Breaking Point Quotes.

1. "Mol, it's not probably nothing if they fucking want you to go to Germany." She winced, and he turned to the people-mostly women- who were filling most of those waiting room seat. "Excuse me. This doctor thinks my wife, whom I love more than life, has breast cancer, so I'm going to say fuck probably about ten more times. Is that okay with all of you?"
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

2. "I love quick, Gina said. And come on, I’m getting jealous here. Was it zero sex last year for you, too? Yes, he admitted. I love you, you weren’t there—what was I going to do? Are you actually embarrassed, she asked, because you weren’t some kind of man-ho and— No, Max said. I’m embarrassed that it took me an entire fucking year and a half and the worst scare of my life to figure out that I can’t live without you."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

3. "She sorted through the clothes. Do you mind wearing Emilio’s underwear? She turned back to him with the two different styles that she’d found. You’re about the same size. And they’re clean. They were wrapped in a paper package, like from a laundry service. Max gave her a look, because along with the very nice, very expensive pair of black silk boxers she’d pilfered from Emilio, she’d also borrowed one of his thongs. What? Gina said. It was definitely a man-thong. It had all that extra room for various non-female body parts. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not, she said, trying to play it as serious. One, it’s been a while, maybe your tastes have changed. And two, these might actually be more comfortable, considering the placement of your bandage and— He took the boxers from her. Apparently I was wrong. She turned away and started sorting through the pairs of pants and Bermuda shorts she’d grabbed, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. To make sure he didn’t fall over. Right. After he got the boxers on, he took off the bathrobe and . . . Okay, he definitely wasn’t as skinny as he’d been after his lengthy stint in the hospital. Emilio’s pants probably weren’t going to fit him, after all. Although, there was one pair that looked like they’d be nice and loose . . . There they were. The Kelly green Bermuda shorts. Max gave her another one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glances as he put the bathrobe over the back of another chair. Do I really look as if I’ve ever worn shorts that color in my entire life? She tried not to smile. I honestly don’t think you have much choice. She let herself look at him. You know, you could just go with the boxers. At least until your pants dry. You know what would really work with that, though? A bowtie. She turned, as if to go back to the closet. I’m sure Emilio has a tux. Judging from his other clothes, it’s probably polyester and chartreuse, but maybe the bowtie is— Gina. Max stopped her before she reached the door. He motioned for her to come back. She held out the green shorts, but instead of taking them, he took her arm, pulled her close. I love you, Max said, as if he were dispatching some terrible, dire news that somehow still managed to amuse him at least a little. Gina had been hoping that he’d say it, praying even, but the fact that he’d managed to smile, even just a bit while he did, was a miracle. And then, before her heart even had a chance to start beating again, he kissed her. And oh, she was also beyond ready for that particular marvel, for the sweet softness of his mouth, for the solidness of his arms around her. There was more of him to hold her since he’d regained his fighting weight—and that was amazing, too. She skimmed her hands across the muscular smoothness of his back, his shoulders, as his kiss changed from tender to heated. And, God. That was a miracle, too. Except she couldn’t help but wonder about those words, wrenched from him, as if it cost him his soul to speak them aloud. Why tell her this right now? Yes, she’d been waiting for years for him to say that he loved her, but . . . Max laughed his surprise. No. Why do you . . .? He figured it out himself. No, no, Gina, just . . . I should’ve said it before. I should have said it years ago, but I really should have said it, you know, instead of hi. He laughed again, clearly disgusted with himself. God, I’m an idiot. I mean, hi? I should have walked in and said, ‘Gina, I need you. I love you, don’t ever leave me again.’ She stared at him. It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t said that at the time, because she might’ve fainted. It was obvious that he wanted her to say something, but she was completely speechless."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

