Chapter 26 #2
Circle two: Robbie stepping into the elevator with them like an absolute idiot.
Circle three: Henry, trailing behind, like the world’s most reluctant bodyguard.
Ugh.
“Since Rob is indisposed,” Dad says in that calm-before-the-storm tone of his, “why don’t you tell us what happened last night, son?”
Henry swallows. Sits up straighter. Clears his throat.
The Holy Trinity of I’m about to dig my own grave, but do I have a choice?
And me? I’m kicking off my tennis shoes and socks, watching from the sofa across from him like it’s pay-per-view. This is not how I envisioned Henry explaining himself. I would’ve preferred it if it was just him and me. No dads. No publicists. No magazine covers. No framed tabloid humiliation.
But hey, I better get comfortable.
“First of all, I want to say how sorry I am, Joe,” Henry says, like he’s been put on the stand and whatever he says will either redeem or condemn him. “I promised to take Robbie back to his room safely, and not only did I fail to do so, but I got Belén run over with our stupidity in the process.”
Drew perks up and presses his lips like he was offended too, but he’s willing to forgive Henry if he manages to convince him with his deposition-worthy speech.
“Robbie’s an adult. He should know better,” Dad says. “His reckless behavior is not your responsibility. But I am curious to know how it all ended up on the cover of a tabloid. And for obvious reasons, I trust that your version of the events will be considerably more accurate and reliable.”
“I understand,” Henry says, shooting a quick glance my way before turning back to my dad.
“We arrived at the hotel, and Robbie wanted a nightcap. I told him it was best to call it a night, that he’d had enough.
But I didn’t argue with him further after he told me he wanted to talk to me about something.
I figured it would be easier if I let him speak and tire himself out once and for all.
You know how I’ve dealt with my share of stubborn drunks. ”
Henry pauses, his jaw tightening for a beat like the memory tastes sour in his mouth. Like he’s been here before. Different bar. Different drunk. Same helpless feeling clawing at his ribs.
Remembering how, not too long ago, I was the drunk he was dealing with makes me take a deep breath.
“Anyway, we were back at the hotel, so I thought no harm could come of it,” he continues.
“After an hour or so of talking in the lobby bar, I get up to go to the bathroom. And when I came back, the check had been taken care of, and Robbie was gone. The bartender told me he had just walked away two minutes before, so I rushed toward the front desk and saw him getting inside the elevator with Zoya and her publicist.”
Drew points to circle number two on the cover.
Henry sighs.
“I rushed over after him,” he says. “Caught the elevator just in time and got in, obviously trying to stop him from doing anything stupid. And that’s when I felt the flashes behind me.”
Drew points to circle number three on the cover like he just cracked the case of the century. Dad taps his shoulder. It’s giving Thanks, Captain Obvious. Drew purses his lips and sinks back into the sofa, crossing his arms like a moody teenager grounded for the weekend.
“Zoya insisted she had a birthday gift for Belén, and Robbie was going to ‘retrieve it,’” Henry air quotes. “I knew better than to fall for it, knowing how scheming those two have been in the past. With how much they’ve tried to tarnish Belén’s reputation.”
Henry looks at me, and his eyes scream, I’m sorry. I know how much they’ve hurt you, and I would’ve done anything in my power to stop them if I knew we were giving them the space to do it again. Or at least that’s what I wish his remorseful eyes would tell me if they could speak.
Henry clears his throat, rests his forearms on his knees, and stares at his feet for a second before carrying on.
“I tried to stop Robbie, but there was no way to make him understand there probably was no gift to begin with. We were stuck in an elevator with two conniving women with an obvious plan. At first, I thought it was bad luck and bad timing that the paparazzi had been so lucky to be there when we got into that elevator. But there’s no doubt they planned it all the way through.
We had just walked into Zoya’s suite when you called me,” Henry says, looking at me with a pained look on his face.
“In his drunk wisdom,” Henry carries on, cutting a look back at my dad, “Robbie thought it was a kind and thoughtful gesture for Zoya to want to patch things up with a birthday gift or whatever. So after I talked to Belén and went back inside to pull him out of there, Zoya’s publicist made some snide comment about how the real gift would be available on every magazine stand next morning. ”
He shakes his head, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“That was all the confirmation I needed. They played him. Played us.”
