Page 122 of Rush

“You ready for tomorrow?” I ask, settling beside her.

She smiles softly, tucking her legs under her like when we were kids. “I think so. Honestly, I’m just ready for it to be over.I mean, I’m excited, but…” She exhales. “It’s exhausting keeping up appearances.”

I smirk. “That’s where I come in. I’ll cause a scene. Keep it interesting while you and Andrew run off into the sunset.”

She laughs quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”

The fire crackles. My mask flakes more.

“You okay? After what Dad said?”

“I don’t know. It was…a lot. I didn’t expect it.”

She nods, eyes steady. “I could tell.”

“It’s weird,” I admit, leaning back. “Part of me wants to believe him. Another part…doesn’t know if I can.”

We fall into an easy silence—the kind that only exists between people who understand each other.

After a while, I set my mug down, rubbing at my face—then groaning when I remember the mask.

“You know,” I whisper, voice thick, “I don’t think Mom was ever broken—until she was loved by him.”

Philippa’s grip tightens on her cup.

“They ruined each other,” I say. “Whatever love they had, it tore them apart. She left to escape it, but she was so bitter. I saw it. I felt it.”

Philippa’s lashes glisten in the firelight.

“And sometimes…I think that bitterness trickled into me. Like it’s in my bones. Like maybe that’s why I can’t let people get too close.”

She sets her tea down and slides closer until her knees touch mine, taking my hand.

“Elena,” she says gently, “you are not her mistakes. You’re not his, either.”

My eyes sting.

“I know you saw things differently,” she adds. “But Mom loved you. So much. She was hurt, yes. But she wanted more for you than she had. You don’t have to carry that for her.”

I shake my head. “If I forgive him, it makes what he did to her okay—especially now she’s gone.”

Philippa is quiet for a beat. “No, I don’t think it does, but we can’t keep carrying it. I hate that they did that to us.”

I look at her, walls down. There’s comfort in that.

We sit like that a while—two sisters with shared wounds and no perfect fix, but still trying.

Philippa nudges me. “Your face mask’s peeling.”

I laugh. “Guess that’s what happens when you get too emotional during spa night.”

She leans her head on my shoulder. “Maybe we needed this weekend more than we thought.”

“Maybe we did.”

We don’t say goodnight. We just drift into sleep—curled up together like we used to, tea gone cold on the table, the fire casting its last glow across the room. Wrapped in warmth, in forgiveness, in the fragile comfort of mending bridges and rebuilding something between us—something stronger than ever.

Chapter 14