Page 242 of Rush

We take turns opening presents.

Riley and I got everyone the exact same matching sweaters we were wearing—much to their chagrin.

When they finally relent and pull them on, Riley and I go absolutely feral with glee. The room erupts in laughter, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father laugh so freely.

Mortimer and Carole begin handing out their gifts.

Riley bounces when she opens hers—a sleek box of custom paintbrushes, each one engraved with her name in delicate gold script.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, holding one up to the light. “Thank you super rich adoptive American parents—they’reperfect.”

She hugs Carole—who smiles from ear to ear.

Philippa unwraps a Chanel bag in the softest powder blue and lets out a quiet gasp.

“I was eyeing this exact one last month,” she says, holding it up like treasure. “How did youknow?”

Carole smiles sweetly at her. “A little birdie told me.” She eyes Andrew conspiratorially.

Andrew receives a classic watch—silver face, deep leather strap, minimal and masculine.

“Thank you.” He grins. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

“I know you’re a bit of a collector,” Mortimer says, leaning back in his armchair.

It makes me think of another keen watch collector, I find myself wondering what he’s doing right now before Carole brings me back to reality, passing me a small velvet box. Inside are vintage Chanel earrings—round, elegant, edged with tiny pearls. My fingers hover above them for a second. It’s a little too extravagant, but my mother would’ve loved them, which makes my chest ache.

I wish she were here.

“They belonged to a friend of mine—so they’re not new,” Carole says gently. “She always said they deserved to be worn by someone radiant.”

I nod. Appreciating the gesture immensely.

Then Mortimer steps forward and hands me a book—leather-bound, the edges worn soft. A first edition ofLove Poems and Othersby D.H. Lawrence.

I look up at him, caught off guard.

“This is beautiful. Thank you both,” I say, voice tight.

The earrings are lovely—something I could wear to an event, be seen in and the fact she didn’t spend a dime on them meant she knew how I felt about extravagant gifts and the book...the book is me. It feels like, for once, he actually sees who I am.

Philippa and Andrew hand me their gift next—a custom leather guitar strap, black, my initials embossed in gold.

“I figured,” Philippa says with a proud little smirk, “if you’re going to break hearts on stage, you might as well look cool doing it.”

I laugh and lean over to squeeze her hand.

I give Andrew cufflinks—vintage Cartier, sharp and understated.

“Very chic,” he says, inspecting them. “These are definitely going into the rotation.”

For Philippa, I found a necklace to match the one Riley and I wear—a thin gold chain with a three hearts, one solid with her initial and the other two empty, representing us.

She bursts into tears the moment she opens the box.

We all stare.

“Are you...okay?” Riley asks, wide-eyed.