By one in the morning, Gabriella was packed to leave to California, sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at the boxes, wanting to unpack them. Her mother and Paola had been with her the whole time, helped her do it, and she had hated them for helping her, hated that they were part of it, hated herself for not stopping them.
The boxes stared at her with the promise of goodbye. She hated the boxes, too. She hated her red puffy, cried-out eyes. Hated the burnt hollow places in her chest.
Hated herself.
Hated that they weren’t leaving tonight.
Hated she was leaving.
Vela sulked in the back of her mind, curled in a ball. She had demanded that Bree go back to the 7th floor and talk to Blaez again. But Gabriella blocked her wolf’s whimpering. She wasn’t helpin
