Page 191 of Rush

The thought alone tears me apart—one part of me clinging to what I had with Alex, unable to move on; the other drawn to the possibilities with Broderick, always looking back.

When I don’t answer, his smile drops a little and I can’t help the guilt bubbling under the surface, to close the distance to reassure him, but I don’t. I stand there staring at him like a heartless idiot.

“You like pie?” he asks like none of this just happened.

“Pie?”

He’s already untying his apron. “Yeah. Dessert. Food. You know—Thanksgiving traditions.”

I dry my hands. “I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t like pie?”

“Cool.” He grabs his coat. “You’re coming with me.”

It’s the first time either of us really discussed Alex since the breakup—and just like that, Broderick moves us past it—with pie.

“Hey, Mr. Schwartz, thank you for all your help! It was another great year,” one of the volunteers says as we pass by.

“Hopefully even better next year,” Broderick replies.

“I don’t doubt it,” the man agrees, walking away.

“You’ve done this before?” I ask.

“Every year.” He shrugs. “You sound surprised?”

“Kind of, you’re so busy with everything else, I’d assumed that it would be easier to just donate to their cause.”

“It would—and I definitely still donate.” He winks. “But after my dad died, we used to come here, or places like it, to eat and spend Thanksgiving—And spending time with these people bringing them joy, makes me happy.”

Oh.

The image of Broderick as a kid, coming here because he had nowhere else to go, settles heavily in my chest. It makes my problems—with Alex, with my father—feel small. Almost embarrassing.

“You’re kind of incredible,” I say quietly. “You know that, right?”

Broderick shrugs again, cheeks flushing as a shy smile tugs at his mouth, and he leads me toward his car out front.

I follow, surprised by the pull in my chest—by how easily this side of him draws me in.

How it makes me examine parts of myself that would prefer convenience over actually giving a fuck about things that matter.

Luca trails behind us, giving me a pointed look as I slide into Broderick’s passenger seat.

It’s not like Broderick can’t keep me safe. He’s bigger than Luca.

We pull up to a narrow brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked between a dry cleaner and a deli with a flickering neon sign. The air smells like garlic and dried leaves.

Broderick holds the door open, his arm brushing mine as I pass.

Inside, warmth. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg—something roasted and rich. Soft jazz hums from a speaker on a shelf.

“Ma?” Broderick calls.

Wait. What? Ma?

We’re at his mom’s house? I’m athismom’s house.

For pie.