Page 82 of The Road to You
I can do that. I can give him the time he needs to process everything that’s happened in the last few days.
I let the silence hang between us like a question neither of us wants to answer. Outside the window, the landscape shifts from rows of olive trees to busier streets, from the peace of the masseria to the sound of other cars. I already miss the courtyard, the clink of plates, his mother’s singing in the kitchen, the warmth of that house, which felt like it had roots, history, and love in its walls.
But the silence inside the car is louder than anything outside, and it tells me something else: this summer, whatever it was, whatever it became, is ending, and what waits ahead in Rome feels different.
More like reality. Definitely like goodbye. I don’t know yet if I’m ready for either.
The countryside rollsby in shades of gold and green, but I hardly see it.
The road trip to Rome is silent. Not the kind of comfortable silence we’ve shared before, when words weren’t necessary and his hand rested on my thigh and we laughed when a song we both loved came on the radio.
This silence is suffocating.
Michele keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting on his knee. I keep thinking he’ll say something. A joke, a sigh, a comment about the sheep crossing the road an hour ago. But nothing comes. I don’t know what to say either. What do you say to a man who said I love you, and you said it back, and that you are leaving for good? There are no words that can fill the silence between us, as there are no words to fill the emptiness carved in my chest.
The hum of the tires on the asphalt fills the space between us, louder than it should be. Every kilometer we drive feels like peeling away from something I’m not ready to leave. It’s strange how something can feel so much like the beginning and the end at the same time.
I glance at him, hoping to catch his eyes, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s somewhere else entirely. And that, more than anything, makes the ache spread through my whole body. Michele is not in this car with me. He is in a place I can’t reach, somewhere else entirely, that doesn’t include me.
I know what this is. It’s the unraveling. It’s the slow slipping of something beautiful through my fingers, like sand I can’t hold onto no matter how hard I try. It’s a feeling I’m finallyexperiencing in its full force, and it’s washing over me like a wave I can’t contain.
I always knew this summer had an expiration date. We left Milan without a plan. We built a bubble out of sunrises and wine and midnight swims and mornings tangled in each other. But real life was always waiting. Watching. Tapping its foot. We pretended it wasn’t there. We gave it our backs and laughed, ignored its calling. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. We knew that at some point it would outrun us, but we thought we were faster, smarter, immune to its pull.
We were wrong.
I just didn’t expect it to hurt like this. I didn’t expect that I’d want to stay so badly. I didn’t expecthimto mean so much to me.
Michele shifts in his seat, adjusting the hem of his T-shirt that is rising up, and I watch the way his jaw tightens. The way he doesn’t reach for my hand. The way he closes himself off.
Michele is slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t even know if Ishouldstop it. Even if I could, what’s the cost? Maybe we prolong the ache a bit longer, hoping it will be better when our lives take two different paths? It won’t get better, it will get ugly, because our frustration and resentment will get mixed in with the beautiful thing we have. I want to treasure this summer in my heart as the best journey of my life. I don’t want it to become something we fight over.
I turn to the window and press my forehead to the glass, hoping the coolness will calm the heat in my chest. But it doesn’t. The pressure there is sharp. Real. Like heartbreak already half-formed, waiting for the final blow.
I thought I was strong enough for this. I thought I could say goodbye when the time came, but I’m not ready. Not even a little. And I think, maybe for the first time, that I don’t want this summer to be the end of our story.
29
LENA
The lobby of the Hotel de Russie is the epitome of quiet elegance with its soft-spoken guests, clinking porcelain, and the faint rustle of designer shoes against marble floors. Everything about this place screams luxurious Italian vacation, and I’m not surprised that Alain Faure chose it to spend time with his family. If he needed a space to relax far from the Hollywood chaos, this isthechoice.
Lush gardens surround this place, and luxurious small alcoves dot the hotel and the surrounding area, providing guests with space to spend time in privacy while enjoying the amenities, such as the bars serving colorful delicacies for dessert.
I spot him instantly. The director, the visionary, the one whose films have won awards I used to dream about from the back seat of my mom’s car. Alain Faure is the most sought-after director for every actor who wants a legitimate chance at winning an Oscar. He doesn’t do blockbusters or mainstream movies, but he’s gained the kind of recognition that assures you every movie he makes is an Oscar nominee contender.
He doesn’t even make movies very often, releasing one every three to five years, and that’s why it’s such a big deal that he asked for me.
He’s sitting in the corner, tucked into a velvet armchair near the windows that let in the kind of Roman light that makes everything look like a movie. His signature round glasses are perched on his nose as he frowns over a bunch of papers he is reading. He’s known for not using technology; he prefers old-school scripts printed on paper.
The closer I get to him, the tighter the grip on my stomach. I’ve had hundreds of auditions, screen tests, and talks with various directors and colleagues throughout my career, but he still manages to intimidate me. When he sees me, he stands with a warm smile, his expression familiar and curious.
“Lena,” he says, like we’ve known each other forever.
We shake hands and sit. There’s already a cappuccino waiting for me, a small gesture that makes my heart flutter. He didn’t need to find out I’m addicted to coffee, but he obviously did his research. He studies me like he’s trying to read my soul. His gaze isn’t creepy, just intense. Intentional. Like he’s flipping through invisible pages of me in his mind. And I squirm under his scrutiny.
“I’ve watched everything you’ve done,” he says, voice low and rich with his French accent. “Even the films you pretend don’t exist.”
I started my career as a child actress, but when it came to working with prominent actors, I had to begin at the bottom, gaining respect through less polished movies, if you can call them that. I don’t regret those movies. They were part of my training to become better at my work, but that doesn’t mean I’m not embarrassed when people bring them up in conversation.
