Page 74 of The Road to You
But Michele just folds his arms across his chest, jaw tight, emotion flickering behind his eyes. “Maybe I do.”
There is no hesitation in his voice. Not a single hint indicating he’s saying this purely out of rage, or even spite.
A beat passes. Then Marco turns on his heel and walks out without another word. The front door clicks shut behind him, and it echoes through my bones.
Michele stands still, unmoving. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like his body is physically reacting to a decision that will alter the course of his existence.
I take a step forward. “Michele.”
He looks at me then, and the hurt I see guts me. Not just the pain in his leg, or the frustration with his career. It’s the helplessness. The fear of losing everything he’s worked for and maybe losing himself along with it.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “This…all of this. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your life.”
A knot of guilt forms beneath my ribs.
“You didn’t pull me,” he says, voice rough. “I walked away from it.”
“But if I hadn’t…” The words struggle to get past the lump in my throat.
“Lena.” He closes the distance between us, cupping the side of my face. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re the only part of my life that’s made sense lately.”
His words hit me like sunlight, blinding and warm. But the guilt doesn’t leave because I know there is still a future for him. A future where he can do what he loves and thrive doing it. But he can’t see the hope, the light at the end of the dark, cold tunnel he is in right now.
I search his face. “You love playing. I know that. I’ve seen it in your eyes when you talk about it. I don’t want to be the reason you stop.”
“You’re not,” he replies, almost resigned to his new life. “My body is the reason. Not you.”
Still, the pressure is building. The scandal I ran from, the paparazzi, the weight of his career teetering on the edge—how can we survive this bubble when the outside world starts pushing back?
I blink fast, pushing back the tears. “I think I got used to pretending none of it matters out here.”
He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. “Then let’s keep pretending a little longer. It’s not that bad living in this fantasy, right?”
I let out a soft laugh, though it sounds like a sob. “God, you’re so bad at finding a solution.”
He smiles and shrugs. “I usually just kick a ball and score goals. That is what I’m good at, not problem solving.”
And this is what terrifies me, because football is his life, and while he’s upset now, with his agent’s ambush slamming reality in his face, he’ll regret his decision not to try and let his fears take the helm of his future.
“You’re decent at kissing,” I murmur, deciding not to voice my worries.
His arms tighten around me. “Decent?”
I manage a small grin. “Slightly above average.”
He kisses me before I can tease him more, slow and full of something I can’t name. And in that moment, I feel it again, that deep, gnawing truth: I’m not walking away from this summer whole. I’m already too far in. And falling harder every day. And I think maybe he is too.
The night has settledover the masseria like a soft blanket, thick with the scent of jasmine and the gentle chirp of crickets. I step out onto the patio, where the stone holds the sun’s warmth from earlier. Above me, the sky is black velvet stitched with stars, and through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of Michele’s mother preparing the sourdough for tomorrow’s baking, while his father pours himself a glass of grappa.
They were quieter than usual during dinner. Kind, polite, but subdued. And Michele was practically silent. He spoke in low, clipped tones to his parents all afternoon in the living room, too fast for me to follow. But I didn’t need to know Italian to read the tight set of his jaw, the weight in his shoulders, the worried glance his mother cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking.
I’ve waited all day to talk to him, letting him have space. But now, I need him to let me in. I find him by the olive trees, where the moonlight turns the leaves silver. He’s sitting on the low stone wall, elbows on his knees, a beer dangling from one hand.
“You disappeared after dinner,” I say softly, walking toward him.
“I needed air,” he replies without looking at me.
I sit beside him, close but not touching. We listen to the wind rustling through the branches for a few seconds before I speak again.
