Page 33 of The Road to You

LENA

T he smell of grilled zucchini, lemony sea bass, and something fried mingles with the warm summer air as I sit beneath the pergola outside Michele’s parents’ masseria.

The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and rosemary, and the sun has only just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in dusky pink and amber.

Now that the stars are peeking out, the string lights above our heads glow like fireflies caught in a dance.

It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. One of those nights you know you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

A vintage radio plays somewhere behind us. A soft, sentimental Italian song croons through static. It adds the perfect touch, like a movie scene you didn’t know you’d been waiting your whole life to live.

I’ve got a glass of white wine in my hand, a plate full of grilled vegetables in front of me, and the kind of joy in my chest that feels both light and dangerously full.

Michele sits beside me, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, his hand brushing mine every time he reaches for his glass. He doesn’t even notice. Or maybe he does. Either way, I don’t pull away.

To my left, Gianna—his childhood friend, now married with a toddler and a knack for storytelling—is leaning forward, her elbow on the table as she eyes me with a grin. “So,” she says, “has he told you about the treehouse?”

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Michele, who suddenly looks very interested in his wine.

“No,” I say slowly. “But I’m already intrigued.”

Andrea, a tall, slender guy with hair that could only be described as ‘perpetually windblown,’ snorts into his glass. “He was twelve. Decided he’d build his own treehouse. Got halfway finished with the ladder before realizing he had no idea what he was doing.”

“I had a plan,” Michele mutters beside me.

“Yeah,” Alessandro chimes in from across the table. “A plan that involved climbing up with three planks of wood and a single nail in your pocket.”

Gianna’s already laughing. “He got stuck halfway up the olive tree and yelled for his mom like it was a life-or-death emergency.”

Lucia, from a few seats away, waves a hand through the air. “I had to put back the ladder he’d let fall and drag him down myself while he clung to a branch and swore he saw a snake.”

“It moved,” Michele insists, clearly reliving the trauma.

Everyone laughs, and he scowls at no one in particular.

I lean into him, whispering, “You were twelve, building a treehouse with one nail. What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

I can’t hide a chuckle escaping my lips.

“I didn’t expect to be ambushed years later by my own dinner guests,” he retorts, eliciting a new round of laughs around the table.

I bounce my shoulder playfully against his and he glares at me, but a smile is tugging at his lips.

He’s embarrassed about the stories his friends are sharing, but I’m convinced he enjoys spending time with them.

I see it in his eyes, from the way he looks at them, full of love and a hint of melancholy.

“You invited them,” I point out with a grin.

“That was a mistake,” he rebukes, but I know he doesn’t mean it. The grin trying to escape from his lips says otherwise.

Laughter ripples around the table, warm and contagious, and I find myself laughing too, really laughing, the kind that hurts your ribs and cramps your cheeks but makes your heart settle in an easy rhythm.

“Wait, wait,” Gianna says, wiping tears from her eyes. “What about the pool incident?”

Michele’s groan is immediate. “No. Absolutely not.”

He rubs a hand over his face when it’s clear that his friend has no intention of holding back on this story, and I have to admit I’m curious to hear it.

They’re telling me so much, I’m pretty sure he’s lived ten lives.

I haven’t done even a fraction of what he did when he was young.

He was reckless and completely out of control.

I can see how starting his career so young helped him straighten out his head.

“Oh, yes,” Andrea says, already grinning. “He was fifteen, trying to impress Serena. Remember her? Long legs, no patience?”

Lucia raises a brow. “Still no patience, that one. We were at the public pool, right? School had just let out a week prior.”

She doesn’t seem that fond of the girl Michele was crushing on, and I can’t hide a smile spilling from my lips.

“He climbs up onto the roof of the pool storage shed,” Andrea continues, “says he’s going to dive in like a pro.”

A groan escapes Michele’s chest, and I grip my hand around his.

I see a few glances from his friends who notice the gesture but say nothing.

I would normally be conscious of public displays of affection, but right now I feel so at ease with the people surrounding us that I don’t mind showing this side of myself, even if I did just meet them a few hours ago.

