Chapter 3 #2
I pull my socks off and dip my feet inside the warm, soapy water, feeling Liam’s gaze still trained on me as I do it.
He presses my shoulders against the sofa and tears one of Gemma’s masks open.
He carefully adjusts one over my face and leans in afterward so I can do the same for him.
We laugh, and I can’t help but snap a silly selfie of us with our masks on.
Gemma joins in on the spa activities, doing her nails after carefully applying a golden face mask.
Hanging out with these two is fun and easy.
It’s been a while since I relaxed like this, though I know it’s a temporary oasis since things will go back to normal tomorrow.
I need to find a coach and deal with the mess I made after my public tantrum.
I can’t allow any more sponsors to drop me, so it’s best to enjoy the present moment—the calm before the real storm hits.
Liam insists on placing a couple of cucumber rounds over my eyes, and I yield, knowing I should be watching my tape and taking notes instead so I can go through them with my dad tomorrow.
Even if it’s homework, I enjoy watching my tapes and usually obsess over them, but I can’t make myself care. Not when I’m enjoying disconnecting from tennis and training for 24 hours.
I need this. No, I deserve the freaking break.
My dad asked Miss Annie, my tutor, to give me a couple of days off from school to sort things out.
He knows I need the rest, too. I’m not ready to go back to my 12th-grade curriculum, but I am one hundred percent looking forward to graduation.
That way, I can focus all my time and energy on what really matters: tennis.
I hate school. It only adds to the stress. But I would rather finish high school with Miss Annie than back home in Montclair.
I don’t know how Gemma does it. We were both constantly targeted and bullied when we were kids for the same reason: being mixed race. She’s Korean American, and I’m Mexican American. Both born and raised in New Jersey.
Girls teased me all the time about how I was adopted because I didn’t look like Robbie and my mom. They would say the meanest things like how my mom had told their moms about it and how she didn’t love me because I wasn’t really hers. It was that pathetic. And it made me furious every single time.
Even though I knew it wasn’t true, the comments still hurt more than they could ever understand.
The truth is I’ve never had a real connection with my mom.
They couldn’t have hit a more tender nerve.
If it weren’t because I’m the female version of my dad, I would’ve thought their adoption allegations were true.
I asked my mom more than once about it, but she always brushed the question off with a laugh and said, “You’re all ours, Belén. Trust me.”
All ours.
Listening to her say those two words always lifted my spirits. Sometimes, I’d ask again simply because her answer reassured me. I am hers. So even if she isn’t the best at communicating her feelings to me, that should mean she loves me.
Once, I foolishly engaged with the bullies and said: I’m not adopted. My dad is Mexican, and I look like him. But I only said that once and I regretted it for life because one of them responded: No, he’s not! We’ve seen him picking you up after school, and he doesn’t look Mexican. Like, at all.
I still get sick to my stomach whenever I remember the girl’s face as she said that. It’s the most ignorant thing I’ve ever heard come out of someone’s mouth.
Dad is six-foot-three with a highly athletic build.
He’s got dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and a permanent tan from years of training and playing baseball under the sun.
He’s 100% Mexican. I don’t know what kind of discount postcard version of Mexico those girls had in their heads, but they seriously needed to get out more.
Mexicans come in all colors, shapes, and sizes.
If they saw my father picking me up at school, then they couldn’t have missed the resemblance between us, but they wanted to keep rubbing the adopted storyline in my face to piss me off.
That’s the deranged psychological warfare I grew up with at school.
The racist comments Gemma had to endure were even worse. The ridiculous and inappropriate stuff flung her way is not worth mentioning. It was bad enough that two girls were suspended once because of it.
They should’ve thrown their racist asses out of school if you ask me. But money talks and most of those girls’ families have plenty.
Money’s funny like that; it can bleach a reputation in under thirty seconds. Once we grew up and they all found out Gemma’s father is one of the wealthiest men in the entire state of New York, they started kissing her ass left and right.
Thankfully, I was gone by then. When I started competing in the junior Grand Slams, a few girls from school reached out, mostly to ask for tickets to tennis events. I always said I didn’t have any to spare, even when I did. Not only do I not need many friends, but I also don’t have time for them.
I’m good with Gemma.
Jae Cho, Gemma’s father, is a self-made billionaire who owns a cybersecurity firm in Manhattan.
Robbie’s studying Computer Engineering at NYU, and he can’t shut up about how he would love to work there one day.
