Page 119 of Break Point
The seconds tick by in slow motion.
“No, that’s … I—” He cuts himself off.
I can’t make myself feel mad about this for the tenth time.
That only confirms my decision.
“We’ll still be friends. You’ll keep being my coach and my future travel buddy to Mexico, if you’re still up for it. But nothing else. I can’t—” My voice wants to crack, but I steel myself. “I can’t want this halfway, Henry.”
He’s silent. Too silent.
His throat works like it hurts to swallow. And after a breath, something slips. In his posture. In his eyes. I don’t know what it means, but it stays with me anyway.
“Whatever keeps me around.”
1 It’s the Abierto GNP Seguros (Monterrey Open). I’ve already told you about it, remember?
CHAPTER 27
AIRPORT ANXIETY
APRIL 6, 2011
It’s beena grueling start to the season. I haven’t won a single tournament, but at least I’ve been stacking up ranking points. I lost in the quarterfinals at the Australian Open just like I did last year, only this time against Agnieszka Radwanska. 500 points. I made it as far as the semifinals in Dubai but lost to Svetlana Kuznetsova. 350 pts.
The BNP Paribas Open was exciting. I reached the final but lost to Caroline Wozniacki. Winning that first set made me think I could take the whole thing. But facing one of the world’s best? Not exactly a walk in the park. I still came away with 650 points, so I’ll take it. Then, I lost to Maria Sharapova in the Miami semis a few days ago. 390 points. I was starstruck, not gonna lie, but I didn’t let it derail me. I think.
I’m still tired from all the back-to-back traveling, the press, the nonstop pushing myself to the limit. My body. My mind. My fucking soul. But I wouldn’t change a damn thing. I live and breathe for this.
That’s why it’s easier to talk about tournaments than people. They don’t ask you to feel, just to fight.
Dad, Henry, and I just got back from Miami two days ago. I’ve barely finished unpacking, and I’m already back to fixing my bags for my trip to Mexico.
God, I’m nervous.
I’ve been busy, tired, and distracted enough these past months that I’ve done an okay job at forgetting I’ll be traveling with Henryalonefor this one.
After Australia, things haven’t been the same between us. And I didn’t expect them to be. They’re not exactly bad, either. We reached a neutral zone where our interactions revolve mostly around tennis, training, tech talk, ranking points, other players’ ranking points, and watching my tapes until our eyes and fingers bleed from taking notes.
We’re in no man’s land. But I know I’m mostly responsible for it. Henry’s been kind enough to follow my cues. I’m the one who dodges every opportunity we get to talk about anything personal by quickly changing the subject back to tennis or telling him I’m tired, which I usually am, and escaping to my room.
Not that being tired ever stopped me in the past from staying up later than I should’ve, talking to him on the balcony, or watching a movie in the living room in comfortable silence.
It’s for the best.
My feelings for him haven’t changed. My heart still jumps out of my chest every morning when I look at him, but I’ve become an expert at disguising it. Whatever trace of affection he was able to detect in the past is gone now. Hidden and locked away where pain can no longer find it.
Having Henry around is enough. It’ll have to be for as long as he’s my coach. For as long as he keeps his promise to stay in New York and accept one of the many offers he’s received from various universities.
MIT sent him an acceptance letter, as expected. My hands trembled when I saw the envelope staring up at me from the kitchen counter. I wanted to rip it open, but I walked away because I’m not a felon.
Henry rejected the offer that same day. I found out because he blind-copied me in the email he sent them, explaining his decision to decline.
I replied with a simple:Thanks for letting me know, and never spoke of it again.
“Skirts, tops, and socks are ready,” Gemma says, placing the last freakishly neatly folded top on the stack on the bed. “Do you want me to start packing these in the brown suitcase?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, walking to the bathroom to grab my twotoiletry bags. “I wish you could teach me to fold clothes like you do. It saves so much space. But I don’t have the patience for it.”
