Page 61 of The Road to You
“I scared myself,” I admit.
Her eyes search mine, wide and vulnerable andreal.
I bend down and kiss her, soft and slow, pouring into her everything I can’t say aloud. Gratitude. Hope. Something bigger than either of us expected. My tongue grazes against hers in a slow dance that has nothing sexual in it, but pure, undiluted affection that I can’t hide anymore.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.
“I promise,” I whisper, “no more motorcycles. Ever.”
Her breath catches, and for the first time, I realize the weight of the promise I just made. It’s not about the bike. It’s abouther.About the life I still want to build, the one I’m starting to see more clearly with her in it.
And I don’t feel trapped by that realization.
I feel free.
21
LENA
The night air caresses our skin with warmth, and the scent of jasmine curls through the flickering candles on the table. We’re still sitting at the long table under the pergola, plates pushed aside, the remains of dinner scattered across the cloth like a battlefield of crumbs and empty wine glasses.
I’m tucked between Martina, Michele’s quick-witted cousin, and his grandmother, who, despite her small size and white crown of hair, has enough energy to fuel an entire city. Martina has appointed herself my official translator, flitting between Italian and English like it’s nothing, while the women of the family close in around me with bright eyes and curious smiles, like I’m some rare creature they’ve been dying to examine up close.
“So,” Martina says, grinning as she leans closer, “Nonnawants to know if you can cook.” Her tone is full of mirth, and her eyes sparkle with a laugh that threatens to bubble up her throat.
I blink, laughing nervously. “Um, not really. I mean, I can follow a recipe. Sometimes.”
Martina bursts out laughing and rattles off my answer in Italian. Instantly, the whole group—Michele’s mother, grandmother, aunts, even some cousins—erupts into good-natured teasing. Hands wave, someone pats my arm, and someone else says something that sounds suspiciously likewe’ll teach her.I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, but I’m pretty sure it will be a life-changing experience.
Another question fires off, and Martina wiggles her brows mischievously. “Okay, serious question now.Mammawants to know if you want children.”
I nearly choke on my sip of wine. That’s something Americans typically don’t ask after just a few hours of meeting someone, but I assume it’s not the case with Michele’s family. They took me in as if they had known me forever, and they make me feel like I’m part of the family. I suppose these questions come with that privilege.
My gaze flickers to Michele a few seats down, where he’s laughing with his brothers, his head thrown back, his whole body alive with energy. I consider how he plays with his nephews and nieces, and I can easily imagine him with a couple of kids running around the house. The question is, will they bemykids too? Just the thought makes my stomach flip in a sensation I can’t quite place.
“I…think one day, maybe,” I say carefully, my cheeks burning a bit from the alcohol, and even more from the intimacy of the question.
Martina translates, and there’s a collective, approving hum around the table. I swear someone whispersbrava.
Before I can recover, Martina leans in again. “Favorite color?”
“Blue,” I answer quickly.
“Favorite season?”
“Spring.”
Those questions come from her, trying to lighten an otherwise heavy conversation that sounds a lot like an interrogation, one nobody warned me I’d be participating in.
“Do you get homesick?”
This question comes from Michele’s mother, and when I study her eyes, I see a motherly concern in her gaze. My heart swells with gratitude for her concern. It’s rare to find someone who genuinely cares for you, even if they don’t know you, especially in the shadows of the Hollywood hills.
“Sometimes. But here feels…easy.” I pause, realizing how true that feels, and how quickly I’ve slipped into this feeling.
Since coming to Italy, I have never once felt the urge to return to my family and hide in the comfort of my childhood home. I don’t know if it’s Michele’s company or the fact that Italy has something to marvel at around every corner, but I feel more in control of my emotions, more balanced, more grounded here.
They nod thoughtfully, as if this answer means more than it seems. Then Michele’s grandmother tugs at my wrist gently and asks something with so much tenderness that Martina pauses before translating. She looks taken aback by her grandmother’s question, and something that resembles tears veils her eyes.
