Page 8 of The Road to You
Something about the way he sits—completely at ease, legs sprawled out like he has all the time in the world—makes me settle into my chair a little deeper.
The barista places our drinks in front of us and Michele thanks him before turning his attention back to me. “So, Lena. What brings you to Brera?”
I pause, unsure. Does he really not know, or is he being polite?
“I’m staying at a friend’s place for the summer,” I say carefully. “She has an apartment nearby and isn’t using it, so she offered it to me.” I lift my cappuccino to my lips, hoping that’s enough to end the subject.
He nods, sipping his espresso in one go like a true Italian. “Unusual choice for a summer getaway.”
I tilt my head. “Why’s that?”
He shrugs. “Most people go to the coast or the lakes. Milan in the summer is, let’s say,hot. Most locals escape the city, especially around August. It’s only June, but still, not a typical choice for a tourist.”
That actually makes sense, considering the streets have been emptier than I expected. But before I can ask more, I see the shift in his expression, the playful curiosity replacing casual conversation.
“So why areyouhere in the middle of a workday?” I raise an eyebrow at him, mirroring his earlier question. “I’ve noticed people take their jobsveryseriously in this city.”
That earns me a full, head-tilted-back laugh, and I swear I stop breathing for a second.
“Fair enough.” He grins, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I had an appointment nearby, then decided to grab a coffee. And, well…” He gestures at his shirt, smirking. “I got a cappuccino too.”
He winks. And my stomach does awhole backflip.
I press my lips together to stop a smile from spreading too wide. “I reallyamsorry about that. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. A washing machine will fix it.”
I hesitate for a second, my gaze flicking to his left hand. No ring. Not that it necessarily meansanything, but still. It makes me wonder if there is someone who will wash his shirt while I’m here, having a coffee with him.
Then I remind myself, rings don’t mean much, not in my world. And look howthatturned out.
Four hours.
That’s how long we’ve been sitting here, lost in conversation, oblivious to the world around us. We only realize the time when the barista, now looking a little sheepish, approaches our table with a hesitant smile.
“We don’t make dinner, but I have some sandwiches if you want,” he offers.
The bar is empty now, the nearby tables wiped down, chairs stacked. It’s obvious he’s closing up, but he’s also clearly a friend of Michele’s and doesn’t want to rush him out.
“I’m sorry, we didn’t realize it was so late,” I murmur, feeling a little guilty.
The man’s smile is warm, reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’m used to him staying late. He can talk for days if you let him.”
Michele lets out a low chuckle. “We appreciate the offer, but I think we should let you go home to your wife.” He pulls out a bill and places it on the table without waiting for change.
After two weeks here, I’ve learned that Italian coffee is absurdly affordable. What he left probably covers at least four overpriced Starbucks lattes back home. I instinctively reach for my purse to contribute, but before I can even touch my wallet, Michele’s hand lands lightly on mine. The contact is brief, but it still sends a jolt up my arm.
“I offered you a cappuccino, and I meant it,” he says, shaking his head.
I pause, then murmur, “Thanks.”
A silence settles between us as the barista disappears inside. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s different, like both of us are waiting for the other to do something first. Like both of us understand the need to leave, but don’t want to.
“So…” he finally says.
“So…” I echo.
Something has shifted. The easy rhythm we had all afternoon has been interrupted, as if we stepped outside the little bubblewe unknowingly created. There’s still so much to say, so much we could ask each other, and yet the words won’t come. We’ve talked about everything and nothing, and it feels like there is a whole world to talk about. Does he feel it too? That unfinished feeling, like neither of us is ready to walk away just yet?
