Page 287 of Rush

“I bought a tablet. Started experimenting. Listed some designs online.” She exhales. “A fabric house in Paris bought the rights to one of them.”

“Riley—that’s amazing.”

She shrugs, defeated. “I know. But I still feel…I don’t know. It’s lame.”

“Tell me,” I say. “No judgment. Ever.”

Her voice cracks. “While you were on tour and Philippa was on her honeymoon, I was so lonely. I missed you both so much. Now Philippa’s having a baby, you’re doing the pop star thing—making famous friends—and I’m stuck being Perry’s gallery bitch. I feel like I’m being left behind.”

“Oh, babe.” My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry you feel this way.”

“And it’s stupid because I hated Jervis Bay. I couldn’t wait to leave.” She laughs weakly. “But I miss it. And New York doesn’t feel like home when you’re not around.”

A tear slips from her eye, and my own dam threatens to burst.

“I get that,” I say quietly. “Your feelings are so valid.”

“It’s dumb,” she mutters.

“It’s not.” I grab her hands. “I’m sorry you felt left behind. I don’t think I’ve been a very good friend. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t prioritizedus, and I’m really sorry.”

“I appreciate that, babe—more than you know.”

“If I could pack you up in my suitcase, I would.”

“If only I were as small as you, pipsqueak.”

We both laugh.

But the thought lingers. With our schedules this hectic, there has to be a way to make Riley feel more included. She’s my best friend. My rock. I refuse to let her feel this way.

What if?—

“Do you want to come to the Grammys with me?” I blurt.

“What?”

“As my plus one. We can go to L.A. together—soak up some sun, rub shoulders with celebrities.”

Her eyes widen. “Can you even do that? I mean…that would beamazing.”

“I’ll make it one of my diva celebrity demands,” I joke. “Iama Grammy nominee, after all.” I fan myself dramatically.

Riley snorts.

“There’s no way Perry would let me go.” She shrugs, deflated.

The look on her face actually hurts. I’m not used to seeing her like this.

“Do you think Perry’s butthole clenches every time he yells at you?” I ask.

Her lips press together as she tries to hold it in—then a manic cackle breaks loose, and we’re both laughing so hard we can barely breathe.

There she is. My Riley.

“He’s probably got a stick shoved so far up it, it’s permanently left open,” she says between gasps.

“Fuck Perry!” I wheeze, my sides aching.