Chapter 13
FIRST LINE OF DEFENSE
I’M TAKING my time under the perfect hot spray of water, contemplating what to do about Liam. As much as I prefer the privacy of my New York apartment, my shower in Montclair has exceptional water pressure.
I should call him to let him know I’m back and thank him for the flowers, but my mind feels oversaturated, and my circadian rhythms are out of sync. I’m tired but not sleepy, which is the worst combination ever.
When I arrived, my phone needed to be recharged, so I plugged it in and left it on my nightstand before jumping in the shower.
I’ll call Liam after dinner once it’s fully charged.
Or tomorrow morning once I’m feeling more like myself and less pissed about China.
I’m sure he’ll understand. I need some space.
After skipping blow-drying my hair because I took too long in the shower, I throw on a pair of jeans and a comfy cream-colored sweater and hurry downstairs to find everyone waiting for me at the table.
“How’s my favorite sister?” Robbie grins and stands to greet me with a warm embrace.
“Late,” Mom replies in my stead. “We’re starving.”
Here we go.
I’m only four and a half minutes behind, but I keep my mouth shut and slide into the seat between Robbie and Henry, hoping the seating arrangement will serve as a human barrier against my mom.
“You don’t seem too hungry.” I glance at the half-full glass of gin and tonic she’s gripping. “You seem thirsty, though.” I tilt my head with a saccharine smile, and Henry bumps his shoe against mine.
Translation: Don’t provoke her.
“Enough,” Dad cuts in. He doesn’t look like someone who just got off a sixteen-hour flight. He looks polished in a blue suit and crisp white shirt with a few buttons undone, as if turbulence doesn’t apply to him. “Can we eat in peace? Your mom and I have to leave soon.”
Mom and I lock eyes and do as we’re told.
Dinner is going better than expected. Mom changed her attitude and has been asking a few standard questions about China, and I’ve replied with enough detail to make her feel satisfied with my answers while remaining careful about not showing any emotions.
No one’s being rude, and there hasn’t been any need for Henry to defend me.
He’s eating in silence, evaluating the table dynamics. He can’t help it.
I should learn to relax around Mom. I can’t help but play the victim around her, and perhaps she’s not always thinking about how to hurt me, even if I tend to believe everything she says to me has a hidden double meaning.
We’re almost done eating, and Robbie pulls out his phone and starts texting.
“Roberto guarda el teléfono, porfa,”1 Dad chides.
“Voy,”2 Robbie replies, smiling mischievously at his screen.
Mom pushes back her chair and stands to fix herself another drink.
Dad’s brow flies up as she grabs the bottle of gin from her wheeled cart.
As per usual, he refrains from saying a word to her about her excessive alcohol consumption.
She has refilled her glass three times since I sat down for dinner, and who knows how many she had before I arrived.
Instinctively, I glance at Henry. I don’t know how he feels watching my mom like this, drink in hand, knowing what he went through with his father. Knowing how much of it happened while he was drunk.
It’s hard to accept that Mom is struggling with alcohol, too.
“So … there’s this party tonight at Josh and Paxton’s,” Robbie says, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Can I go?”
Josh and Paxton are brothers. Josh is Robbie’s age, and Paxton is Henry’s age. They went to school together and used to be close back in the day when Henry still lived in Jersey.
Dad replies with a click of his tongue. “I want you home by one a.m.”
“Yes, sir.” Robbie grins at him and turns his attention to Henry. “Are you coming? Josh told me Paxton texted you earlier.”
“He did, but I’m going to pass.” Henry wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Belén and I are going through her China tapes tonight, aren’t we?”
I sense the searing heat of Henry’s gaze on me as I stab the last piece of broccoli on my plate. I take it to my mouth and nod a few times. The last thing I need is to feel more embarrassed about my performance in China. I’ll watch the tapes. But not tonight, and not with him.
“Excuse me.” Henry pulls his vibrating phone out of his pocket and frowns at the screen. “I need to take this call.”
He walks away, and Mom takes her seat at the table, sipping on a fresh glass of gin—her idea of dessert.
“Speaking of calls,” she says with an unnerving chuckle. “Your bad luck charm called the house earlier while you were showering.”
Your bad luck charm?
“Addison,” Dad warns in a too-mild-for-my-taste “meh” tone. That’s as much as Dad is willing to do for me. Call Mom by her name in a slightly lower timbre with a dipped chin.
