Breakaway

by Sophia Henry

“Thanks, babe. I needed to hear that today.” I pause. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “You too. I lo—”

  Bree must hear my sharp inhale, because she stops herself. As much as I want to hear the words, I don’t want her to say them. Everything from this point on will be easier if she doesn’t say them.

  “I like talking to you, Luke. I like being around you. I can be myself when I’m with you. I feel safe with you. Thank you for that.”

  I let out a slow breath, hoping it’s not audible. Just when I’ve narrowly averted one crisis, she throws another at me. She never gives me an easy out. It’s one of those things I love and hate about her simultaneously. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t.

  “I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m with you, Bree. You’re the sun my entire world revolves around. I wish I could give you everything you deserve.”

  “You give me everything I need and more.” Bree pauses. “And Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  It’s almost like she knows what I’m doing. Maybe she does. After such a short time together, she knows me so well it’s scary.

  “I will.”

  I touch the screen to hang up the phone, cutting off my connection to Bree. The only person who’s made me want to keep a clear head in the last year is also the person who drove me right back to my tragic flaw.

  Reaching out, I grab the bottle, slide it toward me, and lift it to my lips, confirming the fact that I’m not the right man for Bree.

  I’m a fucked-up alcoholic from the wrong side of the tracks.

  On our first date, Bree used the analogy of us being ships brought together by Jack Dellinger. I think of a completely different connection between a ship and a Jack. We’re on the same boat—the Titanic—and we’re destined to crash into an iceberg. We all know the ending to the story.

  I’m the Jack to her Rose. The charismatic poor kid who won tickets onto the luxury ship and faked his way into her heart. I’ll spend my savings trying to give her everything she’s used to having. I’ll hang on to that fucking plank of wood, trying to keep up with the only lifestyle she’s ever known until I slip off and drown in debt and guilt. It’s inevitable. The only happy endings I’ve ever seen happen at shady-ass massage parlors.

  The top one percent of the population marry within the top one percent and the rest of us regular people fight for the scraps.

  As a former hockey player I have nothing to give.

  I tilt the bottle back again.

  There’s probably a picture of her face in the dictionary when you look up the word selfless. She chose a career that let her devote her life to helping others. She doesn’t say bad things about people. She makes everyone around her feel good about themselves.

  And she’s the daughter of people who started a multimillion-dollar company. I’d never fit in with her family. I can’t imagine meeting her parents and telling them about where I grew up. I can’t imagine looking them in the eye and telling them that I’m the one who ruined their son’s chance to play in the NHL.

  I take another gulp.

  My job isn’t shitty—and neither is the pay—but I took a huge salary cut when I moved from professional hockey player to a suit in hockey operations. It’s more than enough for me. I wasn’t an idiot when I signed my first big contract, like some young guys. I’ve heard stories of all the kids who get to the league, start making money, then blow it. The biggest houses, the fastest cars. But I didn’t. I played it safe and saved almost every penny, because I know what it’s like to live on nothing.

  The only exceptions were my condo, which I dropped 150K on, a Jeep Wrangler with every upgrade I wanted, and a house for my mom. In my mind those things were good investments.

  Because I never had much, I’ve never needed much. But it’s nowhere near what I’d need to keep up with the lifestyle Bree’s family created for her. If I were still playing hockey, I might be able to front for a while. My first contract was over a million dollars, and I’m sure the next ones would have been more if I’d been able to keep playing.

  If I were still playing hockey, I could afford the million-dollar house and the souped-up Beemer. I’d be just like the kids in the other parts of Vancouver that I envied growing up. But I’m not a hockey player anymore. At twenty-six years old, I have the equivalent of a fucking desk job.

  Everything about me is a big, red strike. I’m exactly the type of guy who doesn’t deserve Bree. I know in my heart that we can’t be together, whether she realizes it yet or not.

  Chapter 26

  Bree

  After walking through the lobby of the Avenue, Luke’s condo, I stop at the concierge desk.

  “Hey, Bree,” Truman greets me with a smile. “You here to see Luke?”

  “No. He’s out of town. I just want to drop this off for him.” I hold up the envelope containing the letter I wrote pouring my heart out to Luke. My hand shakes, as if giving it to Truman will release all of the passion I put into the words.

  “He’s upstairs. I can just buzz you in and give you a code for the elevator,” he says.

  “What do you mean he’s upstairs?” I ask, confused.

  “He came down to pick up food he had delivered about an hour ago,” Truman says, speaking more slowly as he goes on, as if he were realizing he might have made a mistake by telling me that.

  “He told me he wouldn’t be back until Sunday.”

  “I, I—” Truman stutters.

  “Can you please buzz me up? I need to see him.”

  “I don’t know, Bree. Maybe I shouldn’t.” He glances at the phone on the counter as if he should call Luke first.

  “Please, Truman. I need to talk to him.”

  Tension makes his shoulders stiffen and he remains silent.

  “Please?” I plead. “I’m really worried about him.”

  Finally, his body relaxes and he lets out a deep breath. “He looked rough, Bree. I asked him if he was okay. His eyes were all glassy. It’s like he looked right through me. He looked high or something.”

