Chapter 31
I JUST WANTED TO WIN
“BELéN!” Dad shouts from the kitchen, giving his salsa roja its final stir. Henry’s glued to his side, determined to learn all of my dad’s Mexican recipes. Gemma’s perched on a stool, watching them with mild boredom.
“Go get your mom! Lunch is ready!”
“Where is she?” I yell back.
And where’s Robbie?
I’d much rather he be the one to fetch Mom.
“Outside on the terrace!”
We’re back in Montclair for a special lunch to celebrate my Monterrey win and my new and highest career ranking: sixteen in the world. It’s also a quiet send-off before I leave for the clay season in Europe.
Dad and Henry are traveling with me. I met with Tim McEnroe, my new coach, the day after I got back from Monterrey, and he was thrilled about my performance in Mexico. I started training with him officially this week, and it’s been … different. Intense. Meticulous.
I won’t lie and say I don’t miss having Henry as my coach, but I know Tim will get me far.
Henry has been present at my training sessions as an observer, now formally relocated back to the NTC. Even after the ban was lifted in January, we continued our routine at the Montclair Country Club.
Tim thought it was important to include Henry in the transition, and he even invited him to Europe to help ease the change.
If he only knew we’re inseparable now …
Henry would’ve come either way, but at least now we have a formal excuse beyond “he just feels like it.” We’re keeping our relationship quiet for now. We don’t know how Dad would react, and we’d rather not risk any drama that might get Henry banned from traveling with us altogether.
Robbie knows. Gemma knows. And, of course, so does Drew. But they’ve all agreed to keep things on the down-low until we’re ready to tell my parents and the rest of the world.
Gemma’s heading back to Korea in the second week of May, earlier than usual, so she can spend time with her family before meeting me at Wimbledon in late June. She missed it last year, and it’s been on her bucket list forever. She’s already planned all her outfits, naturally.
Robbie’s about to start his internship, but he promised to fly in from New York if I make it past the quarterfinals. He’ll only be able to stay a few days, though. He can’t risk his spot after fighting so hard to get into the program.
“Mom!” I shout after pulling the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard.
No answer.
I scan the space until I spot her on one of the wooden deck loungers. She’s not moving. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. One arm dangles over the side, her fingers grazing the floor. Her neck is slumped to the side.
I bolt toward her.
The sweaty glass of gin and tonic on the small table beside her, two-thirds gone, says enough.
“Mom!” I yell again, grabbing the glass and dumping its contents onto the grass.
Still no response. I’m panicking now.
I grab her shoulders and shake her. Hard.
She moans like her soul can’t bear being inside her body anymore, and her eyes flicker open in slow motion.
“You’ve always been soooo dramatic,” she slurs. “I was … taking a nap.”
She sits up with exaggerated care and runs her fingers through her hair, tousling it like she’s not two seconds from passing out.
“You’re drunk,” I snap, my tone harsh and unforgiving. “I know we’re celebrating today, but you didn’t have to go all out.”
She snorts and slings her legs to the side, slipping her delicate feet into her designer mules.
I shake my head. Disappointed. Sad. Angry. Fucking embarrassed that she has to come inside and sit for lunch like this.
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice steadier now, sounding more like herself. Maybe she really was just taking a nap while being a little drunk. “Don’t tell your father.”
“I thought you were fine,” I scoff, staring her down.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t worry him.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say, finally daring to address it head-on. I’ve spent years looking the other way. Reducing our conversations to the bare minimum. But I can’t anymore.
“Do what?” she says, swiping a hand down her simple day dress to smooth it out.
“Put yourself through this,” I say, appalled. “Every single day. I thought you were passed out. You looked … dead.”
She swallows. Looks at me again. For a second, something flickers in her eyes, a softness. A crack in the armor. But it’s gone just as fast, and her face hardens into the version I know too well.
“What do you even know about such things, Belén?” she says, laughing softly. Elegant. Delusional.
“You must hate yourself, your life, us, so much that—”
“Enough!” she cuts in sharply. “Get inside, and tell your father I’ll be right in. And for once, try not to make everything about you.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the tightness building in my throat and the sting of tears pooling at the corners of my eyes.
Of course she would go out of her way to ruin this for me. On the day I’m supposed to celebrate my win, my new ranking, my departure ahead of three crucial European tournaments.
