Page 87 of Rush

The suite I’m assigned was absurd—something out of an Austen novel. Opulent brocade curtains and oil portraits that looked like they are watching me.

Golden light streaming through tall arched windows, casting soft shadows across pale walls and floral wallpaper that probablycost more than most people’s rent. The bed is draped in cream linens and perfectly arranged pillows, practically begging to be messed up.

No bed sex.

I cringe at our broken rule.

While most of the primary guests are settling in before the rest arrive tomorrow, I take some time to hide away and work on the maid of honor speech.

I curl up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, legs tucked beneath me, a notebook balances on my lap. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the table beside me, next to a tray of untouched welcome treats.

The itinerary card rests on the armrest where I tossed it earlier—crisp, cream-colored, embossed with Philippa and Andrew’s names in swirling gold script. The kind of thing that’ll be photographed and gushed over online.

I pick it up now, running my thumb over the lettering, rereading the words I already know by heart.

“Welcome Soirée & Cocktail Reception—7 P.M.”

I sigh, dread creeping in—just a few hours away from being surrounded by people I can’t fully avoid.

Including Father.

With another sigh, I let the card drop and stare down at my notebook. The blank page mocks me.

The words swirl in my head, half-formed sentences that all feel wrong. Too stiff. Too rehearsed.

“My sister and I have always been close...”

Lie.

“When Philippa met Andrew, I knew...”

Knew what? I knew nothing. I was drowning in grief when they met.

I lean back with a groan, dragging a hand down my face.

Why had I agreed to this?

Because she’s my sister. Because she asked. Because even when we fought, I still wanted to be there for her.

Still, writing this feels impossible—like trying to stitch something together from threads that don’t quite match. Too much truth. Not enough heart.

Or not my heart.

The fireplace crackles softly. I let my head fall back against the chair, watching flames dance as I try to figure out how to say something genuine without sounding like a polished fake version of myself everyone—especially Philippa—expects.

The truth is, I don’t want to ruin her day.

But I can’t stand up there and pretend to be someone I’m not.

A sudden wave of inspiration hits when I remember the small, messy moments. Like the first time she visited me in Australia. Barefoot in Mom’s kitchen, laughing as a wombat she’d somehow lured inside waddled past like he owned the place.

“I thought he looked friendly,”she’d said, barely holding back a laugh as I tried to shoo him out.

I smile at the memory.

Then there was that summer she finally stopped acting like Miss Manhattan and let Riley and me talk her into trying alcohol for the first time—sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, grimacing as she sipped cheap stolen vodka from a plastic water bottle.

“It tastes like nail polish remover,”she’d groaned, and Riley laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.