And I’m sure Papa Jae wouldn’t have a problem with hiring him and allowing him to work his way from the bottom up because not only are our parents close friends, but Robbie’s a total nerd. They’d be lucky to have him.
I love Robbie, but I’m enjoying him not being around the apartment today for obvious reasons.
After Gemma informs us it’s time to remove our face masks, I walk to the kitchen and grab some plates from the cupboard, taking extra care to avoid ruining my fresh red nail polish.
Liam stands behind me and kisses my cheek as I carefully place the pizza box on the table. I brace my hands on the cold marble and angle my neck to catch his mouth. His hands settle on my waist and pull me back against him, making me forget about pizza altogether.
“You smell so good,” he says in my ear after breaking the kiss. “I cannot wait for Gemma to leave.”
“I heard that!” Gemma shouts from the kitchen, slamming the fridge door shut. “And I’m not leaving until I eat my pizza in peace.”
Liam laughs after I elbow him playfully in the gut.
“You’re only going to make her want to stay longer,” I whisper in between chuckles as Liam pulls out a chair for me.
“Oh, come on, Gemms! I was messing with you!” Liam shouts back, grabbing the chair next to mine.
He’s only making it worse.
“Now get your ass in here so you can be done eating your pizza in peace already!”
“Very funny,” she retorts, walking over to the table.
I can see she’s trying not to laugh. Liam’s easy grin is irresistible.
After eating a few slices, talking, and laughing, the front door slides open without warning. The cheerful chatters fade to black as Robbie and my dad walk into the apartment carrying a big cardboard box each.
Shit.
“Off I go,” Liam mutters, standing up. He’ll most likely be asked to leave, and he knows it. Meanwhile, Gemma’s gone mute, which is unsettling.
“Good evening, everyone,” Dad sings the words with a grin.
“Good evening, Mr. Batista,” Liam replies to my dad, offering his hand.
Batista is my last name, but everyone thought it best for me to go by my mom’s maiden name—Freeman. She kept it after marrying my dad for marketing purposes, since she was a tennis pro back in the day. One of the greats.
My dad lowers the box to the floor and shakes Liam’s hand, then greets Gemma and kisses the top of my head while I take a bite of my pizza and try to act casual about having Liam over without his permission.
Nothing’s going on here but pizza with friends.
Friends who kiss … and stuff.
Robbie sets his box on the floor as well and greets Liam with one of those loud clasp-and-pull-in handshakes, followed by a few pats on the back. They’re the same age and they have grown fond of each other over the course of the year.
“Cho!” Robbie shouts, approaching her with a smile. “It’s been a while.”
I can see Robbie’s gaze drifting toward Gemma’s cleavage as he high-fives her, and I don’t blame him. Her boobs are huge and right there. But it grosses me out because she’s practically a sister to him.
Gemma rises from her seat to hug Robbie when a third person rolling a couple of suitcases behind him approaches, and I almost choke on my pizza.
No fucking way …
“You remember Henry, right?” Dad says, stealing a slice of pizza from the box.
Like I could forget.
God knows I tried.
I cough to clear my throat and allow oxygen to fill my lungs because, apparently, I’m seeing ghosts now—tall, lean-but-muscular, dark-haired, blue-eyed ghosts from my past.
Gemma kicks me under the table, and I widen my eyes at her because it’s not like I’m not aware that Henry is physically standing right in front of me.
“Hey, Bells,” he says with his new huskier voice, his features harsh as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. The last time I heard him speak was almost five years ago. I was about to turn thirteen and Henry was sixteen when he and his family unexpectedly left New Jersey and moved to Chicago.
Shock clouds my vision as I dare to take a closer look at him from the corner of my eye, noticing how the new corded muscles in his biceps strain against his simple gray T-shirt.
Mercy.
The pizza in my mouth becomes harder to swallow.
A new scar slices the last third of Henry’s right eyebrow, and his bone structure has changed dramatically. The angles of his face are more pronounced, but his once bright blue eyes don’t shine like they used to.
The way he stares at me, as if he’s all grown up and I’m still a child, makes me uneasy, especially since so much has changed since he left, and we’re both so different from when we last saw each other.
Who knows what the hell he’s really thinking?
Two things remain unchanged: He’s still gorgeous, and I still hate him.
Dad grasps Henry’s shoulders and squeezes them with affection. He flashes me the edge of a smile and says, “Say hello to your new coach.”