“You stood up to him,” Zoë says. “You stood up to Rylan. You proved it today. You don’t need to prove anything else.” Her jaw sets. That familiar stubbornness. “No more fixing things for me. I win on my own, or I don’t win.”
I really look at her. She’s stating a fact. Setting terms.
Leaning in, I kiss her forehead—soft, gentle.
“I know,” I say. “You don’t need me to save you. You just need me to love you.”
She relaxes against me with a sigh. “Exactly.”
We settle into the silence, solidified. The door is locked. The phone is off. The world stays outside.
For the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 38
Gio
The smell of pepperoni and stale beer is the best thing I've smelled in months. We're sitting on the floor of my dorm room, the empty pizza box between us, leaning back against the side of the bed.
The adrenaline that was fueling me an hour ago—the rage, the triumph, the desperate need to mark territory—has burned off, leaving something heavier and warmer in its wake. Peace.
I take a slice of pizza, folding it in half, and watch her. Zoë is picking at a piece of crust, her legs tucked underneath her. She's wearing one of my t-shirts while her clothes dry in the dryer down the hall. It's too big for her, the collar slipping off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone. She looks different like this. Soft. Unguarded.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Just thinking," I say, washing down the pizza with a swig of lukewarm water. "About?"
"About how I'm officially poor."
Zoë snorts, a small, ungraceful sound that makes my chest tight. "You have a full ride to Briarcliff, Gio. You're hardly destitute."
"The trust is gone," I correct her. "The apartment in the city. The car. The allowance."
"Boohoo," she says deadpan. "You still have your legs. And your shot. You'll be fine."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You have no sympathy."
"I have plenty of sympathy," she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Just not for rich boys who finally have to live like the rest of us."
Zoë stands up, stretching her arms over her head. The shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her hip. My eyes track the movement automatically.
"I need to get my clothes," she says. "Be right back."
“Check my closet,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Top shelf. There’s a game jersey in there. The white one.”
Zoë raises an eyebrow. "You want me to wear a hockey jersey?"
"I want you to wear my jersey."
Zoë stares at me for a second, then shrugs. "Okay."
She disappears into the bathroom. I hear the hangers rattling, the rustle of fabric.
When she comes back out, I stop breathing. It's the away jersey. White mesh with black and gold trim. The number 22 is stretched across her chest in bold block letters, and ROSSI is spelled out across her shoulders. It hits her mid-thigh, long enough to be decent, short enough to be torture.
She stands in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem.
