Page 59 of The Road to You
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to, because, yeah. I am happy.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel like something is missing. I don’t feel like I’m still running after something I can’t quite catch. I think I’ve already found it. And she’s laughing in my mother’s kitchen, completely unaware she’s making me fall for her a little more every second.
The smell of grilled lamb,fresh focaccia, and simmering tomatoes wraps around me like a blanket as I carry a heavy tray out to the long wooden tables set up under the shade of the olive trees. Plates clatter, glasses clink, and laughter bounces off the stone walls of the masseria.
It’s beautiful chaos.
Kids race between the tables, chasing each other with half-eaten pieces of bread. My aunts shout at them to sit down, using that particular tone that sounds more like a song than a scolding. Uncles debate loudly about soccer teams and politics, waving their forks like weapons. Wine is poured into glasses without ever asking if you want more—of courseyou want more.
Lena is right there, wedged betweenZioPietro and my cousin Martina, laughing as she tries to navigate theantipastilaid out in front of her. Olives, cured meats, roasted vegetables, and little fried balls of bread. She’s trying everything, encouraged by enthusiastic nods and hand gestures. Annalaura sits in front of her, diligently translating bits and pieces, but Lena’s smile never wavers, even when she’s not entirely sure what she’s eating.
I lean back in my chair, letting the noise wash over me, feeling full not just from the food, but from beinghome.From seeing the people I love surround the woman who’s somehow slipped into my life like she’s always been meant to be there.
“Finalmente sei tornato.”
I turn to see Antonio, my big brother, slide into the seat next to mine, balancing a plate piled so high it looks like a small hill. His beard is a little grayer than the last time I saw him, but hiseyes are the same: sharp, attentive, and too damn perceptive for his own good. Yes, I’m finally back home and I love the feeling.
“It was time,” I say simply, reaching for a piece of bread.
He glances toward Lena, who is gamely trying to explain the concept of “peanut butter” to an utterly baffled Zio Pietro. A small smile pulls at the corner of Antonio’s mouth.
“She’s special,” he says quietly, so low only I can hear it under the din of the lunch chatter.
I tear a piece of bread in half, my heart thudding harder than it should. “Yeah.”
“You serious about her?”
The question doesn’t feel like an interrogation. Antonio’s not like that. It’s more of a brother checking in. Wanting to understand. He’s never made a fuss about my companions, even when it was clear to everyone but me that they were with me more for my fame than me as a person.
I drag a hand over my face, then glance at Lena again, her golden hair catching the sunlight, her laugh filling the air as naturally as breathing.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s new. Fast.”
“But?” Antonio prompts, raising an eyebrow.
“But it feels…” I trail off, swallowing. “Right,” I say finally, feeling the truth of it settle heavy and sure in my chest.
Antonio nods, like he expected that. He chews thoughtfully, then asks, “What happens after the summer? When she goes back to Los Angeles. When you go back to the fields.”
A band of panic wraps around my ribcage, cutting off my breath. I wish I had an answer. I wish I could say something confident and easy, like,We’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.
But the truth is, I don’t even know if Icango back to the fields. My leg, though better than I ever dared hope, still carries the memory of pain like a shadow. I’m not the same player. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I look down at my plate, pushing a roasted pepper around with my fork.
Antonio seems to read all of that in my silence. He puts a big, warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes once with a reassuring grip. A brother’s way of sayingI see you. I’m with you.
“I believe in you,” he says simply, before turning his attention back to his mountain of food like the conversation never happened.
I sit there for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle over me. He believes I’ll go back, as if it’s a given. But I’m not so sure.
Yet for the first time in a long time, the uncertainty doesn’t hollow me out. It doesn’t feel like failure looming over me. It just feels open, like anything could happen.
I glance back at Lena, who’s just been handed a plate oforecchiette con cime di rapaand is making a face like she’s just found heaven. She beams at me across the table, her whole face lighting up with pure, infectious joy.
Yeah.
Anything could happen, and that’s not so terrifying after all.
