Page 130 of Break Point
It’s final.
He’s allowing me to look at the scar he bears like a confession, the pain he’s been dragging like a curse, and the heartbreaking meaning behind it.
And then he moves.
Quickly, I toss my notebook and pen on the coffee table and brace for impact.
He crosses the room toward me in three unhurried steps with quiet, unshakable determination and sinks to his knees in front of me. Buries his face into the couch beside my hips, his hands sliding slowly around my waist like he can’t endure the weight of what’s about to happen.
At least not while looking me in the eye.
“I lied, Bells,” he says, his voice muffled against the cushion.
“I know.”
My fingers hover above his head for a second, trembling, before I realize I’ve moved.
But I give in.
I run a hand through his damp hair, trying to soothe the ache away.
He seems visibly distressed. I can feel his chest heaving against my legs, sharp and ragged, his walls crumbling around me like wet sand.
He squeezes my waist.
“I hate myself for it.”
“Don’t,” I mutter. “Or maybe just a little.”
Henry lets out a sad, broken chuckle and lifts his gaze. He stares at me like he wishes he could upload the information directly to my brain instead of having to say it out loud. I know he’s ready to finally open up to me.
I can feel it.
I can see it in his eyes.
I can smell it in the air.
But I say nothing and wait.
While I watch him gather his words, my gaze drifts to his shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that he’s exposed himself to me.
Physically, at least.
For now.
I trace a finger down the scar, and he allows it. He lets me press my palm against it while I silently beg him to tell me what happened once and for all.
“Can I sit with you?” he asks, his voice raw.
I nod and make space for him next to me.
“For the longest time,” he says, reaching for my hand, “I thought I was protecting myself from feeling more pain by keeping this from you. But I’ve reached a point where it’s become more painful to lie to you. To not be able to share myself entirely with you, as you have with me.”
He grips my hand tighter. His thumb running over my knuckles, slow and nervous.
“My dad didn’t die of a heart attack,” he says, dropping his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck.
I blink, confused.
