Page 17 of The Road to You
“Oh my God!” I shriek, kicking my legs wildly. “Something touched my foot!”
Michele bursts out laughing, his chest shaking as he reaches for my waist, guiding me toward the stairs. I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him, my legs lifted high to avoid whatever lurks below.
“This is exactly why I don’t swim in lakes at night,” I mutter while my pulse is still racing.
“But you did it,” he teases, his voice warm against my ear. “And you loved it.”
I loved way too many things about this night, but the way he is carrying me out of the water, his skin against mine, his strong arms around my waist, is reaching the top of my personal favorites.
I exhale, still pressed against him. He’s right. I have no idea what’s coming next in my life, but for the first time, I kind of like it that way.
8
MICHELE
Ilet Marco’s call go to voicemail again for the tenth time today. The screen lights up with his name, the buzzing fills the small car, but I don’t even glance at it anymore. Since we left Milan ten days ago, I’ve vanished from the world. No press, no sponsors, no rehab updates, nothing. Just me, Lena, and the open road.
I know I should at least send Marco a text, something to keep him from having a heart attack, but every time I even think about answering, a weight settles in my ribcage. I can already hear him in my head, pushing me to be smarter, faster, tougher. To do another interview, another sponsor meeting, another reminder to the world that I’m still here, relevant, capable of coming back.
But the truth is that I don’t know if I am.
My leg feels stiffer every day without proper therapy, and cramming myself into this car for hours isn’t helping. Walking through the towns, climbing ancient stairs, and exploring castles balances out the damage, but it doesn’t fix it. And I don’t know if I even want to fix it anymore. I’m tired and hopeless, something I’ve never felt before, and it terrifies me.
“You know,” Lena’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. She’s hesitant, which isn’t like her. “Shouldn’t you take that call?”
I glance at her, catching the way she bites her lip as she watches me from behind oversized sunglasses. The wind tangles her hair, with the strands catching in the sunlight, and for a second, she looks like she belongs in an old Italian film, with her timeless and effortlessly captivating beauty.
I smile, keeping my voice easy. “It’s work-related. I’ve been clear that I’m taking time off.” It’s a lie, but I don’t feel like explaining everything to her right now. I don’t even know how to explain what I’m feeling to myself, let alone another person.
She studies me in silence, long enough that I feel it in my chest. “I feel guilty for accepting your offer for this trip,” she finally says. “Like I’m keeping you from something important.” I can hear the guilt in her tone, and that sparks a sense of uneasiness in my chest.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Lena in this short time we traveled together, it’s that she never hesitates to speak her mind. She doesn’t play games and doesn’t dance around the truth. She’s direct in a way that should annoy me, but somehow, I love it.
I shake my head. “Don’t be. I needed this trip as much as you did. Probably more.” And this, at least, is the truth. I didn’t know how much I needed this break from reality until I took it.
She watches me carefully, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to believe me. “Promise me that if you need to go back, you’ll tell me. You won’t just ignore it until it’s too late.”
I exhale slowly, gripping the steering wheel. She doesn’t know that I already crossed that line weeks ago. I’m not sure there is a way back anymore. But I don’t want her to carry that weight.
“You’re not a problem, Lena. You will never be.” I glance at her, offering the best reassurance I can. “And I promise if I have to go back, I’ll tell you. We’ll figure it out.”
She studies me for another second, then nods, easing the tension in her shoulders.
“So,” she says, shifting the mood, “where are you taking me next?”
I smirk. “To drink good wine and eat good food.”
She groans, but the laugh that follows is warm. “I don’t even know why I ask. You’ve been stuffing me like a Thanksgiving turkey since we left Milan.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” I chuckle. “We’ve been exploring. You need fuel to keep up.”
She sighs, but there’s no real frustration behind it. “You’re right. I don’t think I ever would have seen those towns on my own. They looked like something out of a fairy tale. The hills, the towers, those castles on the cliffs…” She shakes her head in awe. “I don’t even know how it’s possible to build something like that. They’ve been standing for centuries, strong and beautiful. Before I met you, I didn’t even know Emilia Romagna existed. How unfair is it?”
I glance at her, and something warm settles in my chest. She says it like she’s talking about more than just the buildings. I saw how she enjoys the slow life in those places, the long lunch breaks, and the simplicity of small moments. I don’t think she can get that in Los Angeles.
She lets out a small huff. “I still have no idea how you Italians drive on these tiny roads, though. It has to be some kind of magic trick. There’s no other explanation.”
I bark out a laugh, remembering how she yelped every time I squeezed the car between stone walls and oncoming traffic. “I promise you, it’s not that difficult.”
