Page 76 of The Road to You
In the quiet of this grove, with the weight of all we are and everything still unknown, I whisper, “The way to find who you are is in here.” I put a hand on his chest. “The road to youis through your heart.”
He kisses me then. Slow and deep, like an anchor, like a vow. For the first time all day, I feel him begin to come back to himself.
26
LENA
The fan whirs in the corner of the room in lazy, rhythmic circles, stirring the warm summer air just enough to make the sheets flutter over my legs. I lie awake in what has become my bedroom in the last week, staring at the textured plaster overhead, and lulled by the soft creak of the old house around me.
Michele is asleep in the next room. We didn’t speak much after our talk beneath the olive trees. We walked back inside holding hands, and his mother offered us a plate of almond cookies without asking questions. He kissed my temple, said he was tired, and disappeared down the hall. I let him go.
Now I lie in a bed that smells faintly of laundry soap and lemon, a lace curtain fluttering at the window, and I wonder if it’s possible to live a whole other life in the span of a summer. Because I think I have, and the worst part is, I don’t want it to end. But reality doesn’t wait just because the stars are beautiful and someone makes you feel seen for the first time in years.
I shift onto my side, pressing a hand to my chest like it’ll help hold everything in place. It doesn’t, but it’s worth a try. The acheis sharp and familiar, that creeping sense that something good is slipping through my fingers, and I can’t stop it.
I’ve been hiding. Not laying low, not healing my broken heart, hiding. The scandal, the press, the endless opinions about me, about my relationship, about what’s left of my life, it was too much. So I ran. I told myself I needed time to follow my publicist’s advice, and everything would resolve itself. But the truth is, I’ve been afraid. Afraid to be back in a world where people don’t care who I really am, just what they can take from me.
Yet I miss acting. God help me, I do. I miss the rhythm of a set, the smell of coffee and cables, the way everything goes still when someone yells “Action.” I miss becoming someone else for a while and finding pieces of myself in the process.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s 2:08 a.m., too late, or early depending on the point of view, to do the math and figure out what time it is in Los Angeles, but I’m pretty sure it’s safe to call. I scroll to the contact I haven’t called in weeks.Vivian Blake,my manager. The only person besides my publicist who kept me in the loop about what Hollywood was thinking of my crumbling love life.
I press call.
It rings once. Twice.
She picks up on the third. “Lena?” Her voice is breathless, but she calms down quickly. “Is everything okay?” I hear ruffling sounds and the thump of someone running on a treadmill. She is at the gym, but then I hear a soft click, followed by silence, and figure she went somewhere quiet to talk.
I sit up, pressing the phone tightly to my ear. “I think I’m ready.”
There’s a pause. “Ready?” There is surprise in her voice, and maybe a bit of expectation.
“To come back,” I say, even if it’s not necessary, because she knows me so well, sometimes I don’t even need to speak for her to know what I want to do. But this time is different, this entire situation is out of character for me.
I told Michele that he needs to discover himself to understand how vital soccer is for him, and I have to do the same. Throughout my life, I’ve known what I wanted to do, and I achieved it. But I never stopped to think if I loved acting as much as the romantic idea I have of it. This forced break, this summer, living my life instead of thinking about my next project, has put everything in perspective. I love acting, my life, what I’ve built, and the path I’ve paved for myself.
This summer was a magical adventure I will never forget, but it’s not my reality, it’s not who I am, and I can’t live this dream longer without losing myself in the process. My heart aches because it means that I have to leave something behind, something that changed me forever. I have to leave a piece of my soul with the only person who has made me feel seen, alive, and loved. Michele.
Vivian is quiet for a breath, then exhales like she’s been holding it for months. “Oh, honey. Are you sure?”
“No.” I laugh softly, rubbing my temple. “But I know I can’t stay here pretending the rest of my life doesn’t exist. It’s time.”
Another pause, then she lets out another excited breath. “Well, it’s good timing. There’s something I didn’t tell you before.”
I blink. “What?”
“There’s a director, Alain Faure. He’s been asking about you.”
The words take some time to register in my brain, but when it happens, my heart stutters. “What?TheAlain Faure?”
I cover my mouth because my squeal is so loud that everyone can hear me in the silence of the night.
“Yes. He’s working on a new project. Big-budget. Bilingual. People will leave the theater emotionally wrecked. It’s dramatic as hell. Your name was the first one out of his mouth. But you were off the radar, so I told him you were taking a break. He respected that. Didn’t push. But he’s in Rome with his family this week. Vacation. He said he’d be open to a casual meeting if you’re nearby.”
The underlying excitement in her voice is something I’ve never heard from her. She’s the epitome of calm and professionalism, but this news is so massive that she can’t hide her enthusiasm. And neither can I. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for—the big movie that could launch my career to a whole new level.
And he’s in Rome. Five hours away. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.
“I can set it up,” she continues, her tone gentle now, like she knows this means slicing something open in me. “You don’t have to commit. Just meet him. Talk. See how it feels.”
