body, “and starving doesn’t go together.” He laughed.

“Kelli, that’s my bigheaded brother, Eric,” Anika said.

Eric walked over, took Kelli’s hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Hello, beautiful,” he said with the same charisma that made me fall for his father.

“Don’t even think about it,” Anika said, pulling her friend’s arm and pushing her brother away.

“What? I’m just trying to be hospitable to your guest.” Eric chuckled.

“Can you two save this fight for another time?” I said. “Kelli, make yourself at home. I have to get out of here for my conference.”

“Where are you going?” Anika and Eric asked simultaneously.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Reminded myself this was going to be a good day.

“So I guess neither of you noticed that I’m dressed up.” I pointed to my outfit.

They both looked me up and down. “Oh,” they said in unison.

“My conference is today,” I said. “The one I’ve been talking about for the past two weeks.”

“Oh, that’s right. You have that entrepreneur thingy. I forgot about that,” Anika said. “Good thing we didn’t stop on the way back.” She turned to Kelli. “Talk about a scam. My mom is going to this conference where they get people to shell out $1,500 for a ticket so they can tell you stuff you already know.”

I wasn’t about to get into a debate with my children. Another glance at my watch. 8:08. I wanted to be in place by 9:30 since the conference started at ten. “Whatever. I’m heading out because I can’t be late. There’s no late entry.”

Eric shrugged his indifference as he continued into the kitchen. I followed so I could grab a quick cup of coffee and some fruit.

“Okay, Mom,” Anika said, following behind me. “But can you make us some of your homemade pancakes before you go?”

Any other time, I would’ve jumped at the chance to cook for my daughter and her guest. But not today.

“What part of I have to go do you not get?” I asked.

“Mom . . .”

I ignored her as I opened the cabinet and pulled out my coffee pod, then dropped it in the machine.

Eric set his bowl in the sink, with the dishes from last night that Anika hadn’t bothered to wash. “Mom, did you fill out my immunization papers? They’re due at noon,” he said.

“So we’re really not getting pancakes?” Anika asked.

I cut my eyes at her and she huffed.

“Can you get us an Uber to go to IHOP, then?” she asked. “My Uber app isn’t working.” She looked at her brother. “Or Eric can take us.”

“I’m going back to bed. Besides, I don’t have any gas.”

Anika’s eyes widened. “Ooh, speaking of gas. You’re probably going to need some,” she told me. “The light is on in your car.”

“You brought my car back on empty?” I said, exasperation creeping in.

Anika just gave me a blank look and a “Sorry.” She paused. “So no Uber either, huh?”

I took a deep breath. Now I was going to have to stop for gas. Thankfully, the convention center was only thirty minutes away, so I was still good. “Anika, you are more than capable of making you guys some breakfast.”

“Fine. Come on, Kelli. I guess we’ll just have to starve.” She took her friend’s hand and led her out of the kitchen.

“Mom,” Eric said, “my paperwork?”

I sighed. I had meant to print that yesterday, but I’d had to go to Office Depot and get a new cartridge, and when I’d come home, the dog had chewed up one of my favorite shoes so I’d gotten distracted.

“No, I didn’t get a chance to do it,” I said. “Can’t you do it?”

“Mom . . .”

I pressed the Start button on the Keurig. “Get your dad to do it. It’s his insurance information. I really need to go.”

“You know Dad doesn’t know how to do that,” Eric replied.

“Your dad doesn’t know how to do what?”

I managed a smile when the love of my life walked in and planted a kiss on my cheek. Even in his running gear and his face covered with a layer of sweat, he looked like he needed to be modeling Under Armour gear in a magazine.

“How was your run?” I asked.

“Good. And Dad doesn’t know what?” he repeated.

“Eric needs his immunization paperwork filled out,” I said.

“Coach said if I don’t have it in today by noon, I won’t be able to play in the first game when we get back to school.”

“Oh,” Charles said. “That’s a mom problem.” He laughed like he’d really said something funny. “Babe, have you seen my driver? I have to be at the golf club in thirty minutes. I’m playing with the new Texans owner, and since I’m trying to snag that exclusive interview, I can’t be late.”

It was now 8:20. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t be late either. But I just said, “Did you put it back in your bag after your game last week?”

“I could’ve sworn I did. But it’s not there. Can you help me find it?” His voice was suddenly filled with frustration like he’d expected to walk right in here and I was going to tell him exactly where the driver was.

I shook my head. “I can’t. I have to get to my event. The Oprah workshop.”

“Oh. Is that today?”

I bit my bottom lip as I felt my enthusiasm waning. While what everyone else did was important to me, nothing I did seemed important to my family.

“I really need to get dressed,” Charles said. “Can you help me look?”

