Page 167 of Break Point
I forgive you.
I know you’ve been struggling.
We’ll get you the help you need to get better.
And you will.
I’d hold off on beating your US Open personal record if you asked me to, if it would help you heal.
But I don’t say any of those things.
I’m too heartbroken for it. I adore her, fucking look up to her and will forever desperately seek out her love and approval, no matter what. But I need tofeelit. Saying she loves me is not enough. It’s not doing the trick. It’s not helping me heal the part of me that wasted away all these years, believing it was a one-sided thing.
“You should rest.” I swallow back the second round of tears pooling in my eyes. And after a pause, I add, “It would be best if we all fly back home tomorrow. Together.”
“But the semis,” she says quickly, like it still matters.
I shake my head and press my lips together to stop them from shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she says between shuddering pants, pressing a hand to her mouth to choke out a sob.
I’ve spent my whole life proving I’m strong enough.
Maybe now’s the time to prove I know when not to be.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I ball my hand into a fist beside me and approach her. I kiss the top of her head and walk out of her room before it becomes more painful to do so.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Mom calls out.
I come undone the moment the door clicks shut behind me. All the pent-up emotions crash down on me at once, and the only thing propelling my legs forward, dragging me through that long corridor, is the promise of Henry’s comforting embrace.
My phone pings in my hand mid-hallway, yanking me out of mythoughts, reminding me the world’s still twirling, and there’s a tournament going on whether I decide to continue or not.
I glance at the screen and see a text notification from Tim.
It’s one word.
One name.
My opponent for tomorrow’s match. A match that I decided to withdraw from the moment I saw Mom in that hospital bed, and nothing and no one will change my mind.
I could play. But I won’t.
Not like this.
Not when I’m unraveling at the seams.
Tim: Zoya.
Tim: How’s your mom doing?
I read the name and snort out a sad, ironic laugh.
Not today, Satan.
Let Zoya run her mouth. She’ll enjoy spinning my absence into something it’s not. I’ve got nothing to prove to her. Or anyone.
I know why I’m stepping back and walking away.
