Page 14 of The Road to You

LENA

O ne week.

Seven days of blissful peace in this house nestled in the rolling Tuscan hills. Days spent learning to cook under Michele’s patient guidance, sipping exquisite wine, and indulging in lazy afternoons basking under the sun or swaying in the hammock with a book in my hands.

We never talked about the kiss. But somehow, nothing really changed.

It isn’t awkward between us. If anything, it feels natural.

We still laugh and joke like we always did, even though the pull between us hasn’t gone anywhere.

I know I’m still drawn to him, and I’m fairly certain he feels the same way.

There are moments, too many of them, when I catch him looking at me, when my skin tingles under his gaze, and I wonder what would happen if I closed the space between us.

And yet, we don’t cross that line again.

I often think about that kiss because, damn, it was a really spectacular one.

The kind that makes your insides explode like a can of soda after you shake it.

It was perfect on so many levels that if I think about it, I can still feel the tingling on my lips and his body pressed against mine.

It would be so easy to slip into something more with Michele, but I’m not the kind of woman who goes straight for the next man, even if he is attractive and emotionally available.

But no matter how much I try to tell myself to slow down, Michele makes it easy to forget about the rest of the world.

He’s level-headed, effortlessly funny, and so damn considerate that I never feel the need to escape for some alone time.

In fact, I crave his presence. More than once, I’ve found myself thinking about the moment I’ll have to leave, and every time, an unfamiliar ache settles in my chest.

I don’t want to think about what that means.

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this relaxed,” I muse, stretching out on the lounge chair as Michele passes by to refill our glasses with iced tea. “Actually, I don’t think I ever have.”

He hands me my glass and settles into the recliner next to mine.

The sun kisses his tanned skin, highlighting the tattoos sprawled across his torso.

My gaze lingers on the scar running down his thigh before I quickly glance away.

He seems more relaxed these days, even though I know he would never tell me if he is in pain.

He strikes me as the type who suffers in silence rather than worrying those around him.

If I weren’t in that bedroom that night, I would have never known the extent of his injury.

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling deeply. “I know what you mean. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much time to myself, not without the pressure to train or the constant rush to get back to work.”

I tilt my head, studying him from behind my sunglasses.

He wears his too, making it impossible to decipher what’s going through his mind, but something in his tone tells me this conversation isn’t just casual small talk.

We skipped the awkward stage where you don’t know how to make the conversation flow, or maybe it was never even there.

Spending so much time with a person makes the small talk dry up fast, leaving space for more meaningful conversations.

I care about him, more than I should, more than I want to admit. And no matter how hard I try to suppress it, a part of me worries about what will happen when this brief escape ends.

“Do you have a timeline for your recovery?” I ask, my voice softer now. I don’t know exactly what his injury entails, but I do know that for an athlete, something like this can be career-ending.

He shrugs. “Not really. I just have to keep working on it and hope it gets better.”

I nod, even though his answer unsettles me. He’s being deliberately vague, and I don’t know if it’s because he genuinely doesn’t have answers or because he doesn’t want to talk about it. Either way, I don’t push. Whatever he’s facing, I have no right to pry. When he is ready to tell me, he will.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask instead. Our bedrooms are right next to each other, and more than once, I’ve strained my ears at night, wondering if he needed help. But I never hear a sound.

He shakes his head. “Not this week. Being here, away from everything, helps.”

That small confession tightens something in my chest. It’s my fault if his leg is getting somehow worse. When he says he has to “work on it,” I imagine that entails physical therapy and rest, something I haven’t seen him do since we left Milan.

“Driving all this way couldn’t have been good for you,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I should go home and let you focus on recovering properly.”

His head snaps toward me, and his jaw tightens. “Don’t even think about it.”

His words hold a weight that sends a shiver down my spine. There’s something in the way he says it, something firm but almost desperate. It’s like he is grasping for something I can’t see.