  “Shit.” I tighten my grip on the envelope in my hand and rush to the door leading to the elevators.

  As Truman buzzes it open he yells, “28201.”

  I nod, gripping the handle and flinging the glass door open. I round the corner and press the Up button three times. Once I’m inside the elevator, I peck 28201 onto the number pad and press the button for the thirty-first floor.

  That fucking bottle of Lortab flashes in my mind. I should have had him dump it. There’s no reason to keep a narcotic like that on hand. I don’t want to believe he took them, but I need to know.

  “Luke!” I say as I pound on the door to his condo. “Luke. Open the door!”

  I don’t hear anything, not the hum of a TV, nor the shuffle of his feet across the floor. But I’m not giving up because I know he’s in there and I need to find out why the fuck he lied to me about having to take a trip out of town.

  “Open the fucking door!” My palms are red from banging them. Taking a step back, I think about what to do next. Truman probably has a key at the front desk. They must have a master key for maintenance purposes. But it’s probably against some policy to give it to me.

  “Luke,” I say, in a calm, firm voice. “Please open the door. I just need to make sure you’re okay.” As I speak, I grab the handle of the door and twist it. To my surprise, it’s unlocked and swings open easily.

  I rush into his condo and immediately notice the mess. Food boxes, vodka bottles, and glasses litter the countertops. Clothes are strewn all over the place—on the floor and over his big, red couch. I know what a clean freak he is, so I almost think that his place has been ransacked, but then I see Luke curled in fetal position on the floor.

  “Luke!” I rush over to him, squat down, and shake his shoulder.

  I survey the area quickly, looking for the pill bottle. I don’t see it, but I do count five empty vodka bottles
on the counters and the floor.

  Luke never would’ve have taken the pills with vodka. He’s smarter and stronger than that. The alarm ringing in my head tells me to check the bathroom drawer just to make sure. I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with here.

  I rush to the bathroom and jerk the top drawer of his vanity open. I push aside gel and toothpaste and there it is, the bottle of Lortab in the exact spot it was the first time I saw it. I pick it up and shake it, listening as pills rattle around. I don’t know how many were in it to start, but I know in my heart he hasn’t touched it. I take a deep breath and twist open the bottle, then dump the contents in the toilet and flush.

  Once the water has drained and the pills are gone I put my palm on my forehead and take a deep breath.

  He’s just drunk. Technically, he’s fucking blitzed, but I feel better about the situation.

  I wander back into the living room, stooping to pick up clothes from the floor as I go. After I’ve gathered most of them, I make a pile on the floor next to Big Red. Luke can deal with that mess later.

  “I’m soooo pissed at you,” I say, grabbing a blanket off the couch and sinking onto the floor next to him. As I curl around him, I pull the cover over us and snuggle against his back.

  His breathing is deep and heavy. There’s nothing I can do until he wakes up, so I wrap an arm around him and shift my body, trying to get comfortable on the floor.

  “But I love you,” I whisper before I drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 27

  Luke

  The first time I wake up, I’m on the floor of my condo with a blanket over my face. I bat it away, roll onto my stomach, and lift myself up on my hands and knees.

  My head is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode. My knees slide on the hardwood floor as I crawl to Big Red. My muscles feel weak and tight as I reach out to clutch the arm of the couch, attempting to use it to help me stand. My elbow buckles and I fall back onto the floor. I take a breath in, slow and deep.

  That’s when I notice there is someone on the floor next to me. Bree’s curled up in a tiny ball, shivering in her sleep. I grab the blanket I shoved off myself and drape it over her.

  “What the fuck?” I glance at the door, wondering how she got in, since I never gave her a key.

  Suddenly, my stomach rolls and a cough gets stuck in my throat, and I know what’s coming. I only have a few seconds to get to my bathroom before I puke. Somehow I jump to my feet and stumble to the bathroom, bumping the wall in the hallway with my shoulder at least three times before I can’t keep myself upright anymore. I fall forward onto my hands and knees in front of the toilet. I don’t even care that I start retching on myself instead of in the bowl. At least I made it to the bathroom.

  Within seconds, someone’s pulling my hair out of my face. It doesn’t take long to realize it’s Bree raking her soft, gentle fingers through my unwashed hair. She pulls it taut at the bottom, near my neck, and secures it. “I’m going to help you, Luke. We’re going to get through this together.”

  She pulled my fucking hair back into a ponytail. She’s an angel. Too sweet. Too kind. Too much everything amazing in the world. I’m overwhelmed with amazement and gratitude, but both feelings are quickly shrouded in shame.

  I’m a fucking curse to the Collins family. She needs to stay away from me.

  “Get away from me, Bree. Get the fuck far, far away from me.” My voice is a slurred whisper. I’m not even certain she can hear or understand me.

  My head drops, my temple banging into the rim of the toilet, and I black out.

  —

  The second time I wake up, I’m still hugging the toilet. The cold porcelain rim feels refreshing against my cheek. If I wasn’t such a clean freak, I’d be completely disgusted, but I scrub and wipe down my toilet every day, so using the rim as a pillow isn’t as bad as it could be. When I lift my head, I notice Bree is sitting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with her legs stretched out in front of her.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Like shit.” I close my eyes and rub them with my fingertips.

