Page 213 of Rush

A small laugh slips out of me, cracked and tired. I curl tighter into myself, pulling my coat closer.

“You gonna punch him?”

“Minimum.”

“Thanks, Luca.”

I close my eyes, letting the quiet take over.

It’s beena few days since I got back to New York. I haven’t left my room much, avoiding everyone. To my relief, Alex listened, and all the posts have been deleted. No late-night calls or text messages.

The blinds stay drawn. I’m waiting for the fallout—some blurry backstage photo, a leaked whisper from a stagehand. But nothing. No headlines. No Kylie. Just silence.

And silence, in my world, is a miracle.

Still, I don’t trust it.

My mind replays Atlanta. The way Alex held me. The sound of his voice in my ear. The hurt in his eyes when he found out about Broderick.

That cut deep.

No matter how many showers I took, I could still feel him. His hands on my skin. The heat of his mouth against me.

The worst part was that I miss it. Missed him. Despite what he said, despite the lingering questions he still left unanswered. Some sick part of me still cared.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe I’m built for this. Maybe pain is the only thing that sticks.

Two years. Drowning in grief after my mom died. Letting it shape me, bury me, become a language I spoke fluently.

Perhaps that’s why Alex fits so perfectly—he’s broken and lonely; we’re cut from the same cloth.

Then there’s Broderick.

Who doesn’t make me flinch. Who makes me laugh even when my insides are caving in. Who kisses the pain away and holds me like he isn’t afraid of how messed up I am underneath it all.

A few more hours and he’ll be here.

He’ll fuck the pain away with steady hands and sharp smirks.

Until I’m alone again, and it all comes rushing back.

I needed Broderick.

But I missed Alex.

And I hate that those two things could exist at the same time.

I’m torn—ping-ponging between want and shame, lust and guilt, memory and need. I want someone to wrap me up and tell me I’m not ruined. I want to claw at Alex’s chest and scream until he bleeds. I want to crawl into Broderick’s lap and forget how broken I feel.

Why did the part of me that was still bleeding keep aching for the knife?

“Hey, babe.” Riley knocks at my bedroom door before opening it. “I know you want space right now, but…these came for you.”

She steps in cautiously, holding the bouquet like it might detonate. Her usual sunshine’s dimmed by worry, smile forced and flickering at the edges.

That look alone pulls something out of tune inside me.