Page 31 of The Road to You
I blink, then let out a startled laugh. “Yeah. No kidding.”
He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm and steady against mine. A pleasant shiver races up my spine and dissipates the last of the anger still simmering under my skin.
“Come,” he says. “The only cure for rage is gelato.”
I arch a brow. “Do Italians solveeveryproblem with food?”
He clutches his chest, gaping at me, feigning offense. “Of course not. We also use wine.”
This time, the laughter spills out of me freely, warm and unburdened. Michele helped me discover a way of living that’s nothing like what I was used to. I can’t change what Preston did, and I can’t change what people think about me, but Icantrust the people who are important to me. And that is what matters most. Who cares if someone who doesn’t know me thinks I’m an idiot for not understanding that Preston was cheating? Whocares if they think our relationship was fake? Greta believes me, and Tabia too. Michele shows only support for me, so why should I feel obligated to explain myself to strangers? Fuck them and what they think.
And just like that day in Milan, when I first said yes to this trip, I let Michele pull me forward, because somehow, I know he’s leading me toward happiness.
13
MICHELE
Rome hums around us, chaotic, alive, and utterly magnetic. It’s impossible not to get caught up in its energy, but beside me, Lena is quieter than usual. Her shoulders are a little stiffer, and her smile is not as quick. That phone call with Preston did a number on her, and I hate that he still has the power to do that. He’s a prick. Not even man enough to have a real conversation. How do you not even apologize to the woman you’ve been with for the past four years? I didn’t even consider ghosting when I was twenty, but at forty, his age, it just shows how emotionally immature he is.
I know Lena is trying to get over that phone call, and most of the time she seems to forget it, but I think sometimes she’s worried about the repercussions of this situation. She told her publicist to speak up for the first time since the scandal, and things are heating up again on the other side of the ocean. She didn’t hold back, explaining how Preston betrayed her and how she needed to take a break to grieve her four-year relationship.
Most people are on her side. Social media is trending on the side of support for her, but like every time something like this goes down, someone is pointing fingers, saying she’s notso innocent if she’s already moved on to someone else. Me. I’d bet my balls Preston’s entourage is spinning this shit to save his image.
Prick.
I glance at her as we weave through the bustling streets, the afternoon sun spilling golden light over the ancient buildings. I’ve spent years under stadium lights, in the adrenaline-fueled rush of the game, but right now, nothing feels more important than seeing her smile again.
“You know,” I say, nudging her arm playfully, “if you keep frowning like that, you’re going to get wrinkles.”
She rolls her eyes, but a smirk tugs at her lips. “Charming. Really, Michele, you sure know how to make a girl feel better.”
The sound of my name rolling off her lips sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. That accent will be the death of me. And she is smiling, something I’m proud of, considering I’m the reason she’s getting out of her head.
“Just looking out for you,” I say with mock seriousness. “Aging is a real concern, you know. Any day now, we’ll be trading our nights out for early bird specials and complaining about back pain.”
She lets out a laugh, small but genuine, and something eases inside me. That’s better.
It’s always been easy for me to make people laugh. I was always the class clown and someone who, in spite of having a career at sixteen, took his life lightly. I would have been squashed by the pressure otherwise. But with her, it’s more than gaining a shallow laugh. I want her to be happy, really happy. And the thought unsettles me.
I want to keep that light in her eyes, so I grab her hand and pull her along without warning. It’s becoming easier and easier to hold her hand in public. At first, I was unsure about what she thought, but then she let me do it, and sometimes she’s the onereaching out for me. It helps that it’s quite normal in Italy to display affection in public, and nobody gives us a second look if we hold hands. God, unless we’re having sex in broad daylight, they don’t even care if we kiss.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her tone suspicious but intrigued.
“You’ll see.”
We slip through the crowd, past buzzing cafés and tourists snapping photos, until the familiar sound of rushing water fills the air. The Trevi Fountain comes into view, breathtaking as always. The marble glows under the afternoon sun, and the water shimmers, catching every speck of light.
Lena stops beside me, eyes widening. “Okay, I have to admit, that’s impressive.”
The usual awe in her eyes has been missing since Florence a couple of days ago. I’m glad it’s back, even if it lasts only a few fleeting moments. Baby steps, I tell myself. Easier said than done.
I cross my arms and nod, satisfied. “Of course it is. I wouldn’t have dragged you here for anything less.”
I have to say that it is easy to impress a woman in Rome. Any way you turn, there is some spectacular view or monument to discover.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re really proud of your country, huh?”
She seems genuinely intrigued by this side of me, and I can’t hide the excitement in my voice. I’m Italian, of course I’m proud of my country.
