Page 47 of Break Point
Trying to get a hold of myself, I take one of the flowers between my fingers and bring my nose closer to smell it. It’s sweet yet crisp. I regard it for a second in silence but walk away.
“Welcome back!” Mom chirps in the distance, the over-enthusiasm in her tone unnecessary and out of place.
She’s walking over to us with a smile that makes her eyes wrinkle in a deceivingly charming way. She’s wearing a navy-blue cocktail dress that accentuates her slim figure, and her beige-blonde hair is pulled into a loose chignon. She looks so painfully beautiful.
“How was China?” She dips her chin as she waits for a response.
Mom’s playing dumb. She knows how it went because I overheardDad talking to her at the airport in Beijing. She wants to rub the loss in my face. It’s not hard to detect the excitement of seeing me fail, of reassuring herself how much better she must think she was at my age.
“You know how it is, Addison,” Henry tells her. “Sometimes you’re off your game, but it’s nothing to worry about. We’ll bounce back from this.”
“Hmm …” Mom hums with obvious disbelief before kissing our cheeks. “Glad to hear that at least Henry’s got the right attitude.”
I bite my tongue, ignoring the dig, and take a slow breath to steady myself.
“I’ve no doubt Belén will do great in Australia,” Henry adds.
My dad walks in next, and they greet each other with a big, warm hug—a hug she didn’t offer me.
Welcome to the family dynamic whenever Henry’s around: my mom expertly delivers backhanded comments my way, and Henry is kind enough to deflect them for me. It’s a ritual at this point. All that’s missing is the popcorn.
My mom smiles at Henry, a warm, honey-drenched smile, and shifts her attention away from me.
Henry has always protected me since we were kids because my momloveshim, and he knows it. I’m still unsure if he’s picking up where he left off out of the kindness of his heart or if it’s an automatic response after doing it for years.
Family dynamics never change. And he’s always played a critical role in mine.
Henry doesn’t want to look at me, but I’m thankful he’s following the usual script. His five-year absence created more damage than I thought it would. It left the gate open for my mom to step right in and walk all over me every chance she got, which went from every single day to just weekends after I moved to Manhattan.
Dad tries to soften things up when he can, but he can’t help but want to make everyone happy. And by everyone I mean her. It’s easy to see how pleasing the love of his life is more of a priority for him. The way he looks at Mom and worships the ground she walks on amazes me every day. He’s putty in her presence.
“We’ll have dinner in thirty minutes,” Mom says, resting a hand onHenry’s shoulder and squeezing it. I observe the gesture with disdain. She never touches me like that, or ever. “I’d love for you to fill me in on all the China details before Joe and I leave for this event.”
Of course, she’d love that. She’ll chug my dignity down her throat with a gin and tonic as an aperitif.
Sighing, I roll my suitcase down the hall. Henry pulls it out of my grasp and starts climbing the stairs. I wordlessly follow because I know I can’t win the:I’ll carry my suitcase up the stairsbattle against him. I’m too exhausted for that right now, so I let him do it.
Henry sets our luggage on the floor once we reach the top and sucks in a breath through his teeth, his fingers pressing into his shoulder like it’s betrayed him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning with genuine concern. “Did you pull a muscle?”
“I’m fine,” he says dryly, dropping his hand from his shoulder. His nostrils are slightly flared, so I know he’s in pain but trying to hide it from me.
“You don’t seem fine,” I insist. “Do you want me to bring an ice pack or some?—”
“I said I’m fine,” he rasps out.
I glare at him with a raised brow becausewhat the heck?He can call me on my shit all day, but I can’t ask if he’s okay and offer a freaking ice pack?
His facial features soften fairly quickly as he rummages for his words but manages to say nothing.
“Did I hurt you when you stopped me from falling in the kitchen the other day?” I say. “Just tell me.” He complained about the same shoulder that day, so I’m worried he got injured and is refusing to let me know.
“No, of course not. I must’ve slept funny on my shoulder the entire flight back.”
We flew first class, so I doubt he was uncomfortable on the flatbed. He’s probably tired from the trip and carried too much weight up the stairs. I know my suitcase is heavy.
“Okay.” I let it go because I’m making a big deal out of nothing and turn around to roll my suitcase down the hall to my room. “See you downstairs for dinner?”
