Chapter 21
Groaning, I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the door.
“Good morning, Miss Freeman,” a hotel employee greets me with a thick Australian accent, his smile too bright for this hour. “These arrived for you, Miss.”
He grips the trolley’s handlebar, stacked with several flower arrangements, reminding me that today’s my birthday.
“Good morning,” I say, summoning a smile. “Thank you for bringing these up.”
“May I help you place them inside?” he offers. “They’re rather heavy.”
“Please, come in.”
I hold the door open as he rolls the cart inside. He heads toward the living room and carefully unloads the arrangements, placing the vases on the coffee table.
“Thank you so much.”
“Happy birthday, Miss Freeman,” he replies with a polite nod. “And good luck tomorrow.”
I hurry to the living room the moment he leaves, eager to see who’s sent me flowers.
The most impressive one is from Neel Ultex.
It’s a spectacular flower arrangement of dark pink and lavender hydrangeas, red and light lavender roses, purple carnations, purple button spray chrysanthemums, and lush greenery.
Another stunning sunflower arrangement from Sportaid makes me smile. The third one is a mix of roses in different shades of pink. The card says it’s from Mom, Dad, and Robbie.
So, basically, from Dad.
I doubt Mom and Robbie know these arrived. At least Robbie is on his way, which means he’ll be able to congratulate me in person and show his support at tomorrow’s match.
The hotel sent another smaller but stunning arrangement filled with all-yellow flowers.
Last but not least, a small box tied with a purple ribbon, the bow simple but elegant. I grab the card and see Henry’s name on it.
With a sigh, I read it.
Happy 18th birthday, Bells!
I’m sorry about yesterday. I want nothing more than for you to have a great time today. Perhaps this gift will finally make you want to add the K to the NEHBL. I’m curious to see what happens if you do. I hope we can talk later. I missed your necia ass last night at dinner.
-Henry
Smiling against my will, I untie the bow and open the box to find Henry’s tennis ball with the K written in blue ink. It’s the tennis ball.
My immediate reaction is to bring it to my lips and kiss it. I love this gift, but a part of me liked knowing he had it in his possession, that he had treasured it for so many years. It was a little piece of me he carried with him, something that would have always reminded him of me.
Until today, because it’s mine now.
I’ve been reluctant to kiss the ball as part of my NEHBLing ritual ever since Henry reminded me of the missing K. I’m too superstitious and obsessive about these things to risk making any changes.
If it ain’t broke, don’t kiss it.
My heart tightens as I set the ball and Henry’s handwritten card on the table. I know it’s hard for him to acknowledge his feelings, but the fact that he gave me this ball says more than he probably realizes. It means a lot.
That being said, I can’t help but still feel frustrated and angry at him. He’s been lying to me, and I hate it. He still couldn’t open up when I confronted him about his tennis career and shoulder yesterday. I’m almost positive he’s injured, even if he refuses to admit it.
Operation Theo is still in place for tonight. It sucks that I have to push Henry closer to the edge to get him to open up about his feelings, whatever those may be. I know this feat could backfire on me, but I’m willing to take that risk.
Since Henry returned, he’s been caught in this trancelike state, constantly oscillating between showing me glimpses of his usual self and retreating behind his walls.
To say it’s been a rollercoaster would be an understatement.
But whenever he looks at me with one of those warm smiles that wrinkles his eyes … I fucking melt.
I’ve been pretending to be okay with being just friends for months, and it’s wearing me down.
Tennis has kept me centered, but learning that he applied to MIT makes me wonder if he’s only staying in New York because I made him promise he would.
Going to MIT might be what he wants. If that’s the case, I can’t stop him. Not anymore.
Perhaps it’s time for Henry and me to part ways and embrace Tim McEnroe as my new coach. This would grant Henry the freedom to do whatever he wants with his life, not what he feels obligated to do.
All I could think about last night as I tossed and turned was how Henry had been fine back in Chicago and how it wasn’t a matter of if but when MIT accepted him. And I know he’s going to get in. He’s always been that rare mix of brains and athleticism. Any university would be lucky to have him.
I never imagined that thrashing my racket at the US Open would end up getting in the way of Henry’s future. It’s unsettling to think about what might have happened if I hadn’t done that and how far our actions ripple into other people’s lives.
From what I understand, Dad had been helping Henry and his mom financially since Mitch died, long before bringing him back into my life as my interim coach.
The immature part of me wants to make Henry squirm. He admitted to being jealous of Theo, and I can’t help but use that to provoke him. For months, it felt like nothing could move him, as if he were trapped in this cycle of intermittent indifference.
Until last night.
If he refuses to open up to me after tonight, I’ll be left with no choice but to step back. Because what if I got it all wrong and he doesn’t feel the same way about me?
What if I’ve misread every signal and he cares about me too much as a friend to hurt me with the truth? Maybe that’s why he won’t say anything. Why he’d rather stay in no man’s land, neither accepting nor denying his feelings.
If nothing else, I know he enjoys my company.
