Page 73 of The Road to You
Five minutes ago, I didn’t know how to define our relationship, but now it seems we’ve chosen a path to follow in the most public way possible. And strangely, it doesn’t feel too fast or too exposed. It feels right. Like we’ve landed in the middle of something we didn’t even know we were heading toward, and everyone else already knew.
Under the stars, with summer wrapping us in her warm, fig-scented arms, I kiss him again because I want to, because I can, and let it be known that I’m all in.
Even if I’m terrified of how hard I’m falling.
25
LENA
The scent of wild herbs floats through the open windows of the masseria, mixing with the distant hum of bees and the faint clinking of plates from the kitchen. It’s late morning, and the light plays with countless shapes against the whitewashed walls and clay-tiled floors. I’m curled up on the couch in the sitting room, with a book in my lap, and I haven’t turned a page of it in fifteen minutes, distracted by the sound of Michele’s voice echoing down the hallway as he talks to his father.
Everything feels easy lately. Effortless. Lazy kisses in the garden, naps under the olive trees, meals that last hours. I’ve never known time to stretch like this. But even in all this calm, there’s a pressure building, something we both keep not talking about.
That something comes crashing into our sanctuary less than an hour later. The door slams open, and Marco’s voice cuts through the house like a blade.
“I’ve been calling you for weeks, Michele. Fucking weeks.”
I hear footsteps, a low thump of wood on tile, probably Michele’s chair pushed back, and I’m already up on my feet,my heart thudding in my chest. I move closer to the doorway, hidden but listening. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I justify my action by telling myself I can’t understand a word of what they are saying in Italian. But I can guess the vibe of the conversation just hearing the tension in Marco’s voice.
“I know,” Michele answers, his tone flat.
“You know,” Marco repeats, incredulous. “And yet here I am, flying all the way down to the middle of nowhere because you’re ignoring every single attempt to reach you. What the hell, Michele? What is this charade with the hot American?”
My stomach drops because I may not know what they are saying, but the Italian word for American is pretty similar for me to recognize in his harsh tone. I guess I’m part of this conversation, but I already knew it because my life is so intertwined with Michele’s right now that it’s impossible to talk about him without saying my name and vice versa.
I step into the room just in time to see Michele’s jaw clench. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Marco glances at me, then back at Michele, raising his hands with a guilty expression. “Alright. Sorry. But come on, man. What’s going on? You disappear, blow off therapy, and ghost me. We’ve got press hounding us, sponsors asking questions, and people starting to wonder what’s going to happen with your career. You think this is a vacation?”
His tone is frustrated, and his disheveled appearance, a crumpled shirt that has seen better days and creased linen trousers, tells me he is having a rough time. I suspect our impromptu trip is the topic of this argument.
“It’s not a vacation,” Michele growls.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Marco gestures broadly, his voice rising. “Beautiful estate, wine, romantic countryside… And no physical therapy. No rehab plan. No communication. What am I supposed to tell people?”
Michele moves toward him, chest rising with each breath. “Tell them the truth. That I’m fucked,” he says in English, dragging me into the conversation in the worst way possible.
The words drop like a bomb. My breath catches. Marco blinks, caught off guard. There is a long silence where time seems to stand still. Even the cicadas shut up.
“I tore my leg apart six months ago,” Michele continues. “I’ve done everything. Therapy, trainers, even acupuncture. You name it. And it still hurts when I do anything more than walk. Still buckles when I push too hard. What am I supposed to do, pretend everything’s fine? Go back on the field and make it worse?” His tone is so somber, and his words so discouraging, that my heart aches for him.
I know the situation is grim, to say the least, but hearing Michele say it like this to his agent feels so final that my heart bleeds for him.
“You could at least talk to me about it,” Marco says, softer now, the conversation switched to English for my sake. “We’ve been through too much for you to shut me out like this.”
Michele shakes his head. “You’re not hearing me. I’m not just worried about missing a few matches. I’m worried I’ve already played my last one.”
The room is silent. Even the light breeze outside seems to pause. I press my back against the archway, guilt blooming inside me like a bruise. I’m the one who dragged him through this madness, making him forget what he’s worked for all his life. I’m the one who can resume her job anytime, while he’s missing an essential part of his rehabilitation as we pretend to be lovers all over Italy.
Marco exhales, then crosses his arms. “Look. If you need time to figure this out, take it. But you can’t disappear, Michele. I can’t do my job if you cut me out. Either you decide what the hell you want your future to look like…or I walk.”
His tone is soft but firm, and I can understand his point. He’s doing his job, making Michele look at a reality that he doesn’t want to face. But he can’t run from it for the rest of his life. At some point, it will catch up with him and make him pay with a vengeance.
Michele doesn’t flinch. “So walk.”
My breath hitches. My brain is struggling to comprehend the weight of this sentence.
Marco stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”