“No,” I repeated, keeping my voice even. “I have to get going. The event starts in an hour and a half and I want to be there early.”

He eased up behind me, wrapped his arm around my waist, and kissed me on my neck. “Please?”

“Can you guys get a room,” Eric groaned. “Mom, can you at least hook up the printer and print out the paperwork since you’re making me figure this out on my own? I have to get it in by noon and you won’t be back by then.”

“You’re a college student. You should know technology.” I gently kissed my husband on the lips as I pushed him away. His kiss normally had a way of relaxing me, but today it wasn’t working.

“No, I go to the computer lab and the printers are already hooked up,” Eric said. “I don’t even know where the cartridges are.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll at least get the paperwork printed, but you’re going to have to fill it out.”

I ignored his groans as I headed to the office. “Just relax,” I mumbled to myself. “You’re good on time.”

I grabbed the Office Depot bag, pulled the cartridge out, opened it, and replaced the old one. I released silent curses as I waited for my email to pop open so that I could print the immunization paperwork Eric’s coach had sent.

“Finally,” I mumbled as the PDF opened and I pressed Print. I had just reached to remove the paperwork when I noticed Charles’s silver golf club in the corner of the office.

I sighed as I called out for my husband. “Charles! I found your driver.”

I heard footsteps as he came racing down the hall. “Where was it?”

“For some reason you dropped it off in here.” I pointed to the corner.

He snapped his finger. “Oh, yeah. I stepped in here for a call the last time I came from golfing.” Charles leaned in and kissed me. “I knew you’d find it.”

“Did you even look?” My voice had way more irritation than normal.

“Why are you snapping?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this conference is very important to me and I feel like no one cares.”

“Okay, you’re being a little dramatic,” he said with a smile. “We all care. I’m so glad you’re leaving for your vacation in two days. You seem like you really need it. And I’m making sure you have the best birthday girl’s trip ever, so don’t get stressed.”

“Okay, you’re right.” I released a slow breath.

“Come here, let me massage you.” Charles pulled the rolling chair toward him.

A moan escaped me as Charles began kneading my shoulders. “Charles, I don’t have time. And I thought you had to go, too.”

“Oh, his assistant texted me. He pushed back our start time thirty minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “But it is five till nine, so let me get out of here.”

Five till nine? I wanted to scream. How had the time gotten away?

“Dangit,” I muttered, swiveling around in the chair to pull the paperwork off the printer.

“Well, have fun at your event, babe.” Charles leaned in to kiss me again. But he bumped my cup of coffee before making contact, and hot coffee spilled all over my dress and the paperwork I’d just printed.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” I screamed as I jumped up.

Charles grabbed a Kleenex and immediately began rubbing.

“Stop! You’re making it worse,” I said. Charles backed away at my outburst. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just let me reprint this paperwork and go find something else to wear.”

Charles eased out of the room and I prayed that I could get the papers printed, change my clothes, and get downtown in the next hour.

It was 9:45 and my heart was pounding.

My dream was fifteen minutes away from being deferred. Again.

“Come on, come on, come on!” I screamed at the car in front of me. I pounded the steering wheel as I screamed at the little old lady who couldn’t decide if she was going to go left or right.

I’d stopped for gas—rushing so I’d only put $5 in, which hadn’t even turned my warning light off. But I just needed enough gas to get downtown.

If I miss this conference because of my family . . .

I pushed down the lump in my throat and the mist trying to cover my eyes as I glanced down at the GPS. I knew the way to the convention center but had turned on the GPS just to track my time. It had my arrival as 10:19, and I was praying that I’d be able to shave off some time.

My prayers hadn’t been answered.

“Move!” I screamed at another car that had cut me off and slowed my speed race by twenty miles an hour.

“Breathe, Aja. Breathe,” I mumbled. I’d been talking to myself the whole ride, trying my best to keep my nerves in check. “I know they stressed no late entries, but they’ll have a grace period.”

They have to have a grace period.

The GPS had been right on target because it was 10:19 when I pulled into the parking garage of the convention center. My hands were shaking in nervous anticipation. I drove around the second floor, and all the parking spots were taken, so I drove up to the third floor. After circling around and watching the clock on my dashboard turn to 10:26, I pulled into a handicapped space.

“Screw it,” I said, deciding I’d just have to pay the ticket if I got one.

I parked and prayed for a miracle as I darted through the garage, across the skywalk, and into the auditorium.

The check-in desk was empty and my heart dropped.

“Excuse me,” I said to a woman I saw standing at a table near the second entry. “I’m here for the ‘Living Your Best Life’ event. I’m registered.” I fumbled for my phone to pull up my ticket.

The woman looked at her phone like she wanted to remind me of the time. I wanted to scream that I knew what time it. . .