Page 29 of The Road to You

MICHELE

T he scent of roasted tomatoes, fresh basil, and something sweet I can’t quite place fills the air, thick and familiar, as I lean against the worn stone wall just outside the kitchen. The midday sun pours through the open windows, casting long beams of light over the chaos inside.

There, right in the center of it all, is Lena.

She’s standing at the massive wooden table, sleeves pushed up, listening intently to Zia Carmela as she gestures wildly, trying to explain how to slice the mozzarella just right.

Lena nods thoughtfully, brows furrowed, with a knife in hand, and I watch her bite her bottom lip to hide a smile when she very clearly doesn’t understand a single word coming out of my aunt’s mouth.

Francesco, my thirteen-year-old nephew, is at her elbow, translating in a mixture of broken English and exaggerated hand signs, his chest puffed out like he’s just been given a military assignment.

Annalaura, his younger sister, pipes up now and then with corrections, bossing him around in both languages.

I could go and play the knight in shining armor, rescuing her, but she doesn’t need to be rescued.

She is perfectly capable of handling my crazy family, and somehow, she enjoys it.

Lena laughs, nods, and tries again.

Something soft breaks open inside me. It’s only been a few hours since we got here, and already, she’s managed to slip into the rhythm of my family like she’s always belonged.

She’s not just smiling through the chaos, she’s living it, leaning into the noise and warmth the way someone does when they know exactly how precious it is.

I drag a hand through my hair, feeling something shift deep inside me, slow and relentless, like tectonic plates realigning. It’s shaking me to my core like an earthquake I can’t escape.

One night. We had one night together. One night of reckless, incredible sex that still buzzes in my blood when I let my mind wander.

And yet it feels like I’ve known her forever.

Like every chaotic, joyful part of my life has been leading up to this moment, where I stand in my parents’ home and watch a woman I barely knew a few months ago fit herself right into the center of it.

“ Sei innamorato, fratellone ?”

The teasing voice makes me turn. Mariasole, my youngest sister, grins up at me, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, flour dusting her jeans.

Her dark eyes sparkle with mischief, the same way they did when she used to steal my cleats before a game just to mess with me.

I don’t miss the hope in her voice when she asks me if I’m in love.

She’s always had a soft spot for my love life and tried to set me up with every woman she deemed worthy of her big brother.

“ Ciao, Sorellina ,” I say, ruffling her hair even though she’s almost thirty now and will probably murder me for it.

She swats me away, laughing, then nods toward Lena. “So. Spill. How did you meet her? And don’t you dare say ‘it’s complicated.’”

I chuckle under my breath, shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s not complicated. We met in Milan. She’s a friend.”

“Just a friend, huh?” Mariasole arches a brow, unconvinced.

I shrug, even though my heart is still tight from watching Lena laugh with Francesco. “We are friends. We…traveled together.” Well, at least that is true. The other part is…well, complicated.

She smirks. “And now you bring her home. To this. ” She gestures around us, at the noise, the heat, the dozens of relatives already fighting over who gets to sit next to Lena at lunch. “Pretty serious for a friend, no?”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling too. “Don’t start planning a wedding, Mariasole.”

“Too late. Mamma already whispered something about grandchildren.”

I groan, tipping my head back against the wall. “ Dio, aiutami. ” And I really need God’s help if this is the way it’s going to be after just a few hours.

Mariasole laughs and bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’re happy. I can see it.”

I look at her, really look, and realize she’s not teasing anymore. She’s just happy for me.

I glance back toward the kitchen where Lena is throwing her hands up in victory after finally mastering the mozzarella technique; Francesco and Annalaura clap, as if she just won a medal.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to, because, yeah. I am happy.

And for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel like something is missing.

I don’t feel like I’m still running after something I can’t quite catch.

I think I’ve already found it. And she’s laughing in my mother’s kitchen, completely unaware she’s making me fall for her a little more every second.

The smell of grilled lamb, fresh focaccia, and simmering tomatoes wraps around me like a blanket as I carry a heavy tray out to the long wooden tables set up under the shade of the olive trees. Plates clatter, glasses clink, and laughter bounces off the stone walls of the masseria.

It’s beautiful chaos.

Kids race between the tables, chasing each other with half-eaten pieces of bread.

My aunts shout at them to sit down, using that particular tone that sounds more like a song than a scolding.

Uncles debate loudly about soccer teams and politics, waving their forks like weapons.

Wine is poured into glasses without ever asking if you want more— of course you want more.

Lena is right there, wedged between Zio Pietro and my cousin Martina, laughing as she tries to navigate the antipasti laid out in front of her.

Olives, cured meats, roasted vegetables, and little fried balls of bread.

She’s trying everything, encouraged by enthusiastic nods and hand gestures.

Annalaura sits in front of her, diligently translating bits and pieces, but Lena’s smile never wavers, even when she’s not entirely sure what she’s eating.

I lean back in my chair, letting the noise wash over me, feeling full not just from the food, but from being home. From seeing the people I love surround the woman who’s somehow slipped into my life like she’s always been meant to be there.

“ Finalmente sei tornato .”

I turn to see Antonio, my big brother, slide into the seat next to mine, balancing a plate piled so high it looks like a small hill.

His beard is a little grayer than the last time I saw him, but his eyes are the same: sharp, attentive, and too damn perceptive for his own good.

Yes, I’m finally back home and I love the feeling.

“It was time,” I say simply, reaching for a piece of bread.

He glances toward Lena, who is gamely trying to explain the concept of “peanut butter” to an utterly baffled Zio Pietro. A small smile pulls at the corner of Antonio’s mouth.

“She’s special,” he says quietly, so low only I can hear it under the din of the lunch chatter.

I tear a piece of bread in half, my heart thudding harder than it should. “Yeah.”

