Page 60 of Break Point
Gemma laughs, and all I do is keep drinking water, hoping it will cancel out the alcohol, but it’s not working. I don’t have the energy or motivation to argue with Robbie.
“I don’t mind if you stay,” I say. Gemma seems to be enjoying herself with Paxton, and I don’t want to ruin the fun. “Robbie’s right. I should go.”
“No way I’d let you leave on your own,” she replies, trying to jump down from the counter. Paxton helps her down instead. “Let’s go.”
“Liam’s on his way. I need to talk to him, and this is not the right place for that. You might as well stay while I figure things out with him.” The dread of knowing I’m probably ending things with Liam is real and creeping up on me. Fast.
“Gemma doesn’t want to stay,” Robbie interjects. “She’s telling you she’s ready to leave with you. Stop insisting.”
I lazily shift my attention to Robbie, scrunching up my nose. What iswrong with him? He’s never this intense. Maybe he’s been drinking too. That must be it. Alcohol is shady, and I’ve officially decided I don’t like it. I won’t be having any more anytime soon. Or ever.
Gemma rummages through her purse, pulls out her keys, and says, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?”
“One hundred percent.” I take the keys and hug her, feeling a cold sweat break on my forehead and the back of my neck. “Have fun.”
Robbie turns on his heel and stalks away.
“Robbie, wait!” I call after him. I was going to ask him to drive me to Gemma’s. Vlad can’t leave Gemma here to take me to her place. I know the drill. Damn it.
I toss the keys into Gemma’s purse I borrowed and hurry out of the kitchen, trying to catch up with Robbie, but it seems he’s decided to leave, too.
Shit.
People bump into me, or maybe I’m the one bumping into them, but by the time I make it outside, Robbie’s gone.
I let out a defeated breath through my nose. I was so ready to leave that I’m considering walking back home, but even in this condition, I know that would be stupid.
The annoying, sneaky night breeze hits my face again, and it quickly makes me feel worse. I lean against one of the big trees in the front yard, trying to gather the strength to head back inside and wait for Liam to arrive. But the cold sweat is back and a nauseating sensation builds in the pit of my stomach. There’s no doubt I’m going to be sick.
Half stumbling, I manage to walk around the tree, gagging a few times. Desperately, I try to pull my hair back and hold it out of my face, bracing for impact, but nothing comes out.
Thankfully, the tree is thick enough to shield me from the people outside because it would be obvious to anyone witnessing the scene from afar that I’m feeling sick.
My legs feel shaky, and I drop to my knees on the grass, unable to stand any longer. I sit and lean my back against the tree, silently vowing never to drink again. This is a complete nightmare, and now I have more questions about why my mom would choose to put herself through this every single day.
Does drinking make her feel sick or has she built up a higher tolerance for it through the years? Does she get emotional and cry at some point? Why would she want to escape her reality? Does she hate her life that much? Does she hate …us?
Nothing feels okay. My thoughts and feelings from earlier are heightened and scrambled into a big, messy knot that I don’t know how to undo.
So I don’t.
Instead, I do the only thing I can control: wait for Liam and Tobias to arrive. Only God knows how long it will take them to get here from Manhattan.
A heavy droplet of water falls on my brow, and another on my cheek.
“Shit,” someone says. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. My eyelids feel heavy as lead, and I’m mumbling words with no success.
“We’re almost there.”
“Mhmm,” I groan.
The sporadic quarter-sized drops hitting my face turn into a violent shower, forcing me awake. The first thing I notice is a set of perfect lips and thick, dark brows with a scar slicing vertically through one of them. Water droplets slide off a straight nose and messy curls, falling onto my face. Then come the blue eyes—a shade too vivid to be real, too familiar to be anyone but him.
“Henry?” I mumble, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he picks up his pace, still carrying me in his arms. Seconds later, the rain stops altogether. I look around, and Gemma’s going through my purse, looking for something. Keys. We’re at her front door where we found cover from the rain. I’m wearing a black jacket as a blanket. I know it’s Henry’s because it smells like him. Like fresh soap and citrusy cologne.
“She’s awake,” Henry informs Gemma and looks down at me again. “Hey.”
His face is so close to mine that I can’t help but lift my finger and slide it down his scar. But he quickly recoils as Gemma opens the door and prompts Henry to rush inside.
