Page 25 of The Road to You
“No.” He cuts me off before I can finish, shaking his head as a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “You need this journey as much as I do.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he presses on.
“This isn’t just about my leg, Lena. It’s not just about the physical injury. It’s in here too.” He taps his temple. “I need a distraction. I need to clear my head before I can figure out what comes next. This…,” he gestures toward his leg, and his expression darkens momentarily, “changes everything. Whether I like it or not, I have to figure out a way forward. And if I don’t change my mindset first, I’ll lose my damn mind.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Because I get it, I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like if I suddenly couldn’t act anymore. If the career I built, the one thing I’ve always known, was suddenly ripped away from me. What would I do then? Who would I be?
People like us don’t have a Plan B.
When you dedicate your entire life to something, when you sacrifice everything to succeed, you don’t stop to consider what happens if it all falls apart. You just keep going. You push harder. You chase the dream relentlessly because if you stop, even for a second, you might realize there’s nothing else waiting for you.
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat.
Michele doesn’t need my pity. He needs time. He needs this escape. And maybe so do I.
“Enough with the sad talk,” he says suddenly, forcing a grin and shifting the conversation like he always does when things hittoo close to home. “We should go into town and pick up some groceries for the next few days.”
I nod, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll go get changed.”
I stand, but as I walk away, I glance over my shoulder. He’s staring at the horizon, lost in thoughts that are heavier than he lets on. And I wonder, just for a second, if I could be the distraction he needs. If I could be the thing that helps him forget. The problem is, I’m not sure I want to be just a distraction.
The small grocerystore in Radda feels familiar now, like a place we’ve always shopped at together instead of just for the past week. Michele heads straight for the cured meats section, leaving me to wander through the fresh produce. My fingers skim over ripe tomatoes and fragrant basil. I take my time picking the best ones, enjoying the simple pleasure of it.
In Los Angeles, I’d grab a plastic container of pre-cut fruits and vegetables from the store without a second thought. Convenience always won out over freshness. But here I can taste the difference. The rich flavors and crisp textures are something I won’t forget when I go home. I get the feeling that I won’t forget a lot of things when I go home, not just the food.
I reach for a box of lemon tea bags and smile, remembering how Michele practically had an existential crisis when I grabbed bottled iced tea last time. His horrified expression still makes me laugh. He’d gone on about all the sugar and preservatives, insisting we had time to boil water and brew tea ourselves. And, of course, he was right. It does taste better this way.
By the time we meet near the registers, I’ve gathered everything we need.
“We should stop by the bakery for some fresh bread,” Michele says, tossing a pack of prosciutto into our basket.
“Okay,” I murmur, my attention snagged by a rack of gossip magazines near the checkout.
Something pulls my eyes toward one of the covers. Maybe it’s Michele’s name in bold letters, maybe it’s the slightly blurred background in the photo, but my stomach clenches as I reach for it. The moment I see the picture, my heart plummets.
It’s us.
Sitting at a café, laughing over coffee, completely unaware that someone was watching. My name is printed in smaller text next to a boxed-out image of my face, but there’s no mistaking it.
“What is this?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I show him the magazine.
Michele’s expression darkens instantly. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts unloading our groceries onto the conveyor belt, his movements sharper and faster than before.
“What is this?” I repeat, my voice tight with confusion. “Why is your name all over the cover?”
His gaze locks onto mine, pinning me in place. “I’ll explain,” he says in a low voice, “but not here.”
I glance around. The cashier, a young woman, is sneaking glances at us. The man behind us in line is doing the same. Heat creeps up my neck, and I force myself to set the magazine down, flipping it face down.
We pack up the groceries as fast as possible and practically bolt out of the store. Michele throws the bags into the back seat, and the second I slide into the car, he peels out of the parking lot like we’re being chased.
“Can you please explain now?” My voice is sharper than I intended, but my heart is still hammering from that headline.
Michele exhales heavily, gripping the wheel like he’s bracing for impact.
I press on. “Why is your name on that cover? What kind of athlete are you?”
He hesitates. His jaw tenses, but then he finally says the words that drain the blood from my face.
