Page 36 of The Road to You

LENA

T he fan whirs in the corner of the room in lazy, rhythmic circles, stirring the warm summer air just enough to make the sheets flutter over my legs.

I lie awake in what has become my bedroom in the last week, staring at the textured plaster overhead, and lulled by the soft creak of the old house around me.

Michele is asleep in the next room. We didn’t speak much after our talk beneath the olive trees. We walked back inside holding hands, and his mother offered us a plate of almond cookies without asking questions. He kissed my temple, said he was tired, and disappeared down the hall. I let him go.

Now I lie in a bed that smells faintly of laundry soap and lemon, a lace curtain fluttering at the window, and I wonder if it’s possible to live a whole other life in the span of a summer.

Because I think I have, and the worst part is, I don’t want it to end.

But reality doesn’t wait just because the stars are beautiful and someone makes you feel seen for the first time in years.

I shift onto my side, pressing a hand to my chest like it’ll help hold everything in place. It doesn’t, but it’s worth a try. The ache is sharp and familiar, that creeping sense that something good is slipping through my fingers, and I can’t stop it.

I’ve been hiding. Not laying low, not healing my broken heart, hiding.

The scandal, the press, the endless opinions about me, about my relationship, about what’s left of my life, it was too much.

So I ran. I told myself I needed time to follow my publicist’s advice, and everything would resolve itself.

But the truth is, I’ve been afraid. Afraid to be back in a world where people don’t care who I really am, just what they can take from me.

Yet I miss acting. God help me, I do. I miss the rhythm of a set, the smell of coffee and cables, the way everything goes still when someone yells “Action.” I miss becoming someone else for a while and finding pieces of myself in the process.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s 2:08 a.m., too late, or early depending on the point of view, to do the math and figure out what time it is in Los Angeles, but I’m pretty sure it’s safe to call.

I scroll to the contact I haven’t called in weeks.

Vivian Blake, my manager. The only person besides my publicist who kept me in the loop about what Hollywood was thinking of my crumbling love life.

I press call.

It rings once. Twice.

She picks up on the third. “Lena?” Her voice is breathless, but she calms down quickly. “Is everything okay?” I hear ruffling sounds and the thump of someone running on a treadmill. She is at the gym, but then I hear a soft click, followed by silence, and figure she went somewhere quiet to talk.

I sit up, pressing the phone tightly to my ear. “I think I’m ready.”

There’s a pause. “Ready?” There is surprise in her voice, and maybe a bit of expectation.

“To come back,” I say, even if it’s not necessary, because she knows me so well, sometimes I don’t even need to speak for her to know what I want to do. But this time is different, this entire situation is out of character for me.

I told Michele that he needs to discover himself to understand how vital soccer is for him, and I have to do the same.

Throughout my life, I’ve known what I wanted to do, and I achieved it.

But I never stopped to think if I loved acting as much as the romantic idea I have of it.

This forced break, this summer, living my life instead of thinking about my next project, has put everything in perspective.

I love acting, my life, what I’ve built, and the path I’ve paved for myself.

This summer was a magical adventure I will never forget, but it’s not my reality, it’s not who I am, and I can’t live this dream longer without losing myself in the process.

My heart aches because it means that I have to leave something behind, something that changed me forever.

I have to leave a piece of my soul with the only person who has made me feel seen, alive, and loved. Michele.

Vivian is quiet for a breath, then exhales like she’s been holding it for months. “Oh, honey. Are you sure?”

“No.” I laugh softly, rubbing my temple. “But I know I can’t stay here pretending the rest of my life doesn’t exist. It’s time.”

Another pause, then she lets out another excited breath. “Well, it’s good timing. There’s something I didn’t tell you before.”

I blink. “What?”

“There’s a director, Alain Faure. He’s been asking about you.”

The words take some time to register in my brain, but when it happens, my heart stutters. “What? The Alain Faure?”

I cover my mouth because my squeal is so loud that everyone can hear me in the silence of the night.

“Yes. He’s working on a new project. Big-budget.

Bilingual. People will leave the theater emotionally wrecked.

It’s dramatic as hell. Your name was the first one out of his mouth.

But you were off the radar, so I told him you were taking a break.

He respected that. Didn’t push. But he’s in Rome with his family this week.

Vacation. He said he’d be open to a casual meeting if you’re nearby. ”

The underlying excitement in her voice is something I’ve never heard from her.

She’s the epitome of calm and professionalism, but this news is so massive that she can’t hide her enthusiasm.

And neither can I. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for—the big movie that could launch my career to a whole new level.

And he’s in Rome. Five hours away. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.

“I can set it up,” she continues, her tone gentle now, like she knows this means slicing something open in me. “You don’t have to commit. Just meet him. Talk. See how it feels.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. I stare out the window, where the moon hangs low over the fields. The same moon that Michele is sleeping under. I think about the way he kissed me last night, like he meant it, as if it were a beginning and not just a beautiful ending.

