Page 81 of The Road to You
I smile. “For myself. For the game. To discover what I’m capable of doing when I’m not effortlessly at the top. For the girl still asleep in my bed.”
Marco chuckles. “You’re a romantic under all that charm, huh?”
“Always have been,” I mutter, ending the call with a smirk.
I set the phone down beside me and let the stillness wrap around me again. This is the beginning of the climb, and this time, I’m not afraid of the fall.
28
LENA
The car is packed, the sun is barely over the horizon, and everyone is in the courtyard like we’re leaving for a six-month expedition across the globe instead of a five-hour drive to Rome.
Michele’s mother hugs me for what feels like the hundredth time, whispering, “Mangia bene, dormi bene, e ricordati che qui hai sempre una casa.” Eat well, sleep well, and remember, you always have a home here.
My throat tightens.
She tucks something else into my arms, another bag. “Focaccia, the one you like. And sometaralli. And this olive oil is from our own trees. Don’t let airport security take it, eh?”
I laugh, but my eyes are stinging. “Grazie, really. I don’t even know how to say thank you for everything.”
“Say it by coming back,” she says, cupping my face and caressing it like I’m her daughter.
She has no idea what this means to me. It feels like I’m not only leaving Puglia and Italy soon, but I’m leaving behind Michele and a new family that accepted me as their own. I’ve never felt so emotionally unstable in my entire life, and I barelymanage to keep my tears at bay. When I came to Italy a few months ago, I thought I would eat well, relax a bit, and take my life slowly. But I found more, so much more.
She squeezes my hands tightly before letting go, and I glance around the courtyard. It smells like olive trees and morning dew. It’s warm, like a memory you don’t want to let go of. Michele’s father hugs me with a firm but affectionate pat on the back. Even Mariasole, Michele’s sister, has come down to say goodbye.
It’s surreal how loved I feel here. It’s as if I’ve slipped into someone else’s life and found it fits better than my own. Michele’s cousin, Martina, tears up as she waves a dishtowel like a flag. “Don’t forget us when you’re in Hollywood again!”
She makes me smile, and I blow her a kiss. “Only if you forget I was the one who beat you atburracofour times in a row.”
They all laugh. There are more hugs, more cheek kisses, more well wishes in fast, melodic Italian. I don’t catch every word, but I catch the meaning.
Love. Fondness. Belonging.
Way too soon, we’re walking toward the car, the trunk already full of bags and wrapped-up care packages. My arms are overflowing with food, my heart overflowing with something I don’t have the words for.
I glance at Michele. He’s quiet, too quiet.
He is not the playful, talkative, teasing version of himself that comes out around his family. His shoulders are tense as he loads the last bag, like he’s bracing for something heavy. I understand his feelings, because they’re the same ones that weigh in my chest.
Once we’re in the car, and the gravel crunches beneath the tires, I turn toward him. The road winds ahead, but I watch his profile instead.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
He hums in response, eyes on the road. I understand being sad because you’re leaving your family, but he’s not disappearing from the world; he’s just accompanying me to Rome. He seems almost angry, and I don’t understand this reaction from him.
“You’ve never been this quiet with your family around. Did I do something? Are you mad I’m dragging you away from them?”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens for half a second before he releases it. He forces a smile, but it’s the kind that barely touches his eyes. “Everything’s fine, Lena.”
I know it’s not. I also know that this journey is coming to an end, and my heart is torn, but I’m not getting angry. I’m just trying to figure out what to do to survive.
“Michele,” I say gently, “you’re a terrible liar.”
He exhales, slow and heavy, but doesn’t answer immediately.
“I just don’t want to talk about it, Lena,” he finally says in a whisper, letting me see the Michele I’ve come to know. The caring, sweet one.
