Page 62 of The Road to You
“She wants to know,” Martina says softly, “what makes you cry.”
The question hits me right in the chest. I open my mouth, then close it. I’m not even sure my ex, the person who claimed to love me, ever asked me that. The depth of this question makes me feel naked and vulnerable, but when I look around the table, I find only honest faces, and I’m sure that my answer will be treated with all the affection and care that it needs. There is not a single ill-meaning person surrounding me at this table, and amid all these smiling, curious women, it’s startlingly easy to answer.
“Injustice,” I whisper. “Saying goodbye. And happy endings. Always.”
Martina translates, her voice dropping into the hush that has fallen over the table. When she finishes, Michele’s mother reaches out and squeezes my hand warmly, and thenonnanods like I’ve passed some invisible test.
Another flurry of questions comes: whether I like animals (yes, especially dogs), if I can handle chaos (better than most), if I believe love should be easy or fought for (both, I think). It’s overwhelming and comforting all at once, a river of affection and interest that sweeps me off my feet. I realize these women want to know the deeper part of me, the one that will bring Michele happiness, and I feel strangely relieved that there are so many people looking out for him.
They don’t ask about Hollywood, about acting, about the career that usually defines me before anyone even learns my middle name. Here, it’s like none of that matters. Here, I’m just Lena. And somehow, that feels more precious than any applause I’ve ever received.
As the night deepens and the candles burn lower, the older women begin to gather their shawls and kiss cheeks goodnight. There’s laughter and slow steps as they disappear into the big stone house, the sound of the heavy wooden door thudding softly behind them.
The table empties slowly, leaving only a few lingering conversations spoken in quieter tones.
I stand, needing to stretch and breathe. The terracotta tiles are warm under my bare feet as I walk toward the courtyard, letting the peacefulness soak into my bones. My fingers trail along the low stone wall, and I tilt my head back to catch a glimpse of the stars.
Somewhere near the table, Michele’s laugh rumbles low, and a warmth spreads through my chest. The earlier whirlwindof questions clings to me like a second skin, not heavy, but comforting. Like I’ve been wrapped in something I didn’t realize I was starving for. Family. Belonging. A future that doesn’t feel so impossible.
The night feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Even the crickets don’t make a sound. And even though a part of me still wonders if I’m dreaming, another part, the part that has stolen glances at Michele all night long, already knows the truth. I don’t want to wake up.
I’m tracingthe rough line of the stone wall with my fingertips when I hear his footsteps. Even before I turn, I know it’s him. Something about the way my body wakes up, like a current surging through my veins, tells me he is coming closer.
Michele steps into the glow of the courtyard lights, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his dark hair ruffled by the soft summer breeze. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with that half-smile that makes my heart squeeze painfully tight.
“You disappeared,” he says quietly, his voice a little hoarse from laughing all night.
“I needed some air,” I whisper, trying to steady my breathing. “Your family is amazing. Intense. Wonderful.” I laugh under my breath. “I just needed a second to process.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “They like you.”
The way he says it makes something shift inside me, like a stone dropping into a pond, rippling out further than I’m ready to admit. I was craving this confirmation from him.
“I like them too,” I murmur, and it’s the truth. It’s easy to love them, their chaos, theirlove.
We fall into a soft silence. There’s something about the night—the scent of the prickly pears carried by the breeze, the low hum of cicadas, the way the old stone walls cradle the heat of the day and release it slowly—that makes everything feel sweeter, familiar.
Michele moves closer, and when he’s near enough that I can feel the warmth of him against my skin, I have to force myself not to lean in, not to reach out and touch him. It feels almost forbidden to do it here, a few steps from the people who love him unconditionally.
His eyes search mine, like he’s looking for an answer to a question neither of us has asked aloud yet.
“You fit in here,” he says finally, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Like you’ve always been part of this.”
The words hit harder than they should. My throat closes up. Because this awareness clashes with the reality of our lives and the ocean that separates them.
“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I want to.”
I don’t even know if I mean this house, this family, this country, orhim.Maybe all of it. I’ve never felt like I belonged to something so new and yet so familiar. And the feeling is not at all unwelcome.
The air between us grows thick, heavy with words that neither of us speaks. I tilt my head back to look at him properly. He’s close enough now that I can see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple, the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
God, he’s beautiful.
And not just in the way people are beautiful. In the way mountains are beautiful. Solid. Immovable. Eternal. Michele is all this. He is a beautiful soul wrapped in a beautiful man.
He lifts a hand slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him, and when I do not, when Icouldn’teven if I wanted, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek.
It’s such a simple touch, but it unravels something deep inside me. I sway toward him, caught in the pull of gravity that only exists between two people who are about to change everything.
