Page 3 of The Road to You

LENA

I wake up half an hour before the plane lands, just in time to pull my hair into a messy ponytail and put on a bit of makeup, just in case someone recognizes me.

I’ve done everything possible to avoid attention, from ducking under the back seat of Tabia’s SUV driving out of my house to boarding the plane in the plainest sweatpants and baggy T-shirt I could find.

Greta will spend the next couple of weeks tipping off the paparazzi with fake sightings of me around Los Angeles, buying me time to settle into my Milan apartment and lay low.

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in the nervousness wreaking havoc in my stomach.

It’s been six days since the news broke, and the worst part is that I haven’t heard a single word from Preston.

Not a text, not even a message through his lawyer or publicist. Nothing.

He has tightened security around his set and hasn’t even bothered to release a statement to explain the situation.

Every gossip magazine is wildly speculating about the timeline of our relationship. Some say I must have known all along; others suggest our relationship was nothing but a cover for him until he was ready to come out. That accusation stings more than anything else.

Our relationship was real, or at least, it was for me.

But now I’m questioning everything. I’ve spent hours replaying every moment, scrutinizing every touch, every small confession, every kiss that seemed to be too rushed.

Maybe he really didn’t like me, or maybe he’s bisexual and just fell for a man, but I need to hear it from him.

I need him to tell me that there was something real between us.

After four years, I deserve at least that much.

A flight attendant cautiously approaches me, her sweet smile curving her lips. She’s been attentive throughout the flight, helping to calm my raw nerves just enough to fall asleep.

“I don’t want to overstep, but I can make sure you get off the plane first,” she whispers. Her voice is so gentle that my heart squeezes in my chest. “I’ll buy you some time to get through immigration before the rest of the passengers.”

My chest lightens a bit with relief. Bless her. Whether it’s solidarity or sheer pity, I’m grateful. I want to hug her, maybe even kiss her for this small mercy.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I hope this won’t get you in trouble.”

She shakes her head slightly, the soft smile never leaving her lips. “I already spoke to the captain. He’s on board with it. He makes the rules.” She winks before moving on to help another passenger.

I’m not sure what story she spun for him—perhaps that a broken-hearted woman needs a few minutes of respite to disappear before the world swallows her whole—but I don’t care. I take this kindness and make the most of it.

When the plane touches down, I move quickly, slipping through the airport with my head down, my sunglasses and ball cap firmly in place, and my heart pounding.

I’m lucky enough to snag a taxi without much of a wait.

The driver doesn’t give me a second glance as I tell him Tabia’s address, and I sink into the back seat, grateful for the anonymity.

The soft hum of the radio fills the car with a comfortable blur of Italian words I don’t quite understand. It’s soothing, this bubble of not knowing, not needing to process anything for a few more minutes.

I watch as the city unfolds outside my window.

The landscape shifts from the industrial sprawl around the airport to the mix of tall buildings and single-family homes on Milan’s outskirts.

As we draw closer to the city center, the streets grow narrower, the architecture older, belonging to another era.

When we finally pull into the Brera neighborhood, I can’t help but marvel at its beauty.

It’s vibrant and a bit bohemian, just as Tabia described.

Not the polished, high-fashion glitz of the “ Quadrilatero della Moda ,” another Milan neighborhood, where she spends her time when she is here for Milan’s Fashion Week, but a place with character.

The streets are cobblestone, and the buildings are exquisitely restored.

Their facades are a blend of soft pastels and weathered stone.

Tiny balconies overflow with flowers—bursts of red, pink, and yellow, thriving in the early June sun.

As I step out of the taxi, heat and humidity wrap around me, making my sweatpants feel even more suffocating.

I feel underdressed and out of place among the elegant locals.

A couple of women sit outside a corner café, their cocktail dresses effortlessly chic as they sip tiny espressos.

To my relief, they don’t even glance in my direction.

I pay the driver, drag my luggage to the side of the street, and slip through the massive wooden door that leads to Tabia’s apartment building. As it swings shut behind me, it feels like closing the door on the last six days of chaos, betrayal, and endless questions.

For the first time since my world imploded, I have a chance to breathe. An opportunity to find myself again, far away from the flashing cameras and the ever-persistent rumors.

The apartment is small but immaculate, a perfect mix of modern charm and old elegance. The entryway is paved with a stunning black-and-white mosaic, creating a welcoming first impression. Just beyond it, the flooring transitions to light hardwood, bathing the living room in a warm, inviting glow.

A plush white sectional couch and mid-century wood coffee table sit in the corner, but my attention is immediately drawn to the window—the most unique one I’ve ever seen.

It stretches along the far wall, continuing around the corner and seamlessly connecting the living room to the sleek, modern kitchen.

The massive glass panes are divided by delicate white frames, offering a view of the communal courtyard below.

The courtyard is a postcard brought to life. Wrought iron balconies hold draped terracotta pots brimming with vibrant flowers, and neighbors’ curtains flutter lazily in the breeze. It’s quintessentially Italian with a mix of contemporary design and historical character.

This place is breathtaking.

I drag my suitcase into the vibrant bedroom, which has bold, flowery wallpaper and rich blue linens, and pull out a few essentials. I settle on a light, floral summer dress and a pair of low sandals, something comfortable for exploring.

The bathroom is a tiny sanctuary. The white marble tiles and brass fixtures make this space so luminous, you almost don’t notice there are no windows in sight.

The glass-enclosed shower beckons to me like an oasis.

One look at it, and I don’t even have to think: I strip off my travel-worn clothes and step under the warm spray.

I let the water wash over me, rinsing away the stale airplane smell, the smudged makeup, and the exhaustion clinging to my bones.

