Page 33 of Break Point
Henry grabs a glass and pours himself some water from the fridge dispenser. He moves around the apartment with a familiar ease as if he’s lived here for years, and it doesn’t bother me.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, and when I return, Henry is already sitting at the table in fresh clothes: gray sweatpants and a light blue cotton T-shirt. Our hot plates are waiting on the table as he sips from a large glass of milk. Henry seems to be waiting for me to start eating.
“Se te va a enfriar la comida,”?5 Carmen says. “Ya siéntate a comer, por favor.”?6
I do as I’m told and sit down to eat. Only then does Henry grab his fork to try the black beans.
“These taste exactly the same as always.” Henry closes his eyes as he chews.
Carmen chuckles proudly at his reaction, continuing with her kitchen chores while Henry drenches his eggs in her signature salsa verde.
Once we finish our meal, Henry stands and takes our plates to the kitchen.
“That was wonderful,” he says, kissing the top of Carmen’s head. “Thank you.”
“Gracias, Carmen!” I thank her too, pushing my chair back to get up.
Henry gestures for me to follow him with a tilt of hishead, and I do.
We sit outside on the balcony, easing into a conversation about things that aren’t particularly important like the weather, people passing by, and how surprisingly good Whole Foods sushi is.
I know we’re warming up before getting into the heart of the matter, but I need to seize the moment and say my piece because I’ve tried before and failed.
“I’m so sorry about your dad. I found out yesterday. I had no idea.”
“Thank you.” He gives me a tight smile.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” he says, a veil falling over his face. “It’s my mom I’m worried about.”
He looks away, and I can feel him retreating. But I can’t lose his attention. Not now, not when we’re finally talking.
“She’s in Chicago, right?”
He pauses before replying, “Mhm.”
“And your dad, how did he?—”
“Die?” he finishes my sentence, clearing his throat.
I know this conversation must be tough for him, but something tells me he doesn’t have anyone to talk to about this. I know him. Henry doesn’t open up to anyone. So unless he’s changed drastically over the past five years, I’m sure he’s bottling up his feelings.
“Yes,” I press.
“Heart attack,” he says dryly, looking away again.
“I see.” He’s not giving me much to work with.
He looks at me from the corner of his eye, and I swear it’s not just sadness I see there. There’s anger, too. Lots of it. And no one is better equipped than me to recognize it. I know exactly what it looks like. It’s written all over his newly chiseled features, even as he tries to hide it from me.
Henry twitches his mouth to the side, and I wish he’d tell me everything. I wish he’d let it all out. I know I can take it. Whatever he’s guarding inside his heart and mind, I want to hear it. But I’m afraid he won’t tell me more. He would’ve already given me more than those short, simple answers.
“Henry?”
His silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t want to talk to me. Not really.But I do. There’s something I need to ask him, something that kept me up most nights as I racked my brain for answers, finding none. I need him to give me something that will finally put my mind at ease after all these years.
“Why did you leave the way you did?” I ask, my voice shaky as I try to hold it together. I swallow hard, forcing back the tears already threatening to spill down my cheeks. “What happened that was so terrible you couldn’t even call or text to say goodbye?”
