Page 10 of The Road to You

MICHELE

I let Marco’s call go to voicemail again for the tenth time today.

The screen lights up with his name, the buzzing fills the small car, but I don’t even glance at it anymore.

Since we left Milan ten days ago, I’ve vanished from the world.

No press, no sponsors, no rehab updates, nothing. Just me, Lena, and the open road.

I know I should at least send Marco a text, something to keep him from having a heart attack, but every time I even think about answering, a weight settles in my ribcage.

I can already hear him in my head, pushing me to be smarter, faster, tougher.

To do another interview, another sponsor meeting, another reminder to the world that I’m still here, relevant, capable of coming back.

But the truth is that I don’t know if I am.

My leg feels stiffer every day without proper therapy, and cramming myself into this car for hours isn’t helping.

Walking through the towns, climbing ancient stairs, and exploring castles balances out the damage, but it doesn’t fix it.

And I don’t know if I even want to fix it anymore.

I’m tired and hopeless, something I’ve never felt before, and it terrifies me.

“You know,” Lena’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. She’s hesitant, which isn’t like her. “Shouldn’t you take that call?”

I glance at her, catching the way she bites her lip as she watches me from behind oversized sunglasses. The wind tangles her hair, with the strands catching in the sunlight, and for a second, she looks like she belongs in an old Italian film, with her timeless and effortlessly captivating beauty.

I smile, keeping my voice easy. “It’s work-related. I’ve been clear that I’m taking time off.” It’s a lie, but I don’t feel like explaining everything to her right now. I don’t even know how to explain what I’m feeling to myself, let alone another person.

She studies me in silence, long enough that I feel it in my chest. “I feel guilty for accepting your offer for this trip,” she finally says. “Like I’m keeping you from something important.” I can hear the guilt in her tone, and that sparks a sense of uneasiness in my chest.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Lena in this short time we traveled together, it’s that she never hesitates to speak her mind. She doesn’t play games and doesn’t dance around the truth. She’s direct in a way that should annoy me, but somehow, I love it.

I shake my head. “Don’t be. I needed this trip as much as you did. Probably more.” And this, at least, is the truth. I didn’t know how much I needed this break from reality until I took it.

She watches me carefully, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to believe me. “Promise me that if you need to go back, you’ll tell me. You won’t just ignore it until it’s too late.”

I exhale slowly, gripping the steering wheel. She doesn’t know that I already crossed that line weeks ago. I’m not sure there is a way back anymore. But I don’t want her to carry that weight.

“You’re not a problem, Lena. You will never be.” I glance at her, offering the best reassurance I can. “And I promise if I have to go back, I’ll tell you. We’ll figure it out.”

She studies me for another second, then nods, easing the tension in her shoulders.

“So,” she says, shifting the mood, “where are you taking me next?”

I smirk. “To drink good wine and eat good food.”

She groans, but the laugh that follows is warm. “I don’t even know why I ask. You’ve been stuffing me like a Thanksgiving turkey since we left Milan.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” I chuckle. “We’ve been exploring. You need fuel to keep up.”

She sighs, but there’s no real frustration behind it.

“You’re right. I don’t think I ever would have seen those towns on my own.

They looked like something out of a fairy tale.

The hills, the towers, those castles on the cliffs…

” She shakes her head in awe. “I don’t even know how it’s possible to build something like that.

They’ve been standing for centuries, strong and beautiful.

Before I met you, I didn’t even know Emilia Romagna existed. How unfair is it?”

I glance at her, and something warm settles in my chest. She says it like she’s talking about more than just the buildings. I saw how she enjoys the slow life in those places, the long lunch breaks, and the simplicity of small moments. I don’t think she can get that in Los Angeles.

She lets out a small huff. “I still have no idea how you Italians drive on these tiny roads, though. It has to be some kind of magic trick. There’s no other explanation.”

I bark out a laugh, remembering how she yelped every time I squeezed the car between stone walls and oncoming traffic. “I promise you, it’s not that difficult.”

She mutters something under her breath, but then the road curves, opening up to rows of lush green vines stretching out forever.

