Page 244 of Rush

“Aww, happy tears,” Carole says, dabbing the corner of her own eye with a napkin.

Andrew and Philippa glance at each other. That silent couple look again, full of meaning.

“We have an announcement,” Philippa says, voice wobbling.

Everyone stills.

“We’re expecting,” she says softly.

Gasps, a beat of stunned silence—and then:

I burst into laughter.

“Elena, you knew?” Riley accuses, pointing at me.

I throw my hands up, grinning. “Yeah! I’m going to be an auntie!”

“You’re both going to be aunties!” Philippa says looking at Riley as well and my heart swells to see how far they’ve come.

Riley’s eyes get misty.

Laughter bubbles around the room. Mortimer stands, crosses over to hug Philippa—gently, cautiously. Carole clasps her hands under her chin, blinking back tears. Even Andrew looks a little overwhelmed as he tugs my sister closer.

And I sit there in the middle of it all, no longer an outsider.

Just a sister. A daughter. A soon-to-be aunt.

Wrapped in ugly sweaters, music still echoing in the air, surrounded not just by people…but my family.

Chapter 28

Haunted

Overnight, the city vanishes beneath a white hush—streets coated, cars buried, trees sagging under the weight. Even the usual Park Avenue hum is silent. No taxis. No horns. No pedestrians. Just slush and sky and stillness.

I like it. No pressure. No eyes on me. No movement except the slow shifting of time.

Riley’s camped out at her latest squeeze’s place. The details are vague; Broderick and I have been taking bets on whether it’s Luca—or someone new.

We barely move all morning. Wrapped in two throw blankets, limbs tangled in lazy drapes, our breathing falls into sync. It isn’t safe for Broderick to venture home, so we stay in—slept over—and all but throw caution, and the rules of our arrangement, to the wind.

He sits against the headboard, skin warm against my shoulder, reading quietly in nothing but briefs. His hand rests on my thigh, thumb brushing back and forth without thought.

I’m sprawled sideways, journal propped on my knees, a pen wedged in my bun. The pages are littered with half-finished lyrics and strange little thoughts that never make it into amelody. I don’t know what any of it is for, or if I’ll ever use it—but I like the scratch of pen on paper.

Neither of us speaks. We don’t have to.

I watch the way his eyes move across the page—slow, steady—his mouth parted just slightly, like he’s chewing on the words. His chest rises and falls in time with mine.

No performance. No distractions. Just us in bed, post-breakfast. No sex, no rush—just existing in the same space.

I wonder if this is enough for him. If I am.

I hope it is.

Then something strikes—sudden, electric. A lyric spills into my head, cool and sharp like the first drops of rain. I reach for the pen and start scribbling fast. Lines about him. About this. About us. I don’t realize I’m humming until I look up—and find him already watching me, his book forgotten on his lap.

“What’re you writing about?” he asks, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.