Page 30 of The Road to You

LENA

T he night air caresses our skin with warmth, and the scent of jasmine curls through the flickering candles on the table.

We’re still sitting at the long table under the pergola, plates pushed aside, the remains of dinner scattered across the cloth like a battlefield of crumbs and empty wine glasses.

I’m tucked between Martina, Michele’s quick-witted cousin, and his grandmother, who, despite her small size and white crown of hair, has enough energy to fuel an entire city.

Martina has appointed herself my official translator, flitting between Italian and English like it’s nothing, while the women of the family close in around me with bright eyes and curious smiles, like I’m some rare creature they’ve been dying to examine up close.

“So,” Martina says, grinning as she leans closer, “ Nonna wants to know if you can cook.” Her tone is full of mirth, and her eyes sparkle with a laugh that threatens to bubble up her throat.

I blink, laughing nervously. “Um, not really. I mean, I can follow a recipe. Sometimes.”

Martina bursts out laughing and rattles off my answer in Italian.

Instantly, the whole group—Michele’s mother, grandmother, aunts, even some cousins—erupts into good-natured teasing.

Hands wave, someone pats my arm, and someone else says something that sounds suspiciously like we’ll teach her.

I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, but I’m pretty sure it will be a life-changing experience.

Another question fires off, and Martina wiggles her brows mischievously. “Okay, serious question now. Mamma wants to know if you want children.”

I nearly choke on my sip of wine. That’s something Americans typically don’t ask after just a few hours of meeting someone, but I assume it’s not the case with Michele’s family.

They took me in as if they had known me forever, and they make me feel like I’m part of the family.

I suppose these questions come with that privilege.

My gaze flickers to Michele a few seats down, where he’s laughing with his brothers, his head thrown back, his whole body alive with energy.

I consider how he plays with his nephews and nieces, and I can easily imagine him with a couple of kids running around the house.

The question is, will they be my kids too?

Just the thought makes my stomach flip in a sensation I can’t quite place.

“I…think one day, maybe,” I say carefully, my cheeks burning a bit from the alcohol, and even more from the intimacy of the question.

Martina translates, and there’s a collective, approving hum around the table. I swear someone whispers brava .

Before I can recover, Martina leans in again. “Favorite color?”

“Blue,” I answer quickly.

“Favorite season?”

“Spring.”

Those questions come from her, trying to lighten an otherwise heavy conversation that sounds a lot like an interrogation, one nobody warned me I’d be participating in.

“Do you get homesick?”

This question comes from Michele’s mother, and when I study her eyes, I see a motherly concern in her gaze. My heart swells with gratitude for her concern. It’s rare to find someone who genuinely cares for you, even if they don’t know you, especially in the shadows of the Hollywood hills.

“Sometimes. But here feels…easy.” I pause, realizing how true that feels, and how quickly I’ve slipped into this feeling.

Since coming to Italy, I have never once felt the urge to return to my family and hide in the comfort of my childhood home.

I don’t know if it’s Michele’s company or the fact that Italy has something to marvel at around every corner, but I feel more in control of my emotions, more balanced, more grounded here.

They nod thoughtfully, as if this answer means more than it seems. Then Michele’s grandmother tugs at my wrist gently and asks something with so much tenderness that Martina pauses before translating.

She looks taken aback by her grandmother’s question, and something that resembles tears veils her eyes.

“She wants to know,” Martina says softly, “what makes you cry.”

The question hits me right in the chest. I open my mouth, then close it.

I’m not even sure my ex, the person who claimed to love me, ever asked me that.

The depth of this question makes me feel naked and vulnerable, but when I look around the table, I find only honest faces, and I’m sure that my answer will be treated with all the affection and care that it needs.

There is not a single ill-meaning person surrounding me at this table, and amid all these smiling, curious women, it’s startlingly easy to answer.

“Injustice,” I whisper. “Saying goodbye. And happy endings. Always.”

Martina translates, her voice dropping into the hush that has fallen over the table. When she finishes, Michele’s mother reaches out and squeezes my hand warmly, and the nonna nods like I’ve passed some invisible test.

Another flurry of questions comes: whether I like animals (yes, especially dogs), if I can handle chaos (better than most), if I believe love should be easy or fought for (both, I think).

It’s overwhelming and comforting all at once, a river of affection and interest that sweeps me off my feet.

I realize these women want to know the deeper part of me, the one that will bring Michele happiness, and I feel strangely relieved that there are so many people looking out for him.

They don’t ask about Hollywood, about acting, about the career that usually defines me before anyone even learns my middle name. Here, it’s like none of that matters. Here, I’m just Lena. And somehow, that feels more precious than any applause I’ve ever received.

As the night deepens and the candles burn lower, the older women begin to gather their shawls and kiss cheeks goodnight. There’s laughter and slow steps as they disappear into the big stone house, the sound of the heavy wooden door thudding softly behind them.

