Page 89 of The Road to You
The windows are cracked open, letting the warm Italian air sweep through, but it doesn’t clear the heaviness from the car. Michele’s hand is on the gear shift, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the road. I sit beside him, spine straight, hands fidgeting in my lap like they’re searching for something to hold on to, but there’s nothing left to grab, no moment to stretch, no miracle to delay the inevitable.
I’m leaving, and he’s not coming with me.
The highway signs flash past us like countdowns. Rome Fiumicino. Departures. Terminal.
I want to scream. I want to beg time to stop, to stretch this ride out forever. To never reach the place where I have to let go, but instead, I stay quiet. We both do.
Inside the airport, the fluorescent lights loom above us, too bright, too sterile. The scent of roasted espresso and cold metal fills my lungs, and still, I can’t breathe right.
Michele walks with me through the check-in process, silent as a shadow. When I lift my suitcase onto the scale, his fingers brush mine. I pretend it doesn’t shatter something in me.
We say nothing, but we move like we’ve done this before, as if we know how to survive a goodbye. But we don’t. Not like this.
When we reach the TSA line, it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. One more step and I’ll be falling. I turn to him, and for a moment, we justlook. His eyes are dark and wet, his face tight with the effort of staying composed.
He steps closer, and then his hands are on my cheeks, warm and trembling slightly, like he’s cradling something delicate. Like he’s holding a memory he never wants to lose. His lips brush against mine in a soft, slow, reverent kiss.
It’s not a kiss goodbye. It’s one full ofif onlys. If only we had met at a different time. If only love were enough. If only summer never had to end.
I don’t pull away. I let myself live in this moment. Let the tears slip down my cheeks as he kisses them away without saying a word.
When we reluctantly part, I can’t speak. My throat is sand, and my heart is glass. I step into the TSA line, handing over my passport with numb fingers. I glance back once and twice because Ihave to, because leaving him behind feels like tearing out part of myself.
He’s still standing there, his arms hanging uselessly by his sides, his eyes locked on mine. Neither of us waves. We justlooklike we’re burning the image of each other into our skin.
Then the line moves, and I walk forward. Each step hurts more than the last. When I reach the metal detector and turn one last time, he’s still there, but the moment I step through, he’s gone.
Out of sight. Out of reach. I don’t make it five feet before the tears come again. I don’t try to stop them. My vision blurs, and my heart aches so painfully that I clutch my carry-on to stay upright. The ache is too big for my body.
I left him behind, and the sound of my heart breaking is the only thing I hear as I walk toward my gate.
34
LENA
The paparazzi lost interest weeks before I even landed back in LA. The cheating scandal, the gossip, the screaming headlines, it all burned hot and fast and then vanished like a spark in dry grass. That’s how it works here. Frenzy one day, forgotten the next. By the time I stepped off the plane, I was yesterday’s story.
Still, I was glad I stayed longer in Italy. I’m glad I stretched out those final days like silk slipping through my fingers, even if now, four months later, I wake up every morning with an ache in my chest that just won’t go away. Even now, as I sit in the makeup trailer with a script full of scribbled notes and a heart that feels like it’s still bruising.
The mirror lights buzz softly above me, casting a golden glow over the counter cluttered with powders, brushes, water bottles, and the script open to today’s scene. It’s an emotionally brutal one, the kind of performance actors dream of, and all I feel is hollow.
I’m trying to focus, but my brain’s been foggy all morning. Too much weight pressing down on me. I pick up my phoneto distract myself, scroll aimlessly, and then I do the thing I shouldn’t.
I stop on a photo.
It’s Michele, laughing in that unguarded way he has, surrounded by his friends in his parents’ backyard in Puglia. There’s a bottle of wine on the table, and his cousin is mid-gesture, clearly telling a story with too much passion and too little accuracy. But Michele is the center of it all. Head tilted back, eyes crinkled, a grin that could light up a city.
My thumb hovers over the screen, and the ache comes fast and sharp. A knot closes up my throat. God, it still hurts. Like he’s been carved into my bones and I can’t shake him loose.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Julia’s voice breaks gently into my spiral.
I glance up in the mirror. Julia’s been with me every day on set. Her hands are steady, her eyes warm, and she’s one of those women who knows when to talk and when to just quietly hand you a tissue.
I nod, but it’s weak. A shrug, more than anything. “Yeah. I’m just…” My voice cracks. I don’t even bother finishing the sentence.
She steps closer, peering at the photo over my shoulder, and makes a soft sound in the back of her throat. “He’s handsome. And that smile? That’s a man in love.”
I place the phone face down on the counter. “Yeah. He was.”