Michele doesn’t seem to mind either, and a flutter starts in my chest when he absently caresses my hand with his thumb.

Alessandro shakes his head. “And he would’ve, if he hadn’t miscalculated the distance he needed to reach the deeper side of the pool.”

“You distracted me with your chatter and jokes,” Michele mutters, but Alessandro shushes him with a wave of his hand.

“Landed where the water was a bit too low. It was memorable.”

Everyone laughs, and a cheer goes around the table, as if celebrating that he didn’t die during that stunt.

“I limped for a week!” he points out, but everyone shakes their heads in unison.

It’s Gianna who voices their thoughts. “You limped for attention because Serena was all over you when you got out of that pool.”

Alessandro raises his eyebrow in agreement, and I feel my cheeks heat up when I realize a part of me is jealous of a teenage girl, now an adult, who is not even here right now.

I can’t breathe from laughing. “Please,” I gasp. “Keep going. I need more stories to torment him with later.”

Michele looks at me like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Absolutely,” I grin. “I’m just trying to understand the man I’m…” I pause. Dating? Seeing? Sleeping with? Falling for?

He arches a brow, waiting for me to finish.

This is a discussion we’ve both avoided after the latest developments, and right now, my brain is scrambling to find the right word without appearing like a complete idiot in front of his friends.

They didn’t ask us if we were together, or at least they didn’t express this thought to me, but I saw the curious gazes between us when they joined us tonight.

“…having dinner with,” I conclude, taking another sip of wine but never letting my gaze leave his eyes.

A small smirk appears on his lips while he studies me intently.

I can’t tell if he’s happy with my definition of our relationship, or lack thereof, but I decide not to bring it up here, and neither does he.

But this is something we have to discuss at some point, because we are clearly not just friends anymore.

Laughter erupts around the table again, bringing us back to reality, and his hand slides beneath the table to rest against my thigh.

It’s innocent. Almost. Because when he reaches the hem of my dress, he caresses my inner thigh way too intimately for a dinner with friends.

Thank God, Italians use a tablecloth for every meal.

Otherwise, his mother would be horrified.

The rest of the night is a blur of food, wine, and stories.

Lucia makes her rounds like a queen holding court, pressing more focaccia into my hand every time I so much as glance toward my empty plate.

Michele’s younger cousins dart to and from the table with the energy only teenagers on summer break can have.

Someone starts pouring limoncello from a bottle that appears to be older than most of the guests.

Eventually, the stories give way to quieter conversations. Candles flicker low. The cicadas sing in the trees.

I lean back, sipping my drink, and let the moment settle into my bones. I’ve never felt this kind of belonging before. Not on a movie set. Not even at one of those exclusive Hollywood parties with champagne and string quartets and gowns that cost more than my car.

This is real.

Michele’s mother walks by and sets a warm hand on my shoulder. “You’re part of the family now, tesoro. Whether you like it or not.” Her smile is so soft that, as her son translates it to me, my heart almost explodes in my chest.

I blink hard against the tears that threaten to rise. “I think I’m okay with that.”

Michele looks at me, and something passes between us, unspoken words that warm my chest. He reaches for my hand again and threads his fingers through mine.

I squeeze.

I want to remember everything. The glow of the lights, the sting of the limoncello on my tongue, the scent of summer in the air, and the way Michele smiles at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever had the nerve to want.

In this moment, surrounded by laughter, flickering candlelight, and the low hum of an Italian summer night, I think I might love him. I might really, truly love him, and that might be the most terrifying, wonderful thing I’ve ever felt.

The wine has gone to everyone’s heads in the best possible way.

Some of his friends are still telling stories about their childhood, while others are walking between the olive trees, trying to digest the Italian dinner we just had.

Some others pour another glass of limoncello, with flushed cheeks and watery eyes.

Michele’s hand slides over my knee under the table, squeezing lightly. I turn my head, and he’s already looking at me with a lopsided grin.

“I’m getting you out of here before Andrea tells the watermelon story,” he murmurs.

“What watermelon story?” My eyes light up with curiosity while my cheeks beg me to take a rest from laughing.

“Exactly,” he says, already pulling me to my feet.