Now #2
“I won’t. Does she always come to watch you race?”
She keeps asking me questions about Evie, probably to keep me engaged, conscious, and alert, until the stretcher arrives. She oversees the move as three medics lift me out of the car to lay me on it. Then I’m rolled toward an ambulance.
I realize we’re moving because my ribs hurt even more. But it doesn’t last long, and they roll me out of the ambulance to wheel me into a building. I stare at the neon lights passing above me, wondering how the hell I got myself in this situation.
“Jackson!” Evie shouts.
I try to lift my head and look, but the medic presses her hand on my forehead. “Don’t move,” she orders.
I don’t have to because Evie is suddenly by my side. Her slim hand finds mine, and I squeeze it back. Tears soak her pretty face, eyes red like her nose. “My God, your eye …” she whines.
“It’s scarier than it looks,” the medic reassures her. “His eye is okay.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Princess, I’m so sorry. I don’t think we’ll make it to Tuscany,” I say, gripping her hand harder.
Evie looks at the medic, tears doubling down. “Is he going to die?”
“He’ll be fine. But he likely has a concussion. In airborne crashes like that, it’s almost the norm.”
“Even with a helmet?”
“It reduces the severity but doesn’t fully prevent it.”
“We’ll go to Tuscany another time,” I say, hoping it’ll reassure her.
We enter a room where three people are already frantically working.
Evie stands over me to gravely say, “You better make it to Tuscany, Jax. You promised me a house there, remember?”
“Yeah, I … I’ll try. I always keep my word, princess.”
I can feel myself drifting. It’s like an adrenaline crash, and all my energy is slowly seeping out of me. “Keep talking to him,” the medic tells Evie. “We need him conscious for as long as possible.”
And so she does. My princess talks to me until they ask her to step out while they run tests. I’m not sure all my responses make sense, but I try.
Fuck … Of all the days I could have crashed, it had to be today …
When will we catch a fucking break?
Iopen the passenger door and extend my hand to Evie. She takes it and climbs out of the car onto the white gravel. Her eyes scan the well-kept garden around us and land on the facade of honey-colored limestone and faded terracotta roof tiles.
Cicadas are chanting, but not as much as they do in the warmest hours of the day.
I look at the house too, wondering if she’ll love it as much as I did when I first visited.
It used to be a farmhouse, or rather several of them clumped together to welcome several generations under the same roof.
It was merged into one estate long before me, but the original bones remain visible in the architecture—arched passageways, uneven stone walls, balconies and their iron guardrails …
It had all been restored before I ever set foot in Europe.
The windows have been opened up, now massive compared to what they used to be, offering gorgeous views over the valley.
The garden was already a wonder back then, but in over seven years of owning this place, I’d say it thrived.
The white climbing roses that adorn the facade are in full bloom, which only adds to the magic of this place.
After so many years of living in this area, I’ve almost forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s become my norm, and I’ve grown used to the natural beauty of this place. Especially in the evening light like this, as the warm sun lowers toward the horizon.
But the wonder in Evie’s eyes during the drive from the airport in Florence reminded me of it. Tuscany is beautiful. And now, with the way she looks at my house, our house, I rediscover it.
“So, we’ve been on your property since the gates?” she wonders.
“Yes. The estate came with fifteen hundred acres of land.”
“What about all the vines?”
“I have a deal with neighboring vineyards. They exploit and look after the vines, and I get ten percent on the wine sale. Plus as many bottles as I want.”
“Is it good?”
“I’ll open one so you can try it yourself. There’s an olive grove on the other side of the estate, too. I have a similar arrangement with farmers. And yes, the olive oil is pretty spectacular.”
The gravel crunches under our feet as I lead her to the front door, her hand still in mine. It’s old, ancient wood polished smooth with time, but not as old as the house.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Probably not.”
Chuckling, I take my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door. Once it’s open, I invite her to step inside first, which she does.
Much like the exterior, the inside of the house has been renovated with great respect for the existing structure.
The ceilings are either vaulted or with apparent beams, unless the designer wanted to let another part of the room shine.
The floor is original tiles, except where they were unsalvageable and replaced with vintage painted cement tiles.
Whatever is painted is white, which makes the interior luminous.
Especially with the tall windows and the sun that pours in throughout the day.
Everything’s old, but nothing feels worn out.
It’s all exactly as it should be—modern comfort and authenticity blended together.
I follow Evie around as she assesses the place.
Whenever she recognizes a piece of furniture or decoration, she can’t help but touch it.
The real modern feel of this place comes from the way it’s been furnished and decorated.
And a lot of it is hers, her style, from when we lived in Belgium together.
“I know a lot of those,” she says as we enter a small parlor.
“I kept everything. I had it all moved here, and when I found a decorator to fill the place, I told them to make it work with what I already had.”
“They did a great job. Your house is beautiful, Jax.”
“Our house.”
She gives me a look over her shoulder but doesn’t answer, continuing her exploration. “You have a lot of plants,” she notes when we’re in the sunroom.
“Yes.”
“And they’re all alive.”
“Because you’re not around to constantly over-water them.”
The jab earns me a slight push against my stomach and a scowl she clearly doesn’t mean. “I’m surprised they’re not all dead of thirst. I doubt you’re here enough to water them.”
“A couple from the village we passed comes once a week. She does the indoor plants, cleans them up, waters them, and he handles the garden.”