The table empties slowly, leaving only a few lingering conversations spoken in quieter tones.

I stand, needing to stretch and breathe. The terracotta tiles are warm under my bare feet as I walk toward the courtyard, letting the peacefulness soak into my bones. My fingers trail along the low stone wall, and I tilt my head back to catch a glimpse of the stars.

Somewhere near the table, Michele’s laugh rumbles low, and a warmth spreads through my chest. The earlier whirlwind of questions clings to me like a second skin, not heavy, but comforting.

Like I’ve been wrapped in something I didn’t realize I was starving for.

Family. Belonging. A future that doesn’t feel so impossible.

The night feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Even the crickets don’t make a sound. And even though a part of me still wonders if I’m dreaming, another part, the part that has stolen glances at Michele all night long, already knows the truth. I don’t want to wake up.

I’m tracing the rough line of the stone wall with my fingertips when I hear his footsteps. Even before I turn, I know it’s him. Something about the way my body wakes up, like a current surging through my veins, tells me he is coming closer.

Michele steps into the glow of the courtyard lights, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his dark hair ruffled by the soft summer breeze. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with that half-smile that makes my heart squeeze painfully tight.

“You disappeared,” he says quietly, his voice a little hoarse from laughing all night.

“I needed some air,” I whisper, trying to steady my breathing. “Your family is amazing. Intense. Wonderful.” I laugh under my breath. “I just needed a second to process.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “They like you.”

The way he says it makes something shift inside me, like a stone dropping into a pond, rippling out further than I’m ready to admit. I was craving this confirmation from him.

“I like them too,” I murmur, and it’s the truth. It’s easy to love them, their chaos, their love .

We fall into a soft silence. There’s something about the night—the scent of the prickly pears carried by the breeze, the low hum of cicadas, the way the old stone walls cradle the heat of the day and release it slowly—that makes everything feel sweeter, familiar.

Michele moves closer, and when he’s near enough that I can feel the warmth of him against my skin, I have to force myself not to lean in, not to reach out and touch him. It feels almost forbidden to do it here, a few steps from the people who love him unconditionally.

His eyes search mine, like he’s looking for an answer to a question neither of us has asked aloud yet.

“You fit in here,” he says finally, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Like you’ve always been part of this.”

The words hit harder than they should. My throat closes up. Because this awareness clashes with the reality of our lives and the ocean that separates them.

“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I want to.”

I don’t even know if I mean this house, this family, this country, or him. Maybe all of it. I’ve never felt like I belonged to something so new and yet so familiar. And the feeling is not at all unwelcome.

The air between us grows thick, heavy with words that neither of us speaks. I tilt my head back to look at him properly. He’s close enough now that I can see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple, the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

God, he’s beautiful.

And not just in the way people are beautiful. In the way mountains are beautiful. Solid. Immovable. Eternal. Michele is all this. He is a beautiful soul wrapped in a beautiful man.

He lifts a hand slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him, and when I do not, when I couldn’t even if I wanted, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek.

It’s such a simple touch, but it unravels something deep inside me. I sway toward him, caught in the pull of gravity that only exists between two people who are about to change everything.

When he kisses me, it’s nothing like the fiery, frantic kiss of that first night.

It’s slow. Deep. Reverent. Like he’s making a promise.

Like he’s asking for something. And I give it, whatever it is, without hesitation.

My hands find his chest, his heart hammering under my palms, and I press closer, needing the anchor of him.

His arms wrap around me, strong and sure, like he could hold me here forever.

I don’t even realize I’m trembling until he pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips, “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

God. If only he knew how much I want that. How much I crave someone I can trust blindly and count on. Someone I can see in my future, when we’re old, and we smile at the memory of a life spent together.

An olive branch creaks somewhere behind us, and we break apart, reluctantly, turning toward the sound.

It’s Mariasole, Michele’s younger sister, stepping into the courtyard, barefoot and grinning mischievously. She folds her arms and says something rapid-fire in Italian that makes Michele groan softly.

He turns to me, his mouth twitching.

“She says she set up two bedrooms for us,” he translates, his voice teasing but a little rough around the edges. “Because, you know, as open-minded as my parents are, they’re not that open-minded.”

I blink, feeling my cheeks heat. The implication hangs heavy between us. Two bedrooms. Because we’re not official. Because even though we’ve kissed, even though we’ve shared a bed once, even though tonight feels bigger and deeper than anything I’ve ever known, we haven’t talked about what we are.

But his family has already decided. They see us as a couple, something real, something serious. And somehow, I realize that the idea doesn’t terrify me. It fills my heart with a quiet, yet dangerous kind of hope.

Michele looks at me, one eyebrow raised, giving me the chance to say something, to joke, to deflect, to change the subject.

I don’t.

I just smile, small and a little shy, and say, “Lead the way.” And as we walk inside together, the night warm and heavy around us, I know that whatever happens next, we’ve already crossed a line we can’t uncross.