God forbid I celebrate in the safety and comfort of my own home, surrounded by the people I love.
“You’re pathetic,” I spit out, already turning to head back inside. I don’t stop to hear her reply. I won’t. Sometimes I feel like no one in this family gives a damn that she’s drinking herself into the ground.
And I don’t have the strength to care, worry, or carry this burden for all of us anymore.
Fuming, I rush back inside as everyone’s about to take a seat at the table. I do my best not to make this lunch about me—even if it is—and summon a smile from somewhere deep within my shattered chest.
Against my mom’s wishes, I want to salvage the day and enjoy this gathering.
Gemma, Robbie, Dad, and Henry are here.
That’s all I need.
Henry’s head tilts slightly, his brow furrowing the moment he sees me. His gaze flicks to the sliding glass door, looking at my mom gliding our way. Then back at me. He knows better than to ask.
I nod once, slow and subtle, to let him know I’m not fine, but let’s get through this without any drama.
We can talk it out later.
Mom finds it in her to look decent enough to sit through lunch without raising alarms. The conversation mostly stays light, revolving around the tournament in Mexico and what the whole experience had been like.
Since I got back, I haven’t had the chance to debrief with Dad. I’ve been too busy acclimating to my new coach and training schedule.
We talk rankings, tournament points, and predictions, and I listen to Dad and Henry go on and on about how reaching number one might be feasible. I’d rather not dwell on it. Don’t want to jinx it.
Gemma and Robbie keep talking about how pumped they are to see me play at Wimbledon.
“You better make it to the quarterfinals,” Robbie says. “Dad said he won’t greenlight the trip unless you’re a sure bet to hit Centre Court.”
“Well, duh,” Gemma says, sounding more like her old self around him. Before it got awkward. Before everything changed.
It’s the first time she’s remotely teased him about anything in months. It’s like it slipped out. Or she’s starting to move on.
She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “I have a feeling she might win this one.”
Mom snorts. It’s loud enough to cut through the whole table.
The conversation dies.
She dabs at her nose with a napkin, pretending allergies are to blame.
Henry looks at me, and his eyes are begging me to drop it.
I do. Barely.
It’s been a decent day so far, considering. I’m not about to let her ruin it for me.
But she pushes her chair back, saunters over to her magic-wheeled cart, and pours herself another drink.
She fumbles with the ice cubes, missing the glass twice before they finally clink in. Dad doesn’t move to help her. Doesn’t stop her either.
“Were you able to get tickets for that play?” she asks Dad, her voice syrupy, too casual for how tense the room just got.
He blinks at her, confused, like he’s struggling to keep up with her now.
I toss my napkin onto my table, push my chair back, and walk away before I say something I’ll regret.
“See?” She says behind me, sweet and cutting all at once. “She can’t stand it when the conversation isn’t revolving around her.”
Look who’s talking.
I laugh under my breath at the sheer absurdity of her rude, hurtful, and tone-deaf remark. One would think a parent would be proud of their child’s accomplishments, but that’s not always the case.
Some don’t want their children to shine at all.
I head for the front door and step outside. It’s easier than staying. Easier than calling her out to my dad. Easier than starting a fight in front of my family and guests.
Easier than accepting this as my reality.
I walk. And I walk. And I walk.
By the time I stop, I realize I’m standing at the country club’s main gate. I hadn’t even noticed getting here. My internal GPS must be running on autopilot. I’ve been here so many times that my body dragged me here.
A rustle of leaves startles me. I glance over my shoulder.
Henry.
The second I see him I break into a run. He picks up his pace, meeting me halfway. I collapse against him, letting myself fall into his arms.
He strokes my hair, slow and grounding.
“I hate her!” I sob against his chest.
“She’s sick,” he says, like it’s canon. “It’s not an excuse. But she is.”
“She hates me!”
“She’s just hurting.” He sounds like a therapist. And honestly? That might be my cue to find one of my own. “I know my dad was, at least. But you can’t help her unless she takes the first step herself.”
I bury my face deeper into his chest, not ready to come out. I’m too embarrassed about storming off. About leaving Gemma to deal with the fallout. About once again proving to my family that I’m just an angry, spoiled brat with no self-control.
When I don’t want to be.
When I know I’m not.
But I did it.
I once again gave in to my impulses when I’d been better at it.