By the time the doors open, the entire situation haunts me. Adrian's accusations, Blue's lies, and the fact that Valentina hung up with ice in her voice instead of warmth, all give me a pounding headache.
I step out onto the sidewalk, shove a hand into my hair, and let the cold hit my face like punishment.
Everything is falling apart.
And I'm the idiot standing in the middle of the wreckage with no damn clue how to fix any of it.
23
Valentina
A Week Later
Wednesdays specialize in trapping you with the thoughts you'd rather ignore. All week, I've been dodging mine with Olympic precision. Today, nothing is working.
Ever since Brax went to Adrian's penthouse and then called me to ask if I hurt Blue, we've been off. He told me he stuck up for me and assured them she was lying. Yet he still had to ask me and then question me again when I told him I didn't.
That girl gets to break into my home, throw shade at me, and then accuse me of cutting her, and I'm the villain?
I should have cut her.
I would have gone directly across her face.
The thought of Blue with a scar similar to Kirill's gives me a momentary surge of satisfaction.
Then it dies quickly.
Everything was good between us until Blue showed up. Now, I don't know where we stand. It's not a big enough rip to unmake the messwe created, but it's enough to wedge itself between every thought I have about him.
We've barely spoken in days. I'm not intentionally avoiding him, but he's been buried with the O'Malley fallout and his Underworld duties. I've been drowning in my own business endeavors, and they are the kind that demand precision and composure, which right now, I'm faking.
Secretly, I'm freaking out.
My pulse crawls raw under the surface. I snap at Zara every time she asks if I'm "okay." Then I have to apologize when she winces from my aggression.
It's surprising that she and Fiona even asked me to go to yoga with them. But they came over, demanded I go, and since I was only sitting around spiraling about Brax, I didn't argue.
So now I'm in the last stretch of class. Zara's on my left. Fiona's on my right. Both of them watch me like I'm a porcelain vase someone dropped once already.
"Your breathing is loud," Fiona whispers.
"That's the point," I mutter, sinking deeper into the stretch.
She counters, her lips twitching, "No. Yours sounds like you're trying to strangle the floor."
Zara snorts inelegantly. "She's stressed."
"I'm not stressed," I say sharply.
Zara raises an eyebrow. "You did a downward-dog during tree pose."
Fiona adds, "And we had to stop you from telling the instructor her voice 'lacked purpose.'"
I argue, "It does. She sounds like she does enlightenment on Decaf."
Zara presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
Fiona doesn't bother hiding hers.