“I’ll go,” I whisper.

Vivian doesn’t say I told you so. She just says, “I’ll send the details this evening, or morning for you. And Lena?”

“Yeah?” I whisper.

“I’m proud of you.” Her voice is so soft that it makes my heart break even further.

After I hang up, I sit there in the quiet, the decision echoing through my bones.

My chest feels full and empty at the same time, like I’m gaining something and losing something all at once.

Because how do you say goodbye to a summer that felt like freedom?

To a man who looked at you like you were more than your broken pieces?

You don’t. Not yet. But I know in my heart this is my path to follow.

The sun is starting to set behind the olive trees, casting a golden glow across the gravel paths of the masseria. The sky is a watercolor of apricot and lavender, and the air smells like rosemary, with a hint of a storm that never came.

Michele is in the courtyard, sitting on the low stone wall with a bottle of Peroni in his hand.

He hasn’t seen me yet. His gaze is far away, like he’s watching the wind move through the leaves but not really seeing any of it.

I hesitate in the doorway for a beat, heart thudding too loud in my chest. Then I step outside and walk toward him, each step heavier than it should be.

He looks up when he hears me, offering me a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You okay?”

I nod and take the seat beside him, leaving just enough space for the words we haven’t said yet to settle between us. “I called Vivian last night.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t speak. He just waits, because he knows me now, he knows I’ll get there in my own time.

I press my palms against the rough edge of the wall, grounding myself. “There’s a director. A big one. He wants to meet me. He’s in Rome this week.”

There is a beat of silence, one that stretches our hearts. Michele’s gaze is focused on me, but I’m not brave enough to look at him. Not yet.

Then he asks, gently, “Are you going?”

There is no annoyance in his voice, not a hint of anger, just a subtle hurt he is trying hard to hide. He won’t make a scene, he won’t make me feel guilty for it, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it just the same, deep in my gut.

I nod. “It’s just a meeting. No commitment. But I need to go.” I finally look him in the eyes, and my heart breaks a little bit more.

He looks down at the bottle in his hands.

His fingers tighten around the neck like he’s holding back something he doesn’t want me to see.

Hurt. Not because he doesn’t want to appear vulnerable, but to make the choice easier for me.

At this point, I know enough about Michele that I’m certain he is doing it for me, not for him.

“That’s good, Lena. I’m glad.”

But his voice cracks a little on glad .

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I didn’t plan for this. I wasn’t running from work when I came here, I just I needed to take a break for a while. And then I found you. Or maybe you found me.” I laugh softly, but it’s tight, frayed at the edges. “And now I don’t know how to leave.”

He turns to me, his eyes so full of everything he can’t say. “You’re not leaving, Lena. You’re going after something that matters to you.”

His voice is soft and desperate at the same time.

In this moment, I know he loves me as much as I love him, and this awareness makes my breath catch in my throat.

This is the Michele I’ve come to know. Loving, selfless, and always doing the right thing when it comes to the people he loves.

The same man who bought this house to repay his family for the sacrifices they made for him, the man who picked up a broken heart in Milan and healed it one smile at a time.

A man who will live forever in my heart.

“And you?”

His jaw clenches. “What about me?”

“You matter to me.” The confession slips out of my mouth, and I don’t regret it because I need his help to find the strength to go to Rome and not fall apart.

He closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s bracing himself against something invisible and overwhelming. When he opens them again, they’re shining. “You matter to me too.”

There’s a silence that stretches, long and full and aching. Then he says, “You should go to Rome. Meet this director. Take the job if it feels right for you. The world hasn’t seen the best of you yet.”

His words hit me hard in the chest.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper.

“Of what?”

“That this, what we have, will just fade when I leave. That it’ll turn into some dreamy memory of a summer that never had a chance.”

He exhales hard, then reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “It won’t fade for me.”

My chest aches. “I wish I could stay.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. “And I wish I could ask you to.”

I close my eyes. “But we both know we can’t.”

His thumb brushes against my wrist, slow and tender. “I knew this would end. I just didn’t know it would hurt like this.”

I nod. “I didn’t think I’d fall in love with you.”

His breath catches. He pulls back just far enough to look me in the eyes. “You did?”

He seems genuinely surprised, and I can’t stop a small smile from escaping my lips.

“Of course I did,” I say softly. “How could I not?”

His lips part, like he’s about to speak, but then he just wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight, burying his face in my neck. I hold him just as hard, feeling the tremble in his body, the quiet heartbreak we’re both pretending we can survive.

When he finally pulls away, his voice is barely audible. “I love you, Lena.”

Tears blur my vision. “I love you, too, Michele.”

We sit there in the last golden light of the day, clinging to something we can’t name, something bigger than either of us.

Something we didn’t plan, but that happened in the sweetest way, and that changed us both.

And even though I’m leaving, even though Rome, and everything after, is waiting, a small part of me hopes that love is enough to find its way back.