I look at Zalea again and she holds my gaze, but something is different. The warmth and softness that used to be there is gone, replaced by something guarded and cold.
This isn’t the same girl I left behind a year ago.
“What happened to your lip?” She asks casually, standing and brushing her hands on her jeans.
“Your brother,” I say, forcing a small smile as I lift the bag. “He also mentioned you weren’t feeling well, so I brought soup.”
She stares at the bag, emotion rippling beneath her controlled expression before the mask slides back into place.
I wish Paul wasn’t here so I could ask her what the hell happened. Why she stopped replying to my texts halfway through the tour, why she shut me out without explanation. I told myself she was busy—that we both were—but now I wonder if it started when Paul showed back up in her life.
It’s not like she and I ever made anything official, but still. I thought we had an unspoken understanding that we were exclusive, even without the official label.
“You’re not feeling good, babe?” Paul asks, turning toward her.
Babe.
The word makes my stomach twist in the worst way.
“I’m fine,” she says, her eyes still on me.
I lock my expression down to match hers, and set the paper bag on the top step.
“Well,” I say evenly, “in that case I’ll be seeing you at practice in an hour, Evans.”
Her brows lift slightly at the formality because she’s only ever heard me refer to her as Red, or Z.
I turn before I can second guess it, heading straight to my SUV, and back toward the Shredder House. But I’m not in the mood to pretend I’m a calm, and collected coach giving tours and motivational speeches.
I’m too wound up for that.
So I don’t go inside. Instead, I grab my board and head straight for the ocean. It’s the only place I know how to burn off the anger clawing under my skin.
EIGHTEEN
ZALEA | FLORENCE
I stareat the intercom outside the student residence, my reflection faintly staring back at me in the scratched metal panel. I don’t know why I told the taxi driver to drop me off here of all places. I just knew I couldn’t go back to the hotel, not when Gabriel would inevitably show up, knocking on my door, and asking questions I’m not ready to answer.
I scroll through the list of names, realizing too late that they’re organized by last name, and I don’t know Paolo’s.
I sigh and turn to leave, only to nearly collide with him as he approaches with arms full of canvases, and tote bags overflowing with art supplies.
“Lea?” His brows knit with concern as he studies my face. “Are you alright?”
The instinct to deflect is almost immediate, but when I look into his warm brown eyes, I decide I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of pushing my feelings so far down that even I believe everything is fine. Why should I hide how much I’m hurting just to make others comfortable?
“No,” I admit quietly. “Not really. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
His expression softens, but his concern deepens.
“I was just heading up to my studio,” he says, nodding toward the building. “Would you like to join me?”
“Sure.”
He enters the code, the intercom buzzing loudly before he pulls open the heavy glass door and gestures for me to go inside first. We step into the elevator together, and he presses the button for the top floor.
“My room is on the fourth,” he explains as we begin to ascend. “But I managed to reserve one of the studios on the twelfth floor for the year. It has the best views.”