4. "You have something to say to me, Cassidy, say it. Or shut the fuck up. All right, Jules said. I will. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Okay, see, I, well, I love you. Very, very much, and . . . Where to go from here . . .? Except, his plain-spoken words earned him not just a glance but Max’s sudden full and complete attention. Which was a little alarming. But it was the genuine concern in Max’s eyes that truly caught Jules off-guard. Max actually thought . . . Jules laughed his surprise. Oh! No, not like that. I meant it, you know, in a totally platonic, non-gay way. Jules saw comprehension and relief on Max’s face. The man was tired if he was letting such basic emotions show. Sorry. Max even smiled. I just . . . He let out a burst of air. I mean, talk about making things even more complicated . . . It was amazing. Max hadn’t recoiled in horror at the idea. His concern had been for Jules, about potentially hurting his tender feelings. And even now, he wasn’t trying to turn it all into a bad joke. And he claimed they weren’t friends. Jules felt his throat tighten. You can’t know, he told his friend quietly, how much I appreciate your acceptance and respect. My father was born in India, Max told him, in 1930. His mother was white—American. His father was not just Indian, but lower caste. The intolerance he experienced both there and later, even in America, made him a . . . very bitter, very hard, very, very unhappy man. He glanced at Jules again. I know personality plays into it, and maybe you’re just stronger than he was, but . . . People get knocked down all the time. They can either stay there, wallow in it, or . . . Do what you’ve done—what you do. So yeah. I respect you more than you know. Holy shit. Weeping was probably a bad idea, so Jules grabbed onto the alternative. He made a joke. I wasn’t aware that you even had a father. I mean, rumors going around the office have you arriving via flying saucer— I would prefer not to listen to aimless chatter all night long, Max interrupted him. So if you’ve made your point . . .? Ouch. Okay, Jules said. I’m so not going to wallow in that. Because I do have a point. See, I said what I said because I thought I’d take the talk-to-an-eight-year-old approach with you. You know, tell you how much I love you and how great you are in part one of the speech— Speech. Max echoed. Because part two is heavily loaded with the silent-but-implied ‘you are such a freaking idiot.’ Ah, Christ, Max muttered. So, I love you, Jules said again, in a totally buddy-movie way, and I just want to say that I also really love working for you, and I hope to God you’ll come back so I can work for you again. See, I love the fact that you’re my leader not because you were appointed by some suit, but because you earned very square inch of that gorgeous corner office. I love you because you’re not just smart, you’re open-minded—you’re willing to talk to people who have a different point of view, and when they speak, you’re willing to listen. Like right now, for instance. You’re listening, right? No. Liar. Jules kept going. You know, the fact that so many people would sell their grandmother to become a part of your team is not an accident. Sir, you’re beyond special—and your little speech to me before just clinched it. You scare us to death because we’re afraid we won’t be able to live up to your high standards. But your back is strong, you always somehow manage to carry us with you even when we falter. Some people don’t see that; they don’t really get you—all they know is they would charge into hell without hesitation if you gave the order to go. But see, what I know is that you’d be right there, out in front—they’d have to run to keep up with you. You never flinch. You never hesitate. You never rest."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

5. "He didn’t know how to help. If Max were anyone else, Jules would sit with him for a while, looking out at the night, and then start to talk. About nothing too heavy at first. Warming up to get into the hard stuff. Although, maybe, if he tried that now, the man would either open up—Ha, ha, ha! Riotous laughter. Like that would ever happen—or he’d stand up and move outside of talking range, which would put him away from the window with nothing to look at, at which point he might close his eyes for a while. It was certainly worth a try. Of course there were other possibilities. Max could put Jules into a chokehold until he passed out. So okay. Start talking. Although why bother with inconsequential chitchat, designed to make Max relax? And weren’t those words--Max and relax--two that had never before been used together in a sentence? It wasn’t going to happen, so it made sense to just jump right in. Although, what was the best way to tell a friend that the choices he’d made were among the stupidest of all time, and that he was, in short, a complete dumbfuck? Max was not oblivious to Jules’s internal hemming and hawing. If you have something you need to say, for the love of God, just say it. Don’t sit there making all those weird noises. What? What noises? I’m not making weird noises. Yeah, Max said. You are. Like what? Like . . .? He held out his hands, inviting Max to demonstrate. Like . . . Max sighed heavily. Like . . . He made a tsking sound with his tongue. Jules laughed. Those aren’t weird noises. Weird noises are like, whup-whup-whup-whup-- he imitated sounds from a Three Stooges movie—or Vrrrrrr. Sometimes I really have to work to remind myself that you’re one of the Bureau’s best agents, Max said."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

6. "This is just a form letter, Jules pointed out. And as for the test, maybe she went in for a checkup. Women are supposed to do that once a year, right? She’d been in Kenya, and suddenly here she was going to this health clinic with Molly, so she figured, what the heck. Maybe this place gives pregnancy tests as part of their regular annual exam. Yeah, Max said. Maybe. He didn’t sound convinced. Okay. Let’s run with the worst-case scenario. She is pregnant. I know it’s not like her to have a one-night stand, but . . . Jules said, but then stopped. His words were meant to help, but, Hey, good news—the woman you love may have gotten knocked up from a night of casual sex with a stranger were not going to provide a whole hell of a lot of comfort. It didn’t matter that the idea was less awful than the terrible alternative—that Paul Jimmo had continued to pressure Gina. And he hadn’t taken no for an answer. Which was obviously what Max was thinking, considering the way he was working to grind down his few remaining back teeth. So, Jules said. Looks like our little talk didn’t exactly succeed at putting you in a better place. It was clear, when Max didn’t respond, that he was concentrating on not leaping through the window and flying—using his rage as a form of propulsion, across the street and blasting a body-shaped hole in the wall of that building where Gina and Molly were being held prisoner—please, heavenly father, let them be in there. And Jules knew that if it turned out that Paul Jimmo had so much as touched Gina without her consent, Max would find his grave, dig up his body, bring him back to life, and then kill the son of a bitch all over again."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