  “Good.” Bree pulls her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest. The rims of her eyes are red. I’m a complete fucking asshole for making this beautiful woman cry.

  “Touché.”

  “What the fuck, Luke?”

  Sitting back on my heels, I prepare myself to get railed, wishing like hell I had vodka in my hand. I can’t handle this. The last thing I ever wanted was Bree mad at me. I need her to understand.

  “Why did you lie about a road trip?” Her voice is calm and concerned, like she really wants to know, not accusatory, which is a surprise to me.

  “I couldn’t face your brother,” I tell her honestly. “And I couldn’t face you after you found out the truth. About how I know—knew him.”

  “Lying sounded like a better idea?” Again, more confusion and concern, not the reaction I would have had, another clue that she’s a better person than I am.

  “Yeah.” I laugh in disgust at myself. “I ruined his life and made yours a living hell for years.”

  “I don’t blame you, Luke. I honestly don’t. That’s not even what I’m here to talk about. You and Mason can hash that out.” She closes her eyes and take a deep breath. “I’ve never been as happy as I have the last few months with you. And this, whatever this was, it hurt.”

  “I know.” I swallow back my pride. “And I’m sorry. But I’m not good enough for you, Bree. I can’t give you the life your parents have given you.” I glance at the Tiffany bracelet she always wears, the one with the heart dangling from silver links. “I probably can’t even afford the fucking socks you buy.” I’m exaggerating and we both know it, but on a larger level, it’s true.

  “When did I ever ask you for anything? Have I come across as a high-maintenance person?”

  “No, but I grew up in a shithole with a drug addict mother. Your parents are successful business owners. How could I ever face them? How could I ever look them in the eyes and tell them that I deserve you, that I can take care of you? How could I tell them about my mom? It’s better to just end this now.”

  As I ramble, Bree crawls over and kneels in front of me. She slides her hands over my cheeks and into my hair. Grasping just above my ears, she holds my head still and stares into my eyes.

  “No, it’s not better. I don’t care about any of that shit, Luke. I fucking love you. I love how you make me feel. I love how sweet and kind you are. I love how genuine you are. I am so proud of the man that you are. Knowing your past, and all the things you rose above, makes me even more proud of you. You worked your ass off to give yourself a better life and put all that behind you.”

  As she speaks I try to shake my head out of her grasp to lower my eyes, but she holds me firm, and won’t take her gaze from mine. “You’re strong and tenacious. You’re successful and lovable. Your friends respect you. The kids and families at the hospital adore you. How does such an amazing man think he doesn’t deserve me?”

  “I’m not that person, Bree. That’s just a few good qualities—”

  “Stop talking right now, Luke Daniels. I know that you are a confident—borderline cocky—man. So don’t try to pull this self-loathing shit right now.”

  Her description makes me smile, which makes Bree smile, too. “I know that you see the good in yourself, Luke. Don’t let my parents’ money throw a wrench in how you see me. I’m not rich. My parents are. You’re not a junkie. Your mom is. They made us, but they didn’t make us who we are. We did that.”

  I can’t believe this woman loves me. I can’t believe she wants to be with me. Especially after what I pulled. I should have been honest from the start.

  “Where do we go from here?” I ask. But before Bree can answer, I extend my arm and push her to the side before lurching toward the toilet, where I proceed to puke again.

  Bree is right at my side, holding a cold washcloth agai
nst my forehead.

  All I can think of is how perfect she is. And how much I really don’t deserve her. But I’m willing to spend the rest of my life working my ass off to become a man who does.

  —

  The third time I wake up, I’m in my bed wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. I have no idea how I got there or how I have underwear on, since I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn underwear in the last six years. My body shakes, my eyes water, and my throat is dry and scratchy, as if I’ve been chasing impalas around the Serengeti for weeks.

  Overwhelmed by nausea, I lean over and dry heave into a wastebasket that’s been strategically placed on the floor next to my bed.

  There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. I lift the glass to my mouth and take a huge sip. Water—the fuel of our bodies—doesn’t help. On the contrary, it makes an already horrible situation worse, teasing my sensitive stomach and sending my face straight back to hovering over the basket.

  There’s a piece of paper on the table next to my bed.

  This isn’t over is scrawled in Bree’s handwriting. I know she’s not talking about the hangover from hell, but I am so ready for this shit to be over. I deserve every second of it, but it fucking blows.

  I need to thank her and let her know how much she means to me. How much she helped me.

  “Bree?” I try to say, but my voice is just a squawk.

  Jesus. Instead of trying to speak again, I slowly get up and shuffle into the living room. Bree’s not here.

  But Mason is.

  Fuck my fucking life right now.

  I approach the couch slowly, as if Mason Collins is some wild animal who’ll bolt if I get too close too fast. The hardwood floor creaks under my feet and he looks up from the TV screen.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he says without a smile.

  “Hey,” I answer, raking hair out of my eyes and scratching my head. “Where’s Bree?”

  “At work.”

  “Awesome.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “She made me babysit you to make sure you didn’t choke on your own puke.”