Henry looks at me again, not shying away from taking his part of the responsibility. Not hiding from the fact that, yeah … he should’ve dragged Robbie to his room kicking and screaming. But also?
God.
He looks tired.
Not the Henry-tired I usually see: end-of-practice tired, jet-lag tired, grumpy-coffee-deprived tired.
This is bone-deep tired. Tired of drunks.
Tired of babysitting grown men with poor impulse control.
Tired of being expected to clean up someone else’s mess because he can.
Because he’s better at holding his shit together than the rest of us.
And it hits me that I didn’t register that last night. Not in my rage. Not in my hurt. Not when I left like that, like I was the only disaster in his orbit. Like my pain was the only one that mattered.
But I see it now.
Dad asked him to take care of Robbie because he’s exhausted, too.
Maxed out in his own way. A husband tired of his own wife’s mistakes.
A man tired of damage control. But more than that?
He’s tired of carrying someone else’s addiction on his back.
Of playing firefighter to my mom’s mess.
Of patching things up so no one else sees the cracks.
Maybe that’s why handing Robbie over to Henry felt easy. Automatic. Like delegation was just survival at this point. Like it’s easier to offload the chaos before it swallows you whole.
And Henry? God help him, he said yes. Of course he did.
Because he’s built like that. Because he’s him. Because none of us, not even me, stopped to think about the fact that Henry’s been playing this game longer than any of us realized.
That might piss me off even more.
Because it complicates things. Because it ruins the clean, easy version of this story I was telling myself. The one where Henry’s the villain. The one where I’m the victim. The one where I get to stay mad without feeling anything else.
But this? This is worse.
Knowing he’s been here before. Knowing he’s had to drag his dad out of countless disasters that weren’t his to clean up. Knowing that part of the reason he even knows how to do this, how to pick up the pieces of somebody else’s ugly night, is because life forced him to.
It pisses me off because I’m no stranger to it. I know I haven’t lived it like Henry has, but I’ve seen enough of it at home to know how it goes. What it feels like.
And it could be that what I hate most is realizing that underneath all my anger, the real, sharp, deserved anger, there’s this other awful thing brewing.
I feel bad for him. For what he went through. All over again.
And I don’t want to.
Anger’s easy. Anger keeps him at arm’s length. But compassion? Compassion pulls you closer. And I don’t know if I can survive that. Not when it makes you stay. And I’m so goddamn tired of staying for people who won’t stay for me.
“Then I hauled Robbie out of there. Took him to his room like I should have the moment we arrived at the hotel. Put him in bed. And left.”
Dad exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Like he can’t summon the energy to be mad anymore.
“That’s what you should’ve done from the start,” he says, his voice flat. Not unkind. Not forgiving either. Just tired of the drama.
Drew leans back on the sofa, shaking his head like he still can’t believe any of this happened, but he’s already half-moving on and ready for his next assignment. “Hell of a night for a rookie mistake,” he mutters. Then, after a beat, “But it happens. To all of us.”
He pats my dad’s back as if kindly reminding him: you weren’t exactly a saint or a PR genius back in your Yankees days, either.
“Why don’t you go find Robbie,” Dad says to Drew. “Might be more helpful if you lay it out for him from a public relations point of view. He’s not exactly ready for my approach.”
“Copy that,” Drew says, already pushing up from his seat. He glances at me, chin jutting toward the magazine like it’s toxic waste. “Guessing you don’t want this, kid?”
“All yours,” I say with a wave.
God knows I’d only obsess over the photos if he left it behind.
Drew scoops it up like evidence from a crime scene. “I’ll call you later,” he tells Dad. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Dad nods his thanks, waving him off like please do.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Dad says, looking at both of us. “Now that we’ve cleared the air about last night.”
That’s a generous way to put it.
“Of course,” Henry says, and I nod.
“I just got word that you’ve been seeded for the Monterrey Open,” he says.
“That’s a big deal. The dates are tricky for me since your mom and I have to be in New York that week for the Yankees’ Hall of Fame induction ceremony.
We need to decide now if you’ll be attending.
I told them I’d get back to them once I confirmed with you. ”
“Monterey, California?” I ask, confused.
“Monterrey, México, mijita,” he says in Spanish to clarify. “Es el Abierto GNP Seguros. Ya te había platicado. ?Te acuerdas?”1
Oh!