Chapter 13 Zalea | Florence
THIRTEEN
ZALEA | FLORENCE
My mind is still spinning by the time I make it to the Uffuzi Gallery twenty minutes late to meet with Paolo. I expect him to already be inside, studying his assigned painting, but I’m surprised to find him waiting for me near the entrance.
“Lea,” he calls out, grinning widely. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
I smile apologetically as we flash our student ID cards to skip the line. “I’m so sorry!” I say as we head inside. “I lost track of time, and then I couldn’t figure out which bus to take, so I walked all the way here.”
“It’s okay,” he flashes me a smile before looking me up and down appreciatively. “It was worth the wait.”
Heat rises to my cheeks but I quickly look away and walk around aimlessly, unsure how to take his compliment with grace. Aside from Gabriel, I never get complimented on my looks, only ever on my surfing. It’s a strange unfamiliar mix of feeling flattered and uncomfortable at the same time.
“Which painting did Giovanna assign to you?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Can you guess?”
He hums, looking around the room. “It must be a Botticelli.”
I raise my brows in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“Botticelli’s art makes people restless,” he says with a shrug. “And you haven’t stopped circling this room since we got here.”
I stop in front of the Primavera, a small smile playing on my lips. “Why do you think his art makes people restless?”
Paolo walks over to stand next to me, eyes roaming every inch of the painting. “Just look at it,” he says softly. “It’s almost like any second now, one of these people will step right off the canvas into this very room.”
I tip my eyes away from him, focusing on the painting instead. It’s a garden frozen in time with flowers everywhere. I don’t know who the people in this painting are, but a woman stands in the middle looking calm, while everyone around her is busy.
“A painting in motion,” I say quietly, mostly to myself.
“Si,” he agrees with a nod.
“What about you, what were you assigned?”
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck before walking across the room and stopping in front of a Leonardo da Vinci piece.
I stare at the plaque. “The Annunciation?”
He nods, staring at it with laser focus. “This painting is about the moment before creation. Before everything changes.”
“Hmm.” I cross my arms and thoughtfully tap my finger on my chin. “Sounds like the perfect piece for an artist going through an art block.”
He chuckles again. “I agree. This is one of the paintings he made early in his career, before he was the Leonardo.”
“Do you think that’s why Giovanna assigned it to you?”
He nods. “His style is very different here, not as confident as his later work. I think she wanted to show me that even the greatest of artists have questioned themselves at some point in their career.”
“That’s so inspiring,” I say quietly, and he nods in agreement.
We spend the next two hours discussing the paintings, seeing the different perspectives we each bring to the pieces, before others from the program begin popping into the gallery to study their own.
“Would you like to get a late lunch with me?” Paolo asks, and before I can answer, my empty stomach growls in response.
I give him a sheepish grin before nodding. “That would be great!”
“So that guy outside your hotel last night…was he your boyfriend?”
Paolo picks up his glass of house red and brings it to his lips as he watches me carefully. I bite my lip while I use my spoon to push around my bowl of ribollita, releasing a deep breath.
“I don’t know if I can say we were or that we are dating. We have a long history, but to me that’s exactly what it is,” I hold his gaze, “History.”
His eyes light up with relief and I don’t miss the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. I almost feel guilty for saying that, considering everything Gabriel and I did last night, but that was a mistake—a moment of weakness that I won’t be repeating again.
“He doesn’t seem to think that,” Paolo muses.
I laugh lightly, refilling my wine glass “I think when people are passionate about what they want, it can be hard to let go.”
He hums in agreement. “I know that feeling all too well.”
“What made you pursue art?” I ask, shifting the focus onto him. “Like, how did you know it was your calling?”
Paolo might be a little lost when it comes to finding inspiration, but he at least knows what he’s looking for. He stares at his glass with a frown and I almost regret asking, worried I’ve overstepped.
“Life was very chaotic for me when I was a boy,” he starts, not meeting my eyes. “My parents…they…probably never should have married. Whenever they would start fighting, it was always so loud, so I would sneak off to small museums to find somewhere quiet to exist.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I say, placing my hand atop his.
He flips his hand and takes a hold of mine, finally meeting my gaze with a small smile. “Museums became my safe place, and I guess one day I just decided I wanted to create something beautiful of my own, because to me beauty felt orderly when life didn't."
“And you fell in love with it?”
He nods. “Over time art stopped being my escape and instead it was my devotion.”
“That’s so beautiful,” I say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “So did your parents send you to art school after that?”
