Page 178 of Rush

Riley swats the balloon as it bobs around. “This was unexpected,” she says, then nods toward the blood-red roses. “Butthat? Wow, what a head fuck.”

I glare at them again.

Alex only ever sent me flowers. Remembering all the times Broderick showed up to my door, tulips in hand. I can’t help but notice the contrast. All the times Broderick made time for me, even if all I could offer him was…physical.

“You gonna tell Broderick that Alex sent flowers?”

“I don’t know, I mean does it matter?”

My mind winds in circles. First, he breaks up with me over the phone—no explanation, just silence and the cold click of the line. Then that late-night call after Madison Square Garden—I miss you, those songs were ours—and nowthis.

An arrangement of decadent roses where words should’ve been.

No apology. No reason. Just opulence. The kind meant to stun you into silence.

The whole room smells like roses now.

From the couch, Riley watches me like she already knows where this is going. “You okay?”

I don’t answer. Just tug at the silly gorilla’s balloon and let it hover in front of me like a shield.

Broderick makes me laugh. Makes me feel steady. Like I can breathe.

Alex makes me feel like I’m on fire and underwater at the same time.

I don’t know which one scares me more.

I’ve been dodging his calls for days. Turning my phone over when it lights up. Telling myself I’ll call him back after this demo, after this verse, after I finish the next impossible lyric.

Now it’s three days later, and the song still isn’t finished.

The music room is a mess. Empty coffee mugs, scribbled pages, my Telecaster leaning against the couch like it’s given upon me. I hit stop on the loop I’ve been playing and sit back, head buzzing with too many ideas and none of them sticking quite right. The high of the nominations has worn off; now the pressure to create something better clings to me—sticky and suffocating.

My phone lights up again.

I groan.

Mortimer.

After his oddly warm behavior at the wedding left me uneasy, I’ve been avoiding him—saving my tolerance for the upcoming holidays, when I’ll be spending time with him out of polite obligation.

I hesitate before answering, wondering how much longer I can keep dodging his calls before he turns up on my doorstep.

I glare at my guitar hoping it will come to life and give me answers to everything.

“Hi,” I say, voice tight.

“Elena.” His tone is bright, like he’s been practicing cheerful. “Did you get the flowers Carole and I sent?”

I roll my eyes, picturing the pink and white arrangement—soft, delicate, like something from a bridal catalog. Pretty.

“Yeah,” I say. “They’re lovely.”

“We thought they were elegant. Carole said peonies are timeless.”

That’s me—timeless and elegant. I roll my eyes.

I press my thumb to my temple. “Tell her thank you.”