Page 60 of The Road to You
The kitchen smellslike fresh coffee and baked sugar, and the last of thecrostatais cooling on the counter. I lean against the heavy wooden table, watching Lena fumble adorably with the ancientmoka pot, her tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth in concentration.
“You’re going to break it if you twist any harder,” I tease, reaching around her to loosen the top.
She bumps her shoulder against mine, smiling. “Yousaid to twist it tight.”
“I saidfirmly,not like you’re trying to strangle it.”
She snorts a laugh just as the door creaks open and my parents walk in, still wiping their hands on kitchen towels, cheeks pink from the sun and the heat of cooking.
My mother’s gaze drops immediately to my leg. She crosses the room in three quick strides and fusses with the hem of my shorts like she’s looking for new wounds that aren’t there.
“Amore di mamma,” she mutters under her breath, her forehead wrinkling with worry. “Come va davvero? Non farmi preoccupare.”
Lena watches, puzzled, clearly catching the concern in my mom’s voice even without understanding the words.
“She wants to know how my leg is. How I’m really doing,” I tell her softly, covering my mom’s hand with mine to still her.
“And?” Lena asks, her voice just as soft, just as worried.
“I told her it’s getting stronger,” I say, even if it’s not entirely true, then turn to my mom and reassure her in Italian. She doesn’t look convinced.
Then my mother rounds on Lena with a fierce look in her eye, wagging her finger for emphasis. “Diglielo tu!” she insists. “Digli che lasci stare le moto, o si ammazza.”
I smirk, even as my ears burn. I never thought I would be in my mother’s kitchen being scolded like a child in front of a woman I just brought home.
“She says you have to tell me to leave motorcycles alone because I’ll kill myself on one,” I translate.
Lena’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait,motorcycles? As in more than one? I knew only about one.”
I don’t want it to become a big deal and drag Lena into the never-ending back-and-forth I have with my parents since I brought home my first bike.
Before I can brush it off, my father, silent until now, points a firm finger toward the courtyard. “Garage.” One word. Full of meaning.
I groan. “They want us to see the bike.”
“Now?” Lena blinks.
“Now,” I say grimly.
I take her hand and lead her out through the stone archways, the late afternoon sun slanting low and soft through the olive trees. We cross the courtyard to a heavy wooden door. I pull it open, and the smell of oil and metal wraps around us immediately. My parents don’t follow us. The sight of the motorcycle is still too much for them to handle.
Inside, the motorcycle sits in the corner like a wounded beast. Or what’s left of it.
The front is twisted beyond recognition, the frame crumpled like paper. One handlebar is completely sheared off. The paint is scratched and torn, with patches of the car’s red color blooming over the battered metal.
Lena freezes, her fingers tightening around mine.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. She steps closer, almost reverent and scared at the same time, like she’s looking at something sacred and terrible all at once. “Howdid you survive that?”
I swallow hard. “A miracle,” I say simply, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of it hangs between us. The crash, the recovery, the fear that maybe I hadn’t told her the whole truth about how close I came to not walking away.
She turns to me then, her eyes shining with emotion that she doesn’t bother hiding. Her fingers trace the scar on my thigh, featherlight, as if making sure I’m really here, solid and breathing.
“You scared them,” she whispers.
I cup her face in my hands, brushing my thumbs over her cheeks, feeling her tremble slightly under my touch.