Mom takes another sip and goes, “Mmm,” as she settles her glass on the acrylic coaster. All I remember when I sipped on it a few years ago was how awful and bitter it tasted, so I don’t understand why drinking that shit makes her body tingle with joy.
“I told Liam you would call him back. He’s cute and seems like a good kid. But sweetie, you’re jeopardizing your tennis career, and for what?”
Robbie, the coward, stands up, kisses Mom’s hair, taps Dad’s shoulder, and flees the scene. I love him, but he always does this to me. He jumps ship when things get heated between Mom and me. And when I confront him about it, he always has a perfect excuse for his lack of support.
“You met Dad when you were eighteen, and my eighteenth birthday is only three months away,” I remind her. “Did meeting Dad jeopardize your tennis career?”
Mom snorts.
“Don’t be silly, Belén,” she smiles, elegantly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You and I are different in that sense.”
And many other senses.
“Enlighten me.” I toss my napkin on the table and cross my arms at my chest. Her comment reels me in, and I can’t help but take the bait. She thinks she’s better than me. But I’ll prove her otherwise next year. No words or clever comebacks are required for that.
I cannot wait to hear what she has to say.
“You tend to lose focus quickly,” she begins to explain.
“I saw you on TV. You forgot to do that thing you do before some of your serves. The what’s-it-called?
” She chuckles under her breath, and her eyes move in a drunkenly slow fashion toward her glass, which she lifts to take another sip. The sight of it makes me shudder.
She’s officially drunk, which means I shouldn’t bother with her, but I can’t help myself.
“It’s the NEHBL,” Dad answers. And I’m sure Mom knows it, too. Or it could be that the gin has depleted enough brain cells that she’s unable to dig the information out of her head. “And Belén doesn’t need to do it. But it’s great that she has a ritual. It grounds her.”
Is Dad defending me against Mom? That’s new.
“You’ll have to forgive me for saying this,” Mom says, taking another sip, which she can do without.
“But I always found it silly whenever an opponent did something similar. It’s pure superstition.
It affects concentration for those on the other side of the court and pushes the clock if you ask me. ”
“Nobody asked you,” I mutter, feeling embarrassed on her behalf for her incapacity to keep herself sober for more than twenty-four hours.
“Belén,” Dad warns, saying my name in Spanish. “Bájale dos rayitas.”3
He’s right. I should tone it down. The only one who loses every time is me. I’m the one who is left breathing out fire while Mom walks away unscathed, gin in one hand and Dad in the other.
What’s taking Henry so long?
“We should get going,” Dad says, getting up. “We’re going to be late.”
Thank you. Leave.
“Belén?” Mom says, bracing herself on the table while standing up slowly.
She stares at me and flattens her dress with her palms. “It would be wise to end things with Liam. The sooner, the better. And I hope you’re being smart and using protection.
An unwanted baby will ruin your career forever. Trust me.”
“Addison, that’s enough.” My dad rounds the table, looking visibly uncomfortable and upset. He removes the drink from my mom’s grasp and sets it back on the table. My eyes sting. It’s one thing to suppose your mom resents you and a whole other to have her insinuate it.
I push my chair back and stand up to leave without excusing myself.
“Belén!” Dad shouts. I ignore him. I can’t listen to him trying to convince me that Mom didn’t mean what she said. Not this time. Not about this.
I’m rushing back to my room when I bump into Henry as I climb the stairs two at a time. I almost lose my balance, but he catches my waist and pulls me against him to prevent me from falling back to a certain death. But that doesn’t happen because, once again, his grip is firm and steadying.
“What’s wrong?” Henry’s breath is hot against my neck. I swallow hard. His broad chest is warm, and his biceps are taut under my hands. “Why are you crying?”
He smells like shampoo and soap and crisp, citrusy aftershave, and …
he’s too late. My mom knows when to strike.
She knows Henry’s got my back whenever he’s present and so she went for the low blow in his absence.
She wouldn’t have said what she said in front of him, and I wouldn’t be left feeling like a piece of trash because of it.
“I’m not crying,” I lie, releasing my hold from his arms and grabbing onto the handrail, trying to regain my balance. “I’m fine. You can let go of me now.”
“Bells!” Henry calls as I walk around him to get to the second floor. I can hear his footsteps nearing behind me as I angrily brush away the tears from my face. “Come on, talk to me.” He catches my arm when I open my bedroom door. “Tell me what happened.”
“The fact that you need to ask confirms how rusty you are from all that time you spent in Chicago.” I shrug off his grasp and flee into my room.