Page 231 of Rush

Andrew answers in plaid pajamas, hair mussed like he just rolled out of bed. “Hey, sis.” He grins.

“Hey, Andrew. Where’s Pip?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Still in bed. She’s unwell.”

Oh.

My stomach twists. I’d ignored her texts. Dodged her calls. And now she’s sick.

“I brought croissants,” I say, holding up the box from Carole like a peace offering. “Can I see her?”

Andrew hesitates, shifting on his feet. Then I see her over his shoulder—Philippa, hair matted, face pale-green, drowning in an old sweatshirt. She looks wrecked.

Worry overwhelms me…what if… she’s sick—sick like Mom was?

I don’t wait. I shove the box into Andrew’s arms and push past him, kicking off my shoes and not even bothering with house slippers.

“Hey,” she starts, voice cracking.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pulling her into me.

“No—no, I’m sorry,” she sobs, her whole body folding into mine.

She looks awful. My arms tighten around her.

The air thins.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I mumble. “I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

Philippa sniffles, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “You’re here now.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You look like shit.”

She lets out a short laugh, half-cough. “Thanks.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t say that.”

“I think I’ve just got a bug,” she says, shaking her head like she’s trying to convince herself. Her voice is thin, wobbly around the edges.

“You sure?” I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t keep anything serious from me, right? Just because you think I’ll blow it out of proportion because I’m emotionally unstable with a mountain of issues?”

“Understatement,” Andrew mutters through a mouthful of croissant.

“Jerk,” I shoot back.

He shrugs like that’s just the price of existing in this household.

“No,” Philippa says, voice cracking more. “You’re not emotionally unstable. You’re a beautiful person with beautiful feelings and I’m sorry. I should be a better big sister.”

She’s crying again—no, sobbing now. Shoulders heaving. Andrew silently puts the croissant box down on the counter and pulls her into him, one hand stroking her hair, the other bracing her back as she falls apart.

What the hell is happening?

“Okay—what is this?” I say, backing up a little. “Pip, why are you being so weird? I mean, yeah, we had a tiff, but you’re acting like someone died, what did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Andrew throws up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

“Are you on your period or something?” I ask, deadpan.