“I don’t want to make your injury worse,” I insist, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t need this trip. I can go back to Milan…”

“No.” He cuts me off before I can finish, shaking his head as a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “You need this journey as much as I do.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he presses on.

“This isn’t just about my leg, Lena. It’s not just about the physical injury.

It’s in here too.” He taps his temple. “I need a distraction. I need to clear my head before I can figure out what comes next. This…,” he gestures toward his leg, and his expression darkens momentarily, “changes everything. Whether I like it or not, I have to figure out a way forward. And if I don’t change my mindset first, I’ll lose my damn mind. ”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Because I get it, I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like if I suddenly couldn’t act anymore. If the career I built, the one thing I’ve always known, was suddenly ripped away from me. What would I do then? Who would I be?

People like us don’t have a Plan B.

When you dedicate your entire life to something, when you sacrifice everything to succeed, you don’t stop to consider what happens if it all falls apart.

You just keep going. You push harder. You chase the dream relentlessly because if you stop, even for a second, you might realize there’s nothing else waiting for you.

I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat.

Michele doesn’t need my pity. He needs time. He needs this escape. And maybe so do I.

“Enough with the sad talk,” he says suddenly, forcing a grin and shifting the conversation like he always does when things hit too close to home. “We should go into town and pick up some groceries for the next few days.”

I nod, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll go get changed.”

I stand, but as I walk away, I glance over my shoulder.

He’s staring at the horizon, lost in thoughts that are heavier than he lets on.

And I wonder, just for a second, if I could be the distraction he needs.

If I could be the thing that helps him forget.

The problem is, I’m not sure I want to be just a distraction.

The small grocery store in Radda feels familiar now, like a place we’ve always shopped at together instead of just for the past week.

Michele heads straight for the cured meats section, leaving me to wander through the fresh produce.

My fingers skim over ripe tomatoes and fragrant basil.

I take my time picking the best ones, enjoying the simple pleasure of it.

In Los Angeles, I’d grab a plastic container of pre-cut fruits and vegetables from the store without a second thought.

Convenience always won out over freshness.

But here I can taste the difference. The rich flavors and crisp textures are something I won’t forget when I go home.

I get the feeling that I won’t forget a lot of things when I go home, not just the food.

I reach for a box of lemon tea bags and smile, remembering how Michele practically had an existential crisis when I grabbed bottled iced tea last time.

His horrified expression still makes me laugh.

He’d gone on about all the sugar and preservatives, insisting we had time to boil water and brew tea ourselves.

And, of course, he was right. It does taste better this way.

By the time we meet near the registers, I’ve gathered everything we need.

“We should stop by the bakery for some fresh bread,” Michele says, tossing a pack of prosciutto into our basket.

“Okay,” I murmur, my attention snagged by a rack of gossip magazines near the checkout.

Something pulls my eyes toward one of the covers. Maybe it’s Michele’s name in bold letters, maybe it’s the slightly blurred background in the photo, but my stomach clenches as I reach for it. The moment I see the picture, my heart plummets.

It’s us.

Sitting at a café, laughing over coffee, completely unaware that someone was watching. My name is printed in smaller text next to a boxed-out image of my face, but there’s no mistaking it.

“What is this?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I show him the magazine.

Michele’s expression darkens instantly. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts unloading our groceries onto the conveyor belt, his movements sharper and faster than before.

“What is this?” I repeat, my voice tight with confusion. “Why is your name all over the cover?”

His gaze locks onto mine, pinning me in place. “I’ll explain,” he says in a low voice, “but not here.”

I glance around. The cashier, a young woman, is sneaking glances at us. The man behind us in line is doing the same. Heat creeps up my neck, and I force myself to set the magazine down, flipping it face down.

We pack up the groceries as fast as possible and practically bolt out of the store. Michele throws the bags into the back seat, and the second I slide into the car, he peels out of the parking lot like we’re being chased.