I take my time, lathering away the remnants of the last few days—the betrayal, the heartbreak, the ache of unanswered questions.

Even my legs seem to breathe a sigh of relief as I scrub away the stickiness of those suffocating sweatpants.

Forty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom with a fresh burst of energy bubbling beneath my skin.

Despite the jet lag, I feel more awake and grounded.

My stomach growls in a loud reminder that I haven’t eaten since…

well, I can’t even remember. The flight is a blur of short naps and a lot of sparkling wine.

A quick search on my phone reveals a small grocery store nearby. I don’t bother drying my hair or applying makeup. I just twist my damp hair into a messy bun, slip into the dress, grab the keys, and step out into the warm Milan air.

As I wander through the cobblestone streets, I’m captivated by everything around me.

The city hums with life. The architecture is a layered history of stone, tiny balconies, and pastel colors.

Pale yellow and pink are predominant, but patches of white or stone give this place a relaxing vibe.

Each turn offers a new view: a unique café, a woman tending to her flowers, soft music coming from one of the open windows.

I’ve been to Italy countless times, but never like this. Before, it was always a whirlwind of photo ops, interviews, and tight schedules. This feels different. This feels like I’m seeing it for the first time through the eyes of someone who finally has the luxury of visiting a foreign country.

When I reach the grocery store, it’s like stepping into another world.

Back home in Los Angeles, grocery shopping is a clinical experience with fluorescent lights, endless aisles, and everything pre-packaged for convenience.

Here, the store is small and intimate, with wooden crates full of fresh produce, the scent of herbs and ripe tomatoes filling the air.

I find myself smiling at the simple act of bagging my own salad, selecting ripe peaches, and asking the clerk for a few slices of prosciutto.

The clerk smiles, and she takes her time to select the best piece of meat, as if time moves differently here.

The kind of tranquility I’ve only experienced in movies.

But then, as I approach the register, reality slams into me.

A rack of gossip magazines lines the counter, and my face is everywhere.

My heart drums a heavy, uneven beat. Preston’s betrayal is plastered across every glossy cover, our lives dissected by bold, unmistakable headlines.

I don’t need to read Italian to know what they say.

I knew we were so famous the gossip would spread, but I naively hoped I could escape it here for a little while.

My hands tremble as I place my groceries on the conveyor belt. I focus on the beeping of items being scanned. The girl behind the counter doesn’t even glance at me. She moves with practiced efficiency, entirely unaware of who I am or the chaos I left behind.

Relief rushes through me, and I exhale a slow breath.

For now, at least, I am just another face in the crowd, a girl in a floral dress, buying bread and fruit in a quiet corner of Milan.

I unpack the groceries, humming a song I heard on the radio in the grocery store, filling the small fridge with fresh produce, and neatly stacking the pantry with bread and a box of pasta. The kitchen feels even cozier now that I have my supplies for my stay here.

I prepare a simple salad, a meal that requires little thought but can settle my growling stomach.

I rinse the crisp lettuce under cool water, chop the tomatoes, and layer thin slices of prosciutto over a piece of crusty bread.

The aroma of fresh bread and salty cured meat fills my nostrils, and my stomach responds with another low, demanding growl.

I drizzle olive oil into the salad bowl, add a pinch of salt and a dusting of pepper, and carry my dishes to the kitchen table. The seat faces that incredible window, and I settle in, letting the view soothe me.

Outside, on the other side of the courtyard, curtains billow softly in the breeze. Their slow dance has a hypnotic rhythm that pulls me back to a memory I wasn’t ready to face.

I’m suddenly in the middle of the African desert, the sun long gone but the air still warm, carrying the almost absolute silence of this isolated place.

Preston and I had taken that trip after the chaos of the film premiere.

It was a rare escape where no one knew us, and we basked in almost total solitude.

We had slept in a canvas tent, its fabric flapping gently in the wind. I remember the candlelight casting shadows on his face, the way he looked at me with something I thought was love. We had tangled together that night, wrapped up in a passion that made us spent, sweaty, and breathless.

The memory crashes over me like a sudden, icy, unavoidable avalanche. My heart breaks open in my chest, and before I know it, hot tears spill over my cheeks. It’s the first time I’ve cried since the news broke, and the floodgates open with a force I can’t control.

I cry for every moment of happiness we shared, every kiss that now feels tainted, every promise that now is broken. I cry for the woman I have been with him, the one who believed in us.

Time goes by in a blur of tears and sobs. My salad turns dark and soggy, and my eyes burn with the sting of too many tears. When the sobs finally subside, I’m left hollow, emptied out, as if every tear carried away a bit of sadness, leaving me with nothing inside.

But beneath the ache, something else tugs at my mind like an insistent voice I can’t ignore. An unsettling truth rises to the surface, and I can no longer push it away: in four years together, Preston and I never once talked about our future.

Not about a home together, not about marriage, not even a shared pet or a silly what-if about growing old side by side. The realization settles over me like a cold shadow. I’ve been mourning the past, not the future. Because, in truth, there was never a future to mourn.

A slow, simmering anger replaces the grief.

My fingers curl around the edge of the table, and my breath steadies, each inhale feeding the flame inside me.

How dare he? How dare he not only break my heart but vanish without a word, leaving me to drown in speculation and scandal while he hides behind his security and silence?

The rage grounds me. I wipe my cheeks; my skin is raw, but my resolve is taking root in my chest.

No more tears for Preston. Not one more .

If he can’t acknowledge the shitstorm he created, if he can’t even muster a single text or offer an explanation, then he isn’t worth my tears. He never was.

I push the soggy salad aside, the last remnant of my breakdown, and stand up. I am not a victim. I refuse to be.

This is my fresh start, my chance to rebuild without the weight of him holding me down. And I’m going to take it.