Page 90 of Break Point
The phrase reverberates inside my head as I let out a weaker scream that fades into the pillow.
I need to stop begging Mom to come to my matches, to care about my tennis career, to care aboutme.
Toloveme.
The thought latches onto me, cross-referencing back to Henry, his face surfacing in my mind. Have I been so desperate for him to show me his feelings that I’ve been pushing him away? Not physically, but emotionally, in a way that matters just as much.
How was I ever supposed to love someone like Liam, when my entire understanding of love has been twisted from the start? When I believed love had to come with push and pull, with undying angst, just to feel real.
When someone offers it plain and simple, without conditions, I don’t know what to do with it. Because I’ve only ever known how to beg for it.
To fight for it.
To earn it.
Henry’s too nice to blow me off. He likes me and enjoys my company, that much I know. But that doesn’t mean he loves me like I’ve loved him for so many goddamn years, with a quiet fascination that’s followed me like a shadow I never managed to shake.
But is it really love that I feel for him? Or is it just the familiar, aching pull of longing? That relentless, painful yearning that’s comforting in the worst possible way. Addictive.
I’m questioning everything. I’m seconds away from losing it, so I do what I always do to cope with the pain: find a physical outlet. No tennis racket thrashing this time.
Taking a deep breath, I make a conscious decision to channel everything in a way that won’t leave me guilty or ashamed once the haze lifts.
I’m going to hop on a treadmill and run until there’s nothing left to feel. Because if I don’t move, I’ll drown in this.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I throw on biker shorts, a sports bra, and running shoes. I grab my phone, headphones, a fruit punch Sportaid, and my Oakleys to hide my red-rimmed eyes.
The elevator doors slide shut. As it descends toward the fifth-floor gym, I finally dareto open Henry’s text.
Henry: Happy birthday, Bells. Can I take you out for breakfast?
No.
CHAPTER 22
IT’S A STRETCH
HENRY YANKS OPENthe gym’s glass door two miles into my run. I look away, embarrassment crawling up my spine. I can’t unsee it now. I can’t brush off the shame of how desperately I’ve been clinging to him, to the idea of us becoming something more than friends.
I’ve been injecting this frantic, needy energy into our friendship, and he’s been patient enough, kind enough, to sidestep it without hurting me. To be there for me as a coach and as a friend. Because I’m positive I’ve made my feelings obvious, even if I thought I was playing it cool.
It stops now.
Henry stands beside me and taps my headphones. I pull them off, letting them hang around my neck.
“Hey, Bells,” he says with a smile.
My brows pull in.
“Hey.” I jerk my chin at him and refocus on the treadmill’s monitor.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
“I thought you might be here since you weren’t answering your door or your texts,” he says, bracing his forearms on the treadmill’s side handle. “I know you don’t usually sleep in. You’re an early riser like me.”
Silence.
