Page 3 of The Road to You
“What an asshole,” she mutters into her glass, her tone low and deadly.
The silence stretches between us. I swirl the wine in my glass and stare at the red liquid catching the light. This morning, I woke up feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. Now, it feels like fate sucker-punched me for even thinking such a thing.
“It doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “I mean, I saw the pictures, I know it is. But not hearing it from him feels like I’m living someone else’s nightmare, not my own.”
“Do you want me to call him? I can be scary when I want,” she offers, and I know she means it. With her six-foot-tall frame and statuesque beauty, she can be intimidating, especially when she puts on her “model mask,” as she calls it. That blank, impassive expression she wears on the runway that can make even the most confident men squirm.
I huff a sad laugh. “He knows your number. If he doesn’t want to face me, he won’t face you either. That’s just him. If he doesn’t say it out loud, then it’s not real. Nothing is happening.”
It’s a trait I’ve never liked about him. That ability to slip into denial and hide from anything unpleasant. I was foolish enough to think he’d change. What a joke.
Tabia scoffs, and her disdain is sharp enough to cut. “Did you know he was into men?”
Coming from anyone else, that question would have stung, but not from her.
“Not a clue.” I shake my head. I’ve replayed that thought in my mind a hundred times since I saw those pictures, but no clues ever stood out. I feel like a fool for that, but I don’t even know if there are telltale signs that someone is into both genders. That’s not even the point. He cheated, that’s the thing I hate, not with whom.
“You know what’s worse?” I don’t wait for her to respond. The words tumble out before I can hold them back. “Now I’m stuck in this house for the entire summer because every time I step outside, they’ll be on me like vultures. I don’t even know how to face our friends. What are they thinking? What are they saying behind my back?”
Tabia places a warm hand on my knee, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “Don’t worry about what other people think. It’s clear as day that he’s the one in the wrong. And if your friends can’t see that, they’re not worth keeping around.”
Her reasoning is rock solid, but the ache in my chest doesn’t ease.
“And as for the summer,” she continues, “why don’t you fly to my apartment in Milan? It’s empty, and you could use the break. Get away from the paparazzi, recharge without feeling like a prisoner in your own home.”
I let the idea sink into my mind. I can almost taste the freedom. The thought of wandering Milan’s streets without paparazzi following me feels too good to be true. I could finally breathe without cameras flashing in my face, without gossip following me everywhere I go.
“I might take you up on that.” For the first time all day, I feel something like relief. This could be a way out of this nightmare, and a spark of hope ignites in my chest.
2
LENA
Iwake up half an hour before the plane lands, just in time to pull my hair into a messy ponytail and put on a bit of makeup, just in case someone recognizes me. I’ve done everything possible to avoid attention, from ducking under the back seat of Tabia’s SUV driving out of my house to boarding the plane in the plainest sweatpants and baggy T-shirt I could find. Greta will spend the next couple of weeks tipping off the paparazzi with fake sightings of me around Los Angeles, buying me time to settle into my Milan apartment and lay low.
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in the nervousness wreaking havoc in my stomach. It’s been six days since the news broke, and the worst part is that I haven’t heard a single word from Preston. Not a text, not even a message through his lawyer or publicist. Nothing. He has tightened security around his set and hasn’t even bothered to release a statement to explain the situation.
Every gossip magazine is wildly speculating about the timeline of our relationship. Some say I must have known all along; others suggest our relationship was nothing but a coverfor him until he was ready to come out. That accusation stings more than anything else.
Our relationship was real, or at least, it was for me. But now I’m questioning everything. I’ve spent hours replaying every moment, scrutinizing every touch, every small confession, every kiss that seemed to be too rushed. Maybe he really didn’t like me, or maybe he’s bisexual and just fell for a man, but I need to hear it from him. I need him to tell me that there was something real between us. After four years, I deserve at least that much.
A flight attendant cautiously approaches me, her sweet smile curving her lips. She’s been attentive throughout the flight, helping to calm my raw nerves just enough to fall asleep.
“I don’t want to overstep, but I can make sure you get off the plane first,” she whispers. Her voice is so gentle that my heart squeezes in my chest. “I’ll buy you some time to get through immigration before the rest of the passengers.”
My chest lightens a bit with relief. Bless her. Whether it’s solidarity or sheer pity, I’m grateful. I want to hug her, maybe even kiss her for this small mercy.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I hope this won’t get you in trouble.”
She shakes her head slightly, the soft smile never leaving her lips. “I already spoke to the captain. He’s on board with it. He makes the rules.” She winks before moving on to help another passenger.
I’m not sure what story she spun for him—perhaps that a broken-hearted woman needs a few minutes of respite to disappear before the world swallows her whole—but I don’t care. I take this kindness and make the most of it.
When the plane touches down, I move quickly, slipping through the airport with my head down, my sunglasses and ball cap firmly in place, and my heart pounding. I’m lucky enough to snag a taxi without much of a wait. The driver doesn’t give mea second glance as I tell him Tabia’s address, and I sink into the back seat, grateful for the anonymity.
The soft hum of the radio fills the car with a comfortable blur of Italian words I don’t quite understand. It’s soothing, this bubble of not knowing, not needing to process anything for a few more minutes.
I watch as the city unfolds outside my window. The landscape shifts from the industrial sprawl around the airport to the mix of tall buildings and single-family homes on Milan’s outskirts. As we draw closer to the city center, the streets grow narrower, the architecture older, belonging to another era.
