Page 159 of Break Point
I glance at Mom’s US Open silver cups and instantly hate myself for the flicker of misplaced jealousy that sparks in my chest. My career’s just starting, and with how things are going, I shouldn’t be comparing myself to her. But what if I don’t win this year? Or the next? She’ll always shove it in my face. How she won the US Open title at nineteen and will always act like that makes her better than me. It won’t matter if it’s not true, even if I eventually become the better player. She’ll dangle that win over my head, making me feel like I’ll never measure up to her greatness.
Henry notices I spaced out and tells me to stand next to my trophies so he can snap some fun photos. I play along to get out of my head and change the vibe. It’s his birthday, and I won’t let myself spiral about Mom or the backlogged shit that always surfaces to bite me in the ass.
Dora laughs at my silly faces and poses while Dad shakes his head, smiling.
“Good evening,” Mom purrs, drink in hand and leaning against the doorframe, taking in the scene.
My smile vanishes.
She’s wearing a silky ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted tailored black trousers that fit like a glove. Her signature red lipstick is flawless anduntouched despite her drinking habits. The two Cartier Love bracelets glint around her wrist each time she lifts her glass. But her eyes… They’re red-rimmed and glassy. I can’t tell if she’s been crying or if she’s just drunk again.
“Well, damn, I didn’t realize there’d be a red carpet,” Dora quips. She’s in jeans, flats, and a white linen shirt she’s probably been wearing all day. The rest of us are dressed like it’s a Tuesday, not the Met Gala.
“That’s hysterical,” Mom deadpans, offering Dora a kind, warm smile that looks pretty genuine from where I’m standing. “It was only fitting to say goodbye to my good friend and celebrate Henry’s birthday.”
“And Belén’s outstanding clay season,” Dad adds, gripping my shoulders with that quiet, protective pride. “And the two trophies she brought home.”
Huh.He’s defending me.
“Of course.” She waves a hand like it’s silly of her to have forgotten.
Even Dad doesn’t buy it this time, and he always tries.
“It’s your turn to take a photo with Belén,” Dora says, waving her over with a bright smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Come!”
Mom considers Dora’s statement in silence, then says, “Dinner’s ready.” She smiles, but her face looks weary underneath it. I can see the effort it takes her to summon it. “Maybe later.”
Half of me exhales. The other half caves in.
A photo with Mom? Just her and me. I can’t remember the last time we did that. Let alone with one of my trophies.
“I’m starving,” Henry says, once again saving the day like it’s his part-time job.
“Very well, then.” Mom turns and ambles away.
Henry grabs my hand and leads me out. Dad and Dora follow.
Robbie walks in as we sit down. He looks … different. Tired. Dimmed. That golden aura he usually carries and that lights up every room has dulled. It’s hazy around the edges now.
He blames the internship, but I know better. He misses Gemma. I can see it. He almost admitted it once. I can’t ignore the quiet way he’s coming apart due to her absence.
I stand to greet him, and he hugs me tightly as if wanting to ground himself.
“I missed you whining around the house all day,” he says, breaking theembrace. “Glad to have you back.” He gives me a tight smile and brightens a little. “Show me your trophies after dinner?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s eat before our food gets cold,” Mom says with a bite, adding two more ice cubes to her watered-down drink.
“I’m excited for Wimbledon,” Robbie says, cutting himself a slice of cake right after we finish singing Happy Birthday to Henry.Of coursehe is. He knows Gemma’s going to be there. “Come on, Dad. Just comp me that plane ticket already.”
“We’ll see,” Dad says, grabbing the knife and cutting himself a slice. “You can’t be careless with your internship.”
Robbie launches into his pitch.
Henry leans toward me.
“Speaking of Wimbledon.” He shifts in his seat and pulls a folded paper from his back pocket.
