“Italy,” I snap. “Check if she’s in Italy.”
I start pacing again, further away from Maliah and Koa’s prying ears.
There’s typing, then a relieved exhale. “You might be onto something. I’ve just tracked her at the Hawaii airport a couple days ago boarding a flight to Italy. She changed into a different outfit mid-flight—smart girl.”
“You found her?” Relief floods me. “Where in Italy?”
I look back at Koa and Maliah, already planning how to share that I’m leaving them on the tour unsupervised.
“Rome,” Reid says.
“Rome?” I growl, pissed that she skipped her competition to play tourist. “Tell the pilot to get ready. I’ll be at the tarmac in thirty.”
I hang up, pinch the bridge of my nose, then face the two surfers.
“I have to go,” I say quietly. Guilt climbing up my throat. “I’ll video call you two every day to make sure you’re keeping up with training and getting along. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’llsend my pilot back here once I reach Italy so he can take you two to the next competitions.”
Koa nods immediately. “Understood. We’ll be fine.”
I wish I believed him–their dynamic has been a disaster all year–but I have no choice.
Koa bumps Maliah’s shoulder and winks, causing her to turn bright red.
“Y-yeah,” she stammers. “We’ll be fine.”
I grab my bag and head for my room, choosing to ignore the screaming doubt that they’ll be okay.
“Zalea,” I mutter under my breath as I head toward the elevator, “I’m coming for you, baby.”
THREE
ZALEA | ROME
Jet lag feelslike a personal attack. It’s been three days of staying up all night, falling asleep at six in the morning and waking up eight hours later feeling like the day is already mostly over. Today, though, I refuse to let it win. I’ve been awake since two in the afternoon…yesterday. But I’m positive I can make it through today as long as I can get my hands on some coffee. I don’t normally drink it since it’s always so bitter, and torturous. But desperate measures call for desperate times.
After a longer than necessary shower, I get dressed and make my way out of the hotel into the cool morning air of Rome, leaving my wet hair loose to air dry. Since arriving here, I’ve only left my hotel room to grab food at a nearby family restaurant before heading right back. But the first thing I notice is how much more beige everything is in the morning light.
I find myself craving colour as I walk with no destination, letting my feet decide, and it feels dangerous and thrilling all at once to not be following an hour-by-hour schedule anymore.
There are a ton of espresso bars every few blocks and I decide to stop at the first one I see that doesn’t have a line, even if I understand absolutely zero percent of the hand-written menu.The smell of espresso is the only encouragement I need to wave down the barista.
“Un espresso, per favore,”?* I say, hoping my fake confidence will cover my horrible accent and the fact that that’s the only Italian I know.
On the flight here, I spent about thirty minutes on Duolingo trying to learn Italian before giving up and watching a replay of Eat, Pray, Love.
Learning languages was never my thing.
The barista barely looks at me as he wordlessly slides a tiny cup toward me, and I love that to him I’m not Zalea Evans, professional surfer. I’m just another random person with a small paper cup that no one spares a second look at.
I drink it in one go as if I’ve been doing this my whole life, and immediately regret that decision because my soul leaves my body for a moment.
“Jesus,” I mutter, wincing, as I lower the cup. Whoever tried this crap for the first time and thought “mmm, delicious” should be studied.
The woman beside me laughs. “First espresso in Italy?” she asks, amused, in a light accent.
She’s my height, with straight brown hair, and dressed in designed clothes.
“Is it that obvious?”