“You serious about her?”

The question doesn’t feel like an interrogation. Antonio’s not like that. It’s more of a brother checking in. Wanting to understand. He’s never made a fuss about my companions, even when it was clear to everyone but me that they were with me more for my fame than me as a person.

I drag a hand over my face, then glance at Lena again, her golden hair catching the sunlight, her laugh filling the air as naturally as breathing.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s new. Fast.”

“But?” Antonio prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“But it feels…” I trail off, swallowing. “ Right, ” I say finally, feeling the truth of it settle heavy and sure in my chest.

Antonio nods, like he expected that. He chews thoughtfully, then asks, “What happens after the summer? When she goes back to Los Angeles. When you go back to the fields.”

A band of panic wraps around my ribcage, cutting off my breath. I wish I had an answer. I wish I could say something confident and easy, like, We’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.

But the truth is, I don’t even know if I can go back to the fields. My leg, though better than I ever dared hope, still carries the memory of pain like a shadow. I’m not the same player. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I look down at my plate, pushing a roasted pepper around with my fork.

Antonio seems to read all of that in my silence. He puts a big, warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes once with a reassuring grip. A brother’s way of saying I see you. I’m with you.

“I believe in you,” he says simply, before turning his attention back to his mountain of food like the conversation never happened.

I sit there for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle over me. He believes I’ll go back, as if it’s a given. But I’m not so sure.

Yet for the first time in a long time, the uncertainty doesn’t hollow me out. It doesn’t feel like failure looming over me. It just feels open, like anything could happen.

I glance back at Lena, who’s just been handed a plate of orecchiette con cime di rapa and is making a face like she’s just found heaven. She beams at me across the table, her whole face lighting up with pure, infectious joy.

Yeah.

Anything could happen, and that’s not so terrifying after all.

The kitchen smells like fresh coffee and baked sugar, and the last of the crostata is cooling on the counter. I lean against the heavy wooden table, watching Lena fumble adorably with the ancient moka pot , her tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth in concentration.

“You’re going to break it if you twist any harder,” I tease, reaching around her to loosen the top.

She bumps her shoulder against mine, smiling. “ You said to twist it tight.”

“I said firmly, not like you’re trying to strangle it.”

She snorts a laugh just as the door creaks open and my parents walk in, still wiping their hands on kitchen towels, cheeks pink from the sun and the heat of cooking.

My mother’s gaze drops immediately to my leg. She crosses the room in three quick strides and fusses with the hem of my shorts like she’s looking for new wounds that aren’t there.

“ Amore di mamma, ” she mutters under her breath, her forehead wrinkling with worry. “ Come va davvero? Non farmi preoccupare. ”

Lena watches, puzzled, clearly catching the concern in my mom’s voice even without understanding the words.

“She wants to know how my leg is. How I’m really doing,” I tell her softly, covering my mom’s hand with mine to still her.

“And?” Lena asks, her voice just as soft, just as worried.

“I told her it’s getting stronger,” I say, even if it’s not entirely true, then turn to my mom and reassure her in Italian. She doesn’t look convinced.

Then my mother rounds on Lena with a fierce look in her eye, wagging her finger for emphasis. “ Diglielo tu! ” she insists. “ Digli che lasci stare le moto, o si ammazza. ”

I smirk, even as my ears burn. I never thought I would be in my mother’s kitchen being scolded like a child in front of a woman I just brought home.

“She says you have to tell me to leave motorcycles alone because I’ll kill myself on one,” I translate.

Lena’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, motorcycles ? As in more than one? I knew only about one.”

I don’t want it to become a big deal and drag Lena into the never-ending back-and-forth I have with my parents since I brought home my first bike.

Before I can brush it off, my father, silent until now, points a firm finger toward the courtyard. “ Garage. ” One word. Full of meaning.

I groan. “They want us to see the bike.”

“Now?” Lena blinks.

“Now,” I say grimly.

I take her hand and lead her out through the stone archways, the late afternoon sun slanting low and soft through the olive trees.

We cross the courtyard to a heavy wooden door.

I pull it open, and the smell of oil and metal wraps around us immediately.

My parents don’t follow us. The sight of the motorcycle is still too much for them to handle.

Inside, the motorcycle sits in the corner like a wounded beast. Or what’s left of it.

The front is twisted beyond recognition, the frame crumpled like paper. One handlebar is completely sheared off. The paint is scratched and torn, with patches of the car’s red color blooming over the battered metal.

Lena freezes, her fingers tightening around mine.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. She steps closer, almost reverent and scared at the same time, like she’s looking at something sacred and terrible all at once. “ How did you survive that?”

I swallow hard. “A miracle,” I say simply, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of it hangs between us. The crash, the recovery, the fear that maybe I hadn’t told her the whole truth about how close I came to not walking away.

She turns to me then, her eyes shining with emotion that she doesn’t bother hiding. Her fingers trace the scar on my thigh, featherlight, as if making sure I’m really here, solid and breathing.

“You scared them,” she whispers.

I cup her face in my hands, brushing my thumbs over her cheeks, feeling her tremble slightly under my touch.

“I scared myself,” I admit.

Her eyes search mine, wide and vulnerable and real.

I bend down and kiss her, soft and slow, pouring into her everything I can’t say aloud. Gratitude. Hope. Something bigger than either of us expected. My tongue grazes against hers in a slow dance that has nothing sexual in it, but pure, undiluted affection that I can’t hide anymore.

When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.

“I promise,” I whisper, “no more motorcycles. Ever.”

Her breath catches, and for the first time, I realize the weight of the promise I just made. It’s not about the bike. It’s about her. About the life I still want to build, the one I’m starting to see more clearly with her in it.

And I don’t feel trapped by that realization.

I feel free.