Page 227 of Rush

The connection crackles for a second before Jack’s face blinks into view. It’s a little dark, his reading glasses reflecting the screen.

“Look who it is.” He grins, lifting his tea in salute.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Kiddo.” He waves down the barrel of the camera. “How’s the tour going—how’s the rest of the family?”

“The tour is great—wrapped up a week ago. As for the family, well…that’s a little more complicated.”

“Oh, what happened now?” he asks.

“Monty pushed my buttons so I said some shit and stormed out of Thanksgiving.”

I omit the comment Mortimer made about my mom, pretty sure Jack would fly over here and clock him just for even thinking it. After Thanksgiving went nuclear, Philippa and my father left dozens of messages and calls. But I’m not ready to talk to them.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

Well, maybe not forever.

Well, maybe not Philippa, I’m starting to miss her, something I hadn’t ever felt before.

“Crikey.” Jack winces. “You come in swingin’, did ya?”

“Kinda.”

Riley crouches beside me, chewing a protein bar with her coat half on. “Hey, Jack! Love the flanno PJs.”

“Hey, Riley.” He waves, holding up the collar. “Genuine Kmart couture.”

“Lookin’ good, anyway gotta head out to work!” She laughs and ducks out the door.

I rub my eyes. “I think I might have broken something that’s not gonna get fixed this time.”

Jack takes a sip of his tea. “You’ve been bottlin’ all that up, it was bound to boil over. Doesn’t mean it’s broke. Just means the lights are finally on.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He leans back, the screen tilting with him. “Means you stopped pretending you weren’t hurt. They can finally see you—whether they want to or not. That’s somethin’, kiddo.”

I stare at the little green light on my phone. My thumbnail traces the seam of the blanket.

“I hate how much I still want him to try.”

Just as it feels like I’m taking a step forward with my family, something happens, and we’re ten steps back again. But I want to keep my word to my mom.

“Christmas is next week.” My voice cracks. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

He nods once. “Then be the bigger person. Not for them—for you. Say your piece. Put it to bed. Either they show up different…or they don’t. But you’ll know you did your bit.”

A silence passes. Thick, but not heavy.

“Still not too late to bugger off home, by the way,” he adds. “We’ve got prawns, Mum’s old tinsel tree, and a heatwave brewin’. Real festive.”

I smile, throat tight. “Tempting. But no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He softens. “I’m proud of ya. Even when you’re mad as a cut snake.”

“Thanks, Dad.”