Thomas
Lorenzo Castellucci is just a kid.
If someone had said that about me when I was twenty-one, I wouldn’t have taken it well. I was grown enough to have a Super License, a place in Formula 1, and more money than I knew what to do with. How could anyone consider me a child?
I understand it now, because I’m staring at someone who had the exact same privileges I did five years ago and had no idea what the universe could throw at him. He knows now, though. All too well.
The rehabilitation center is just barely on the Italian side of the border with Switzerland, tucked into the foothills in a quiet compound. I passed through at least three security checkpoints to get to Lorenzo’s room, and there’s a man dressed in black lingering outside the door, waiting to escort me back to the lobby when I’m done. There will be no wandering, not in a place where a private room costs nearly€100,000 a month.
But considering Lorenzo is standing—yes,standing—in front of me, the care must be nothing short of miraculous.
His hands grip a walker, tight enough that his pale knucklesare nearly white. My shock is certainly written across my face, because the first thing he says is, “Don’t believe everything you hear about me.”
I won’t anymore, considering the last and latest reporting was that he was paralyzed from the waist down as a result of the crash. Maybe that was the prognosis for a time, until surgeons could carefully take pressure off his spinal cord and repair the surrounding damage. They must have succeeded at it if the sight in front of me is any indication.
I spent the sixteen-hour journey here wondering what version of Lorenzo I’d find, interspliced with gut-wrenching guilt for having to leave Stella the way I did. But I wouldn’t be in Italy if it hadn’t been for her machinations, combined with her literally pushing me out of bed to get here before Lorenzo changed his mind about wanting to see me.
“Come in.” Lorenzo nods toward the two high-backed chairs by the wide window, overlooking the snowy landscape. “Have a seat.”
I hesitate, waiting for him to turn and step in the direction of the sitting area first. His movements are slow and measured, supported by the walker, but he’s managing it fine. He’s walking on his own.
I want to ask if he’s in any pain or if he needs help, and yet my mouth stays closed, not daring to accidentally say the wrong thing. I try not to stare when I do finally sit and wait for him to do the same. The lump of bandages underneath his T-shirt hints at a recent surgery, and the wince I see cross his face tells me his recovery hasn’t been easy. This is a journey he’s not far into, even four months after the crash that landed him here.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say once he’s settled into his seat.
Lorenzo leans back, relaxing into the cushions, and quietly assesses me. “Thanks for cutting your holiday short to come here.” Again, my surprise must show, because Lorenzo gives a weak snort. “You really think there aren’t photos of you and your wife out on the beach? Paparazzi don’t rest. You know this.”
I do. It explains the high security here, and that in turn explains why we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Lorenzo in months. He’s stayed locked down to keep it that way. His circle must be small and loyal since nothing has leaked.
Somehow, I’m being let in.
“How is your wife, anyway?” Lorenzo asks, head cocking to the side. The motion makes him look even younger, dark curls sweeping across his forehead like a boy who refused to let his mother cut his hair. “Still strange that you even have one.”
His Italian accent and inherent charm make the insult almost sound like a compliment. “I know it was surprising to a lot of people,” I admit. “But she’s good. Things are…really good.”
Things might be better if we’d gotten a chance to speak before I had to jump on a plane. Her urging for me to go is why I didn’t waste any time, and I try not to read into it too much. Did she push because she wanted me away from her? Or did she push because she knew how much I wanted—needed—this sit-down to happen?
I don’t know. But I do know that the second I touch down in London, she and I are going to have a conversation about where our relationship is headed.
I thought one night together would be enough to break the tension. To make me want to back off from pursuing her. Extinguish the flame that’s been steadily burning in my chest.
But I’m slowly realizing that one night with Stella could never be enough. I was a fool to think it might be. And more of a fool to even suggest it.
Lorenzo stares me down for a moment longer, unreadable. “I know you didn’t come here for small talk,” he eventually says.
“No, I didn’t.” I take a breath. “I mostly wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, is that all?” he drawls, the insult clear this time.
“It’s the most important.” There’s no sense in being anything but up-front with him. “But I also wanted to ask a favor of you.”
He’s quiet, but he’s not waiting for me to go on. His gaze trails to the window, jaw working, probably debating if he’s made a mistake inviting me here.
“I already know what you want.” His eyes drag back over and there’s a resignation in their depths. An anger too, but I don’t get the impression it’s directed at me. “I’m sitting down for a major interview soon to clear the air. Make my amends—and do it publicly. People need to stop blaming you for something that was my fault.”
My brow dips, but he shakes his head, staving off my questions.
“You shouldn’t have said what you did,” he starts, “but I shouldn’t have given you a reason to say it.”