The vineyard sits at the top of the hill, bathed in golden light, the kind that makes everything look unreal, almost dreamlike.

Lena falls silent, and her lips part slightly as she takes it all in.

For the first time in weeks, peace eases through my chest.

Maybe I’m not ready to go back, but I have a feeling this trip will help me figure it out.

We sit beneath the pergola, the only two people here aside from the crickets singing their hearts out in the warm July sun.

The heat lingers, but the shade from the vines and the occasional breeze make it comfortable.

The scent of earth, grapes, and something faintly floral drifts around us, mixing with the rich aroma of food.

It’s the kind of afternoon that settles deep into your bones, making you forget about time.

The vineyard owner’s wife approaches, setting down our plates with a warm smile.

“This is tortelli di erbette . Fresh pasta stuffed with ricotta cheese and chard, sprinkled with parmesan,” she explains to Lena.

Lena’s eyes widen in surprise. “I thought the gnocco fritto with prosciutto and…” She hesitates with her brow furrowing. “ Squac… squac… ”

“ Squacquerone ,” I supply, grinning.

She points at me. “Yes! That cheese. I thought that was our meal.”

The woman chuckles, and I can’t help but do the same.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, that was just the antipasto . This is the first course. Then comes the second course, then dessert. Coffee and digestivo after that.”

Lena’s mouth falls open. “Jesus. I’m going to roll down the vineyard by the end of this meal. The wine doesn’t help either.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a teasing glint in her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, not just from the heat but from the bottle of Lambrusco we’ve already drunk. And she doesn’t even know about the Malvasia we’re about to have with the tortelli , or the Sangiovese that will come with the beef.

When the woman walks away, Lena leans back in her chair, stretching her legs out. She tilts her head toward me, with her lips curling slightly. “Be honest. Do you want me to get drunk? Because we’re almost there.”

I chuckle, swirling my wine. “Not on purpose. But we’re in a fantastic winery, eating an authentic meal, and drinking their best bottles. When’s the next time we’ll get to do this?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Fair point. But it’s almost three in the afternoon, and we’re not even halfway through. We won’t have time to visit anything else today.”

I lean back, watching her over the rim of my glass. “Are you in a hurry?”

She shrugs. “Not exactly, but…”

“So relax.” I smile, setting my glass down. “This is an Italian meal. It’s meant to be slow and savored. We’re not supposed to rush through it just to check the next thing off our list.”

She exhales, shaking her head, but I see the way she lets go, just a little.

“You’re right,” she admits. “I’m just not used to it.” She shakes her head, and I feel a bit sad for her. How is it even possible to live always in a rush? My career is not a slow one, but at least I take my time whenever I can to relax and enjoy my life.

We take our time eating, drinking, and talking.

The conversation flows effortlessly, and laughter slips between us like it always belonged there.

She tells me stories about her childhood, moments that make her wrinkle her nose in embarrassment or cause her to throw her head back in laughter.

And I find myself watching her more than I probably should, catching the way she gestures when she talks, how she plays with the stem of her glass, how her eyes light up when she teases me.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just her beauty, but I’m paying too much attention. I know I am, but it seems like I can’t tear my eyes from her mesmerizing face.

By the time we finally push back from the table, it’s nearly five. The vineyard around us is lazy with afternoon warmth, and we’re both drunker than we should be.

I take her hand without thinking as we wander into the vineyard. Her fingers are soft, her grip easy, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the way it feels. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she holds on tighter when she stumbles slightly on uneven ground, laughing breathlessly.

“We might’ve overdone it,” she murmurs, pressing against my side for balance.

“I have a feeling we did. It’s probably best if I don’t drive and we stay at their bed-and-breakfast for the night instead,” I suggest.

She nods absentmindedly. “I think that’s the right call.”

She steps forward, misjudging her footing, and suddenly, she’s tumbling.

I catch her around the waist before she can hit the dirt, pulling her against me.

She turns in my arms, her hands landing on my chest, and then she’s just there.

Close. Too close. Her perfect body molds to mine like they were made to complement each other.