Until The Last Day (Claire and Lorenzo) novel Chapter 23

Lorenzo’s POV 

Aria came out of her building with a small silver suitcase bumping behind her. “Lorenzo,” she said, quick and breathy. “I-about the other day… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. Thank you for forgiving me.” 

The winter air carried her perfume toward me. Nausea rose, fast and physical. I swallowed it down. 

“It’s fine,” I said. 

I reached for the suitcase with one hand. With the other, I slid an arm around her waist and steered her toward the car. 

She startled at the touch and then glowed. Her cheeks went pink. In five months, I had never been the first to close distance. She took it as a sign. 

“You look thinner,” she said, searching my face as we walked. “Have you eaten at all? You can’t keep skipping meals. It makes me worried.” 

“I’m okay,” I said, opening the trunk. 

She peered inside, surprised. “You didn’t pack? Not even a backpack?” 

I looked at her. “You’re enough.” 

Her smile widened like a flower opening fast. “You’re trusting me to plan it? God, okay, I will. I’ll take care of everything.”  

I lifted her suitcase into the empty trunk and shut it. She slipped into the passenger seat, still talking. 

As soon as we pulled away from the curb, Aria began to build the trip out loud. “I made a list,” she said, tapping her phone. “Top three food stops. And a sunset point the locals love. Oh, and if we get extra time, there’s this tiny museum-‘  

I drove. The city slid past, gray and ordinary. I let her voice fill the space where music used to be. 

“Are you listening?” she asked after a while, softer. 

“Yeah,” I said, looking straight and not into her eyes. 

“But you aren’t saying anything.” Aria pouted. 

“Because, I like listening to you,” I said. This time, I made slight eye contact with her. 

I had said it before. The line fit in her ear like it had been made for it. She relaxed, resumed. “So first we check in, then we eat, then we walk by the water. Tomorrow morning we can 

Her words draped over the quiet like thin fabric. I answered in short threads. “Okay.” “Sure.” “We’ll see.” The road grew wider. The buildings thinned and fell away. Bare fields appeared. A long line of winter trees stood with their fingers cracked against the sky. 

She twisted the cap off a bottle and drank. When she lowered it, she glanced at the windshield and frowned. 

“This isn’t the way to the airport.” 

“No,” I said. “Heavy snow. That route’s stalled. I changed us to the coast.”

She opened a weather app, scrolled, then turned the screen so I could see. Hot pink warnings bled over the map. “Huh. You’re right.” She brightened. “A road trip to the beach then. We can still catch a sunrise if we nap in the car. It’ll be romantic.” 

She leaned her head back, already arranging the next twenty-four hours in her mind. 

Outside, the landscape grew barer. Houses gave way to scrub. The road narrowed, the paint faded. A long, low fence ran parallel to us for miles and then disappeared into weeds. By late afternoon the light had gone the color of old paper. 

Aria didn’t notice. “I booked a dinner for our ‘original destination,” she said, making air quotes. “I’ll cancel when we stop. Also, should we— Lorenzo? Are you okay? You’re quiet.” 

“Just driving,” I said. 

She reached across the console and set her hand on my forearm. “Hey. We’re going away. It’s supposed to be good.” She squeezed. “You’ve been through— a lot. But we’ll make new memories.” 

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