Page 63 of Break Point
Every cell in my body tells me I want him. That I’ve never wanted, needed, and craved anything more than to kiss him again. But the look on his face says he’s already rewriting what just happened. And I’m terrified of how fast this moment isslipping away.
The realization about how I feel about him is so brutal and sudden that I can’t let myself say a word. I’m too afraid the messy, real, undeniable feelings bubbling to the surface might spill out of my mouth, and I can’t let that happen. Not yet. I’m terrified of the implications.
The look on his face tells me he might be scared, too.
But either my eye-begging skills suck, or he doesn’t speak eye language, because he runs a hand through his hair, bites down on his lip, and shakes his head no.
His expression shifts, confusing me even more. There’s a familiar curl at the corner of his mouth, the one that shows when he’s trying to hold something back. But why does he look so angry?
Henry picks up his neatly folded clothes from the nightstand and says, “I hate seeing you like this. Drunk and—” He stops himself, waving vaguely in my direction, disappointment written all over him.
“And I hate seeing you leave,” I say, my voice slow and soft because he’s right: I’m still a little drunk. This is what drunk looks like, and he knows that. He’s seen it before. And I know he cares about me. He doesn’t have to say it. I’ve seen the way he looks at me. I just don’t know if his feelings for me run as deep as mine do for him.
What felt like overwhelming confusion a few hours ago has settled into an inevitable realization. I hate that it took the alcohol to get me here. But what if I wake up tomorrow thinking I made all of this up? What if whatever’s left of my relationship with Henry goes to hell because of it?
“Go, then,” I rasp. I won’t beg again. I’ve already made it clear I want him to stay, and he’s still leaving.
“Belén …”
Henry’s painful stare is impossible to read. I want to shake the words out of him, but I don’t have the strength. He opens his mouth, like he’s finally going to say something that matters … and then his phone rings.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket and glances down.
“It’s Robbie,” he says. “I should take this.”
I shrug. Do I even get a say?
“Hey … Yeah, she’s fine. We’re at Gemma’s… No, it’s just me and the girls … Okay. I’ll let her know … No problem … Thanks. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Liam’s on his way here to see you.” He slides his phone back into his pocket.
Shit …Liam.
My stomach sinks. I throw my head back on the pillows, feeling like an absolute turd. What the hell is wrong with me? I didn’t forget about Liam, I knew this talk was coming, but I forgot he was on his way.
Henry’s already walking toward the door, resolute, and I don’t blame him. He grips the handle and turns it open, hesitating for a second before crossing the threshold.
He turns around.
“Tony and I will pick you up tomorrow at eight sharp for practice.” He’s looking at the floor like he’s been put on time-out. He won’t look at me. “I’ll give you an extra hour of sleep. So I suggest you make the best of it.” He slowly runs his tongue over his teeth, and after a silence that feels like forever, finally meets my gaze. “You know, considering your boyfriend’s on his way.”
At my silence, he presses his lips and taps the doorframe once before walking away.
I come undone the moment he shuts the door behind him. I’m sobbing my heart out, hanging on to my pillow so it doesn’t feel like I’m falling off an endless cliff, trying to shove the guilt away. I feel terrible! Liam, of all people, doesn’t deserve this, but I’ll talk to him as soon as he arrives. I’ll come clean about what happened and face the consequences of my poor decisions and disgusting behavior.
Because I do regret it.
I regret how it happened and when it happened. And even more than that, I regret that it came at Liam’s expense. That I let it get this messy. That I didn’t end things when I knew I should have.
But the kiss itself? That part I can’t regret. Not even a little. Because it’s him I want. There’s no doubt. He’s the one I trust most, the one who knows the real me better than anyone. I just wish the timing had been different.
I wish I’d done things differently.
And I’m crying and laughing because I’m sure of this … of all these feelings. As terrifying as they can be. Unless it’s the gin making me feel this way, which I doubt. But the thought itself is scary as hell because, yes, gin is the devil.
As I close my eyes and fade into sleep, something shifts. Maybe my mom’s not just someone who drinks. Maybe she’s someone who’s hurting and drowning, not disappearing on purpose. And if she’s stuck in a kind of hell I’ve never bothered to understand, then I have to try. Try to see her. Try to reach her. Even if I’m just her teenage daughter and I don’t know how. I have to try.
CHAPTER 16
