Page 240 of Rush

“Right back at ya.”

We finish our light breakfast and dress in our planned matching ugly sweaters—something we never got to do growing up with sweaty Australian Christmases, where the only layers were sunscreen and sand.

The heat was sweltering. We were fortunate that our home backed right onto the beach, with easy access from a set of salt-worn steps. Riley and I trotted up them after our morning swim, wet and sandy. The smell of the barbecue drifted through the veranda where Philippa and Mom were setting the table, Christmas music blaring from the stereo.

“What smells so good, Dad?”

“Got a couple chops on—some prawns and lobbies.”

“Yum.”

“I better head back, Elena—let you guys celebrate Chrissy.”

Riley wore a look of dread, and I hated to think what she was going home to. Her parents—high, no doubt.

“Riley, why don’t you get your brothers and come back for dinner, okay? We made plenty,” Mom said.

Philippa huffed. Spoiled brat.

Riley’s eyes lit up. “Are you sure, Auntie Vida? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Never. We love you, Riley—you’re family.”

Philippa stood abruptly and stormed back inside.

“Did I do something wrong?” Riley asked.

“No, sweetheart. She’s not used to the heat. Run along, go get Russell and Ryan.”

“Okay!” Riley beamed, feet already moving as she darted down the side of the house.

Mom’s shoulders slumped as she headed inside—probably to deal with another one of Philippa’s teenage temper-tantrums.

I followed, making a beeline for the bathroom to shower.

“I hate it here.” Philippa’s irritated voice traveled down the hallway.

“I know, Anak, but we’re together. It’s Christmas.”

“Don’t call me that! I want to be in Vermont with Sienna and her family, skiing and drinking hot cocoa—not here getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and playing charity with the local riff-raff.”

I approached quietly, only to catch my mother’s face in the reflection of the mirror, disappointment etched into her features. Philippa had been raised in privilege—nannies, butlers, lavish holidays. It was all she knew.

“Then go back,” I snapped, anger flaring. “How dare you call my best friend riff-raff? We don’t want you here anyway, you stuck-up bitch.”

“Elena!”

“You’re vile,” Philippa spat back.

“Girls, please don’t fight. You’re sisters—you should love each other.”

Sisters. Riley was more my sister than Philippa ever would be. I barely knew her; she always ignored me, glued to her phone, whining about how small our house was—how we lived in the middle of nowhere.

“She started it.”

“You treat Riley more like your daughter than me,” Philippa shot back. “If you love her so much, why don’t you adopt her?”

“Oh my God, Mom, can you?” I asked hopeful.