Page 116 of Rush

The question catches me off guard. I tense for a second before letting myself sink back into him.

“I don’t really…talk about her. To anyone outside of Jack, Pip and Riley,” I admit, voice quieter than I mean it to be.

Broderick doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his hand moving gently along my spine—telling me without words to take my time.

“She was…the most amazing person,” I say finally, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Loud and funny. She loved music, taught me how to play the piano—always singing around the house. She was soft with me, but sharp when she needed to be. She was a fighter.”

Broderick smiles, tilting his head toward me.

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

That makes me laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe…but she was so much stronger than I could ever be.”

“She’d been proud of you.”

That tugs at my heart.

“Thanks for asking about her,” I whisper, glancing up at him. “Most people don’t.”

His gaze softens, like he can see all the things I don’t say.

“I get it. My dad died when I was young,” he says quietly, like he’s offering something in return. “Cancer. I don’t really remember much. Just…flashes. Hot dogs by the beach. Him trying to teach me how to catch.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs one shoulder, but the weight in his eyes doesn’t move. “Our family doesn’t talk about him much—it still hurts.”

“I get that,” I murmur, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

For a long moment, we just lie there, wrapped in something heavier.

The words slip out before I can stop them, “You know…part of why I’m so messed up about my dad is because he made my mom choose.”

Broderick frowns. “Choose?”

I nod, eyes fixed on some distant point across the room.

“When they divorced…he told her to choose between Philippa and me. She wanted both of us, obviously. But…he made the decision for them. One daughter each. He picked Pip, and my mom got me. By default,I guess.”

I’ve only ever told Riley and Philippa that. Part of me braces—terrified he might pull away. Realize I’m too much.

I shift away?—

Until he pulls me closer.

“I’m sorry your father was the kind of man who made you feel like you weren’t wanted,” he says softly, voice low and full of something that sounds a lot like anger—forme.

I blink, throat tightening.

“No one deserves that,” he adds, cupping my cheek so I have to look at him. “Especially not you.”

He’s saying all the things I’ve spent years wishing I’d hear from my father—reassuring me that none of it was my fault.

I want to believe him. But I don’t know how to. The wound is still too deep.

Although the way he stares at me, makes me feel too seen—like he’s promising something I don’t deserve.

“Brody,” I whisper, kissing him hard—because I need him to stop looking at me like that.