7. "Jules had listened in on nearly every word exchanged while they’d been back there together, and it was more than obvious that Max had yet to pull Gina into his arms and do his imitation of the Han Solo and Princess Leia big-moment kiss from The Empire Strikes Back. Maybe when Jules and the E-man walked out of the garage and climbed into that ancient Escort—which turned out to be part of the Testa fleet-Max would take the opportunity to plant a big, wet one on this woman that he still so obviously adored. Or maybe not. Sweetie, I love the haircut, Jules told Gina as he gave Max back his cell phone. You look fabulous for a woman who’s been dead for five days. What? she said, but it was time to go. Max’ll fill you in, he said. There. There was no way Max was going to be table to tell Gina about receiving the report of her death without getting a little misty-eyed. At which point Gina would, at the very least, throw her arms around him. If Max couldn’t manage to turn that into a truth-revealing kiss, he didn’t deserve the woman. Ow, he added as Emilio pressed his weapon into Jules’s kidney. Sorry, Emilio managed to put the right amount of apology into his voice, but he was obviously so stressed that he didn’t quite get the right facial expression to match. It was pretty odd. Particularly when he jabbed Jules again. Let’s go. Wow, wasn’t this going to be fun? Max, meanwhile, had stepped protectively in front of Gina. He caught and held Jules’s gaze. We’ll wait for your call. Silently, he sent another message entirely. If Emilio gave Jules any trouble, he should shoot him. Never mind the fact that Emilio was the one with the drawn weapon. Never mind that Jules’s hands were out and empty, and that he’d have a major bullet hole in his body if he so much as put said hands near his pockets."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

8. "Debra pointed her purses lips in Max’s direction. Overnight guests are forbidden. No exceptions. Did you just have the audacity to judge me? Gina blocked the nurse’s route to the door. Without knowing the least little thing about me? Debra lifted an eyebrow. Well, I have seen your underwear, dear. Exactly, Gina said. You’ve seen my underwear—not my personality profile, or my resume, or my college transcript, or— If you think for one second, the nurse countered, that anything about this situation is even remotely unique— That’s enough, Max said. Gina, of course, ignored him. I don’t just think it, I know it, she said. It’s unique because I’m unique, because Max is unique, because— Debra finally laughed. Oh, honey, you are so . . . young. Here’s a tip I don’t usually bother to tell girls like you: If I find one pair of panties on the floor, it’s only a matter of time before I find another. And I hate to break it to you, hon, but the girl who comes out of the bathroom next time, well . . . She isn’t going to be you. First of all, Gina said grimly, I’m a woman, not a girl. And second, Grandma . . . You want to bet it’s not going to be me? I said, that’s enough, Max repeated, and they both turned to look at him. About time. He was used to clearing his throat and having an entire room jump to full attention. Ms. Forsythe, you took my blood pressure—you have the information you needed, good day to you, ma’am. Gina . . . He wanted to tell her to untwist her panties and put them back on, but he didn’t dare. Sit, he ordered instead, motioning to the desk chair that could be pulled beside the bed. Please, he added when Nurse Evil smirked on her way out the door."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

9. "That much hope had brought Max to his knees. Apparently if he didn’t let himself weep like a little girl to relieve this emotional pressure building inside of him, he was in danger of hitting the ground in a dead faint. Jules crouched beside him, checking for his pulse. Are you okay? You’re not, like, having a heart attack or a stroke, are you? Fuck you, Max managed, swatting his hand away. I’m not that old. If you really think heart disease is about age, then you definitely need to make an appointment with a cardiologist, like tomorrow— I just . . . tripped, Max said, but when he tried to get up, he found he still hadn’t regained his equilibrium. Shit. Or maybe you needed to get on your knees to pray, Jules said as Max put his head down and waited for the dizziness to pass. That excuse sounds a little more believable, if you want to know the truth. ‘Hello God? It’s me, Max. I know I’ve been lax in my attention to You over the past forty-mmph years, but if You give me a second chance, I’ll make absolutely certain this time around I’ll tell Gina just how much I love her. Because withholding that information sure as hell didn’t do either of us one bit of good, now did it?’ I did what I— Max stopped himself. To hell with that. I don’t have to explain myself to you. That’s right, you don’t. Jules ignored Max’s attempt to push him away, and helped him to his feet. But you might want to work up some kind of Forgive-Me-For-Being-a-Butthead speech for when you come face to face with Gina. Although, I’ve got to admit that the falling to the knees thing might make an impact. You’ll definitely get big points for drama."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

10. "Vic, of course, clasped Max’s hand, obviously sizing him up, doing that macho squeeze thing that drove Gina nuts. He’s younger than I remember, he said to Gina. Perfect. Thank you so much, Victor. Then, back to Max, We met—very briefly—a few years ago. Looks like being shot has agreed with you. That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Gina told the man who had just moved into first place as the most stupid of her three very stupid brothers. What? Vic shrugged as he dragged over a chair. I’m just saying—Max looks good. You know, for an older guy. What’d, ya lose weight while you were in the hospital? Yes, Victor, Gina said. They call it the Almost Dying Diet. She turned to Max. My brother is an idiot. It’s all right, he said, flexing his fingers—no doubt checking to make sure Victor hadn’t broken his hand."
- Suzanne Brockmann, Breaking Point

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