Paolo shakes his head.“ My parents weren’t very supportive of me pursuing art as a career, so they refused to help me.
I started off just trying to recreate some of my favourite paintings in the museums I would visit, and then when I felt confident enough I would paint in public and sell those pieces, until one day I’d saved enough to afford an education for myself. ”
“What’s it like to have something that makes you feel so fulfilled?”
He leans back, thoughtful. “It’s like breathing deeper than you knew you could. Time slips, hours pass, but you don’t resent it; you’re grateful for it. You finish and you’re tired—but in a good way. Like you’ve made something meaningful exist that didn’t before.”
“That sounds like exactly what I hope to feel again one day,” I say, because it’s been a very long time since surfing did that for me.
He exhales softly, a small smile dancing on his lips. “It becomes addictive though. Like a drug.”
My brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
He chuckles, releasing my hand and picking up his glass again.
“It’s…consuming. You forget to eat and sleep because nothing else feels urgent aside from chasing that feeling.
” He pauses, staring down at his wine as he gently tips the glass around.
“It’s a rush, and when it’s gone everything becomes dull. Like a withdrawal.”
I realize that’s what he must be going through, and maybe I am too.
I used to get the biggest rush when I surfed, back when surfing was still just for fun.
But lately, my life feels so dull. Not to mention, I’m halfway across the world chasing a feeling I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I’m definitely in some sort of withdrawal.
“Let’s eat, shall we?” Paolo says, bringing my attention back to the present. “There’s somewhere I’d like to show you after this.”
After lunch, I follow Paolo through a maze of narrow cobbled streets until the space suddenly opens up around us into a wide square. People fill every part of it—walking, talking, and even pausing for photos.
I look around, and notice the statues that stand out in the open, carved in pale stone and dark bronze.
Tourists gather around them, pointing, posing for pictures, and circling for better angles.
There’s also a towering building with a tall clocked tower anchoring one side of the square, the rough stone darker than everything else around it.
Along the edges are artists who have set up small easels. One mixes paint on her palette while another leans close to his canvas, sketching fast lines. There are a few people watching over their shoulders as coins clink into a container near their feet.
Closer to the centre of the square, a musician plays while a small crowd watches—some swaying, others recording on their phones.
Pigeons scatter when a group of children runs through them and I take another step forward, scanning from one detail to the next.
“Where are we?” I ask, my eyes fixed on everything unfolding around us. This square feels so alive.
“This is the Piazza della Signoria,” he says, looking around with an easy fondness. “I used to come here to paint for money.”
“Here?” I turn to face him. “This is where it became a career? Wait—you’re from Florence, not Rome?”
He laughs, nodding. “I moved to Rome a few years ago, but yes.” He points to where the artists stand. “That exact spot is where I would set up.”
“Wow.” I try to picture what it must have been like being a new artist, surrounded by strangers and painting while people watched every detail over your shoulder. “What did you paint?”
We begin slowly walking, blending into the flow of the busy square.
“In the beginning? Buildings, and basic architecture.” He smiles to himself.
“I probably have dozens of canvases of this place alone.” He glances around.
“Eventually I started noticing the people. I’d pick someone who stood out and paint them instead. ”
“And you sold those?”
“I usually gave them to whoever I painted,” he says. “Unless I was especially proud of one. Then I’d keep it for my portfolio.”
I look back toward the artists working. “Have you thought about coming back to see if it reignites your inspiration?”
His grin fades, just slightly. “I have. Many times.” He watches them for a moment. “I always leave with blank canvases.”
My chest tightens at the disappointment in his voice, so I nudge him lightly. “No one in the crowd standing out to you? No pretty girls?” I tease.
That earns me a small smile.
“Actually,” he looks down at me. “There is a pretty girl here who stands out.”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “Oh?”
He grins, teeth showing. “I’ve wanted to paint you from the moment I first saw you.”
“Is that so?” I glance away, pretending to focus on a violinist nearby who’s begun swaying as he plays.
“Giovanna mentioned you don’t speak Italian,” Paolo says, nervousness creeping into his voice. “How would you feel about lessons while I paint you?”
I laugh, looking back at him. “Are you trying to negotiate?”
He laughs too. “I’m trying to make it mutually beneficial.” His eyes search my face. “We could start next week. At my studio.”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “Would I have to model naked?”
He bursts out laughing, startling an elderly couple passing by. After flashing them an apologetic smile, he turns back to me.
“Only if you want to.”
He offers his hand and I take it, giving it a small shake.
“Alright,” I say. “Italian lessons in exchange for being your muse.”
“Deal.”