Page 86 of The Road to You
When the door clicks behind him, I’m still in my robe, standing on the balcony with the city buzzing below. I turn, my heart lifting automatically at the sight of him, until I see his face. Michele strolls into the room at a slow pace, almost dragging his feet.
Something’s off.
His eyes are tired and a little dull, like the light inside him has been dimmed. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. I realize with a jolt that I don’t even know where he went. We didn’t talk about it. Didn’t plan it. He just left this morning, and I was too distracted by my own excitement to ask.
I feel bad about it now. Michele does not do things without a reason, and I’m sure he didn’t just go for a stroll the entire afternoon. He kept it from me for some reason I can’t understand, or maybe because he wanted to give me space to get my thoughts together about the script and the encounter with Alain. But I don’t accept being cut off from his life, not now that we’re close enough to trust each other. Not now that it’s all coming to an end.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Where were you?”
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t come close, like my presence is somehow making him uncomfortable. It hurts, but I don’t point it out.
He waves a hand, brushing it off. “Nowhere important.”
His tone is clipped, like he is trying hard not to be harsh in my face, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw and how his eyes scan the room without meeting mine.
I blink. “Seriously?”
My tone is pissed enough that he finally looks at me. His eyes are full of a turmoil I’ve never seen before in him, and my heart squeezes in my chest. Michele is never one to be so upset he can’t speak. Yes, he didn’t immediately tell me some things about his life, but we didn’t know each other at that time. The thing I love the most about him is the emotional maturity so rare in most men. I don’t recognize him now.
“It’s nothing, Lena.”
He heads toward the small couch and sinks into it, rubbing his hand down his face, clearly exhausted. But something about the way he says it,it’s nothing, makes my stomach twist.
“No,” I say, stepping inside and letting the balcony door click shut. “Not this time.”
He glances up at me. His brows furrow, puzzled, and I notice the tension in his injured leg. Worries creep up my spine, tingling with a silent alarm.
“I’m not asking to pry,” I add quickly, “but you can’t just shut me out. Not when we’re…this close to the edge of everything.”
He watches me for a second. His eyes flicker, and then, finally, something lets loose inside him, and the real Michele resurfaces like a person who was drowning and finally takes a breath.
He exhales a long breath and leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “I went to see a specialist. About my leg.”
I didn’t expect that, and I’m a bit scared because he didn’t tell me anything about it. Hurt punches my chest, but I keep quiet.
I walk slowly toward him, sitting across from him on the bed. “And?”
“He wants to operate,” he says. “The muscle’s not healing right. It can’t stretch the way it needs to. That’s why the pain’s not going away. He showed me everything. Tests. Scans. He thinks he can fix it…use another muscle to replace what’s not working. Said I could recover almost completely.”
This is a significant step, considering how little hope there was even a few hours ago, but his eyes tell me he’s troubled, and I don’t know if I want to peel away that layer because I have a feeling I know where this is going.
I reach for his hand. “Michele…that’s amazing.”
He gives a tired smile. “Yeah. It is.”
“But?” I can’t hold back.
His jaw tightens again. There is a storm behind his eyes—one that is difficult to ignore and somehow out of reach. I want to reach out and hug him, but I worry that if I do, the conversation will wither out, and we need to have it. No matter how much I’m dreading this moment, we have to talk about it.
“When all of this returns to normal,” he says, “when I’m in rehab or back in Milan or wherever I end up, and you’re filming some major movie in LA…” His voice cracks slightly. “I don’t know what happens tous.”
My throat closes. “Oh.”
My answer is stupid, I know, but the truth is it’s difficult to put into words what is going on inside my chest right now. I knew this was coming. There is no going around it; no amount of pretending will change the fact that we have two completely different lives. With our jobs, having a relationship is difficult even when you live in the same country, but on two different continents? It’s a disaster in the making.
He looks up at me. “I feel like I’m drowning, Lena. I finally figured out what I want, for my career, for my body, but I have no idea what to do with my heart.”
I can feel the knot tightening in my throat, making it hard to breathe. No matter how many times I told myself this thing between us was temporary, my heart didn’t get the memo. It fell hard for the man sitting in front of me, making this moment even more bittersweet. I want my career, but I also want Michele, and even if we dream of having a long-distance relationship, reality tells us that we would both be miserable. It’s unfair to put us through this.