But there’s always the possibility that he’s just not into me.
It could be as simple as that. But then I remember the way he looked at me while I undressed and the fire in his eyes when he stormed out of my room yesterday, practically seething at the thought of Theo touching me.
And yet … it might be nothing more than his protective instincts.
These nagging thoughts kept me up all night. I barely got any sleep.
I’m exhausted.
Seeing my messy bed in the distance makes me want to crawl back in it and toss my plan to head down to the gym for a run out the window.
Fuck it. It’s my birthday.
I deserve a nap on my free day. The treadmill can wait.
Waking up to my alarm blaring an hour later makes everything feel like a blur. When I check my phone, my notifications screen is filled with messages from Dad, Drew, and Henry.
Drew: Happy birthday! How’s my favorite 18-year-old client doing? Congrats on your win yesterday. I couldn’t catch you after your match because I was coaching this new client for a press conference, but I met your dad and Henry for dinner and didn’t see you there.
Drew: Anyway, I hope you got some rest last night because I need you looking your best at the cocktail party tonight.
Neel Ultex sent me a prepaid debit card for your birthday, and they specifically said you should use it to get yourself something nice to wear.
Another gift from them will be delivered to your room during the day.
Hey, Drew! Thank you so much for the birthday wishes! :) I brought a few outfit options for the cocktail party, so I’m sure I’ll be fine. Could I use the money for something else?
Drew: Let me guess. Sunglasses? Ha! A little bird told me Liam’s in town and will be at the party tonight, so why don’t you wait for Gemma to arrive?
I’m sure she’ll talk some sense into you.
If the sponsor is pitching in 10k on a debit card, they expect you to be the best dressed tonight.
Pretty sure the budget allows for a pair of sunglasses too. ;)
Ten THOUSAND dollars?
Drew: That’s what the K means. You need to mix it up with school, girl. There’s more to life than tennis.
Oh, shut up. I know what K means.
Drew: I will if you promise to leave everyone jaw-dropped tonight.
I’ll try my best.
Drew: See you tonight then. Love ya, kid. Congrats again.
Thanks, Drew. Love you too.
My stomach somersaults at the thought of seeing Liam tonight.
This is the longest we’ve gone without contact since we met.
In the past, every time we saw each other after a breakup, something always reignited, just enough to blur the reasons we ended things.
But I know that won’t happen again. Not this time. Not for me.
It’s gotten easier to shove thoughts of Liam to the back of my mind, mostly because I’ve had no choice. I stand by my decision, but that doesn’t mean seeing him again won’t mess with my head.
Tonight, I’ll be in the same room as Theo, Henry, and Liam.
Three versions of chaos, all in one place.
God help me.
Dad: Felicidades, mi amor. I still can’t believe you’re 18. I remember your first tennis lesson with Elliot like it was yesterday and now look at you, playing in the Grand Slams. I’m so, so proud of you.
Dad: I’m sorry your mom couldn’t make it. Please believe me when I say she’s truly ashamed about missing her flight.
Dad: We love you very, very much. Let me know when I can come up for a birthday hug.
Dad: Hope you loved the flowers.
I’m heartbroken. A part of me wants to believe Mom is “genuinely ashamed” about not coming, but I know Dad is always sugarcoating things to mediate on her behalf.
I don’t even know what time it is back home. Australia feels like being on another planet, and I’ve never felt so far away and disconnected from everything. But she hasn’t called or texted yet, so I’ll give her the benefit of the time-zone doubt.
I wish I had an off button to stop caring and expecting Mom to show an ounce of affection.
Tears pool in my eyes, clouding my vision as I click my response away. Sadness quickly shifts into anger. It’s infuriating to feel this out of control. Yet again.
Thanks so much, Dad! The flowers are beautiful. I’m heading downstairs to the gym for a run. I’ll see you later for that hug. Love you!
I toss my phone aside and lower my face into my hands. A sob breaks free. Emotions crash through me, flooding my bloodstream like poison. It makes me want to scream, to expel the rage clawing at my insides.
Curling up into a ball, I let my body sink into the white, heavy comforter and allow myself to cry. To grieve. To mourn the part of me that still can’t fathom why Mom is the way she is.
Why is it so easy for her to push me aside? Why can’t she love me the way I need her to? And why, despite everything, do I still love her so damn much it feels like the ache is carving me out from the inside?
Grabbing a pillow, I wonder if there’s a way to smother this pain, to quiet the chaos inside me. So I do the only thing my body demands: I bury my face in it and scream. I scream so loud I don’t know if the fabric can muffle the desperation.
The heartache.
The fury.
The disappointment.
Am I incapable of recognizing the love my dad swears she has for me? Because I can’t feel it. Or maybe I just want it too badly. No matter how much I try to feign indifference, every time she catches a glimpse of my misery, all I do is push her further away.
Stop begging for love.
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 about me.
To love me.
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 dare to open Henry’s text.
Henry: Happy birthday, Bells. Can I take you out for breakfast?
No.