Page 140 of Break Point
I scan the space until I spot her on one of the wooden deck loungers. She’s not moving. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. One arm dangles over the side, her fingers grazing the floor. Her neck is slumped to the side.
I bolt toward her.
The sweaty glass of gin and tonic on the small table beside her, two-thirds gone, says enough.
“Mom!” I yell again, grabbing the glass and dumping its contents onto the grass.
Still no response. I’m panicking now.
I grab her shoulders and shake her. Hard.
She moans like her soul can’t bear being inside her body anymore, and her eyes flicker open in slow motion.
“You’ve always been soooo dramatic,” she slurs. “I was … taking a nap.”
She sits up with exaggerated care and runs her fingers through her hair, tousling it like she’s not two seconds from passing out.
“You’re drunk,” I snap, my tone harsh and unforgiving. “I know we’re celebrating today, but you didn’t have to go all out.”
She snorts and slings her legs to the side, slipping her delicate feet into her designer mules.
I shake my head. Disappointed. Sad. Angry. Fuckingembarrassedthat she has to come inside and sit for lunch like this.
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice steadier now, sounding more like herself. Maybe she really was just taking a nap while being a little drunk. “Don’t tell your father.”
“I thought you were fine,” I scoff, staring her down.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t worry him.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say, finally daring to address it head-on. I’ve spent years looking the other way. Reducing our conversations to the bare minimum. But I can’t anymore.
“Do what?” she says, swiping a hand down her simple day dress to smooth it out.
“Put yourself through this,” I say, appalled. “Every single day. I thought you were passed out. You looked … dead.”
She swallows. Looks at me again. For a second, something flickers in her eyes, a softness. A crack in the armor. But it’s gone just as fast, and her face hardens into the version I know too well.
“What do you even know about such things, Belén?” she says, laughing softly. Elegant. Delusional.
“You must hate yourself, your life,us, so much that?—”
“Enough!” she cuts in sharply. “Get inside, and tell your father I’ll be right in. And for once, try not to make everything about you.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the tightness building in my throat and the sting of tears pooling at the corners of my eyes.
Of course she would go out of her way to ruin this for me. On the day I’m supposed to celebrate my win, my new ranking, my departure ahead of three crucial European tournaments.
God forbid I celebrate in the safety and comfort of my own home, surrounded by the people I love.
“You’re pathetic,” I spit out, already turning to head back inside. Idon’t stop to hear her reply. I won’t. Sometimes I feel like no one in this family gives a damn that she’s drinking herself into the ground.
And I don’t have the strength to care, worry, or carry this burden for all of us anymore.
Fuming, I rush back inside as everyone’s about to take a seat at the table. I do my best not to make this lunchabout me—even if it is—and summon a smile from somewhere deep within my shattered chest.
Against my mom’s wishes, I want to salvage the day and enjoy this gathering.
Gemma, Robbie, Dad, and Henry are here.
