26. Leave a Trace #2
My father presses his lips into a thin line. “Elena, I’m sorry for that. I don’t always say the right thing or go about it the right way. Part of it is because I’m worried I’ll drive you away like I did your mother. We’ve already lost so much time together—I don’t want to waste any more of it.”
That settles in my bones, the amount of time we’d let pass between us, neither willing to budge, both too stubborn to make the first move. Maybe we’re more alike than I care to admit. But that ends now.
“Can we both agree to try better?”
He nods.
My chest feels lighter. “That croissant was fucking incredible, by the way.”
“Help yourself to some more if you’d like?” Carole says her voice sweet and caring as she lifts the platter toward me.
Mortimer tsks, rolling his eyes, but it’s full of amusement, and I can’t help how much I like seeing this side of him.
Carole clears her throat gently, smoothing a napkin across her lap. “Have you started any of your Christmas prep yet? Gifts? Decorations? Is there anything I could help with?”
“Help?” I echo.
She gives a small, tentative smile. “Yes, help. I love wrapping presents. And I know a florist who does beautiful fresh garlands.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “We, uh…don’t even have a tree up.”
Carole’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I rub my hands together. “It’s kind of a disaster. Riley strung fairy lights across the kitchen shelves, but that’s about it. We’ve been working. And procrastinating. Mostly procrastinating.”
Carole lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, if you change your mind, I’d be happy to send something over. Or help you find something last minute.”
My father watches the exchange between us and I see a sense of resolve in his eyes, perhaps even a glint of happiness—it’s a side I’ve not really known.
But maybe I’d like to.
“Thanks, that’s…nice of you.”
It feels like dipping a toe into something unfamiliar. Not forgiveness. But maybe space to let the ice start melting.
Next stop on the New York Apology Tour: Philippa. I press the buzzer, croissants in hand.
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.
They both freeze.
Then look at each other.
A silent moment stretches between them. Something shifts.
Andrew gives her a nod.
“Elena,” he says gently. “We have some news.”
Philippa wipes her face, straightens her spine. “I’m pregnant.”
Pregnant. Not dying.
“You’re pregnant?” I say, too loud. “You’re actually pregnant?”
Philippa nods, eyes glassy. “About ten weeks, but I’m so violently ill.”
I reach for her pulling her from Andrew’s arms and wrapping my arms around her—carefully, like she might break.
“Holy shit,” I whisper into her shoulder. “You’re gonna be a mom.”
She lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I know.”
When I pull back, she looks…scared. Excited.
“I’m so happy for you.” I beam, eyes burning. “Like—actually.”
Then I turn to Andrew and say, “Damn. You really took my maid of honor speech to heart.”
He smirks, reaching for another croissant. “What can I say? I aim to please.”
“Who knew you had it in you?”
“If you’re not careful,” he says, mouth full, “you might be next. Brody looks pretty…virile.”
My brain short-circuits.
A baby. With Broderick.
God.
I picture a little boy—dark curls, serious green eyes, dimples just like his. That’s…kind of cute. My chest tightens.
What the fuck ovaries…settle down.
I shake the thought away.
Too young. Too much to do. I haven’t even seen the world yet. Still chasing the stage lights, the fame, I’m nowhere near ready to be a mother.
Philippa grins. “So, how are things going with Brody?”
“They’re…okay.”
Andrew shoots her a look. The kind married couples give each other when they’re speaking without actually opening their mouths.
“Okay, you two with your weird silent eye convos. Just say it.”
Andrew leans against the counter. “You know he likes you, right? Like…really likes you.”
Of course I know. “We’re just casual,” I say, brushing it off.
“In all the years I’ve known Broderick,” Philippa says, rubbing her belly absentmindedly, “he’s never done casual. I’ve only met two women he dated. Both hated how much he worked. How often he’d disappear.”
And yet he always makes time for me.
Even when I tell him not to. Even when I pushed him away.
The thought of other women before me claws somewhere in my chest. I feel it—the flare of possessiveness—for someone I don’t even deserve. Someone too good for me and all my fucked-up shit.
“Okay, can we talk about something else?” I exhale. “I talked to Father this morning.”
Desperate to change the topic.
Philippa perks up. “You did?”
Andrew whistles. “Should we prepare for World War III?”
“It went…surprisingly well. We agreed to try to be better. I said sorry to Carole.”
Philippa’s jaw drops. “What? Oh my God. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
“Relax. I said sorry for what I said. I still don’t like her much—I mean, she makes it hard when she’s so fucking nice—but I don’t want to rip her a new one every time I see her.”
“There’s hope for you after all,” Andrew teases.
I glare. “I could still rip you a new one.”
He laughs and pulls us both into a hug. For a moment, Philippa looks like she can finally breathe again.
Then she makes a face.
“Okay,” she groans, “I need to puke.”
A baby.
Our family’s growing.
My big sister. Pregnant.