Page 87 of The Road to You
My fingers squeeze his. “I… I accepted the part,” I say quietly. “Told Vivian to move forward. Filming starts in a few weeks. Maybe less than a month.”
He can’t conceal the hurt in his eyes, but he tries to tug his lips into a small smile. “I’m happy for you. You deserve that part,” he whispers softly.
The knot in my throat makes it hard to breath, let alone speak, so I just nod, knowing it’s not enough to thank him, but it’s all I can manage right now.
His eyes close for a moment. The silence that fills the room is thick, heavy, like grief before a goodbye. Neither of us says it out loud, but we both hear it.
Time’s up.
Whatever this summer gave us—the escape, the intimacy, the magic—it’s unraveling, thread by thread. The real world is already pulling at our sleeves.
I want to say something. Anything. That we’ll figure it out, that we’ll try, that love should be enough. But I don’t know if it is.
So I just sit still, my fingers laced with his, and hold onto him like I can stop the world from turning if I just grip hard enough. And still, it turns.
33
LENA
Idon’t sleep the night before I book the flight.
The script I printed out sits open on my hotel desk. Its pages are dog-eared and full of my scribbles, as if my handwriting could anchor me to this moment, to this city, to this version of my life, to Michele. Now that reality is sinking in, my chest is becoming increasingly tighter, and I don’t know how to stop it from imploding. I’m certain, at some point, I won’t be able to breathe anymore.
Yet the world is spinning again, fast and loud, and I can’t press pause. It doesn’t wait for me, for us, for this life we created inside this summer bubble. It forces us to spin with it. It doesn’t care if we are keeping up or stumbling to jump into the reality that is threatening to squash us.
The next morning, I book my return flight to Los Angeles. My heart is heavy during every step of the process.
When I tell Michele, we’re sitting at the little café near the hotel, the one with the chipped tables and terrible coffee that somehow becameours. I didn’t want to do it in such a public place, but the heaviness between us is almost unbearable, and I can’t drag this moment out any further.
His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I wonder if he heard me right.
“I leave Friday,” I say again, softer this time.
He sets down his cup too hard. The ceramic clinks against the saucer. “Then I’m coming with you.”
The words are so instantaneous, so impulsive, they knock the air out of me.
“Michele…” I start, but he’s already shaking his head.
“I’ll figure things out from there. I can have the surgery in the States, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be apart.”
God, a part of me wants to say yes. Wants to scream it, but the part of me that has always survived, always protected the dream when everything else fell apart, finds her voice first.
“No,” I whisper. “You can’t.”
My voice comes out strained, mirroring the vise that is constricting my chest. I see how much he is grasping at this dream, not wanting to let go. He doesn’t want this to end,usto end, but I can’t see a way out of it. It would be unfair for both of us to drag this out until it tears us apart, transforming something perfect into something ugly.
He looks like I just slapped him. “Why not?”
I lock my eyes on his hurting ones, and my heart screams to listen to him, almost drowning the reasonable voice in my head.
“Because you need to have that surgery. You need toheal,” I say firmly
“I can heal in LA,” he says in a rush, but I can hear the doubt in his voice. We both know that if he wants to have a chance to climb up to the top teams, he has to be where the top teams are, be visible, remind them how much he is worth, how his healing is progressing. And that place is not Los Angeles. It’s here, in Italy, where everyone lives and breathes soccer.
I shake my head. “That’s not the point.”
He’s quiet now, watching me. He knows what the reason is, but he doesn’t want to admit it. Part of me would like to say “fuck it, we’ll figure it out,” but it’s not a solution, it’s only delaying the inevitable.
