Page 117 of Rules

Lia’s face lights up when she sees me. “You made it!”

Her body crashes into mine, her hands wrapping around my middle. I’m not really a touchy person, but I return the gesture, knowing damn well this is probably the last time. She pulls back almost as suddenly as she came, just enough so she can look at me.

“You had me so worried! What the hell happened? Why did you hang up so suddenly?”

“I—” My mom’s drug dealer cornered me, reminding me of the money she owes him and what will happen if she doesn’t pay up. But of course, I don’t say that. “The connection was shitty. I’m sorry.”

Those doe-like eyes observe me for a heartbeat before she smiles again. “I’m just happy you’re here! You’ve been working really hard, and it feels like we’re never together. I miss you, Brook.”

“I—”I miss you too, Amelia.I want to say those words so badly, but they’re stuck in my throat without a way out.

We’ve been friends for over a decade. No, not just friends. Lia was more like my sister. The best one of us all. I always knew I’d have to leave, but I never actually let myself think of how it would be to walk away from her, and now I know why. The pain I feel, the heartbreak, is almost suffocating.

But I’ll take any pain over never knowing her at all.

Because, in my tale, there is no Prince Charming, nor does the princess save herself. No, there was a little ginger pixie who saved me. Or the little that was left to save anyway.

Wetting my lips, I open my mouth, but the words die on my tongue when I see the commotion over Lia’s shoulder.

She has to sense it too because she turns around, and we both look at Derek entering the house. His face is pale, hair disheveled.

“It’s Jeanette.” I inhale sharply, my whole body going still. “We have to go.”

* * *

MAX

Andrew parks the car hastily, and I jump out before it even stops completely. Without saying a word, I run inside. The hallway is lit, and I can see light coming from the living room, but I ignore it as I climb the two steps at a time.

What the fuck happened, Anette?

When I get upstairs, first I go to my room to grab a bag. I don’t want to lose time going through her shit trying to find one. The last thing I wanted to do was be here while Jeanette was lying alone and broken in a hospital bed again.

Fucking broken.

When Dad called and said she was in the hospital, all I could do was remember that day two years ago. I saw her collapse over and over again. At first, I thought she’d just lost her balance because of the alcohol, but she never got up. For months after it happened, I had nightmares. The image of her small, fragile body in the big hospital bed still makes my stomach turn. I picked her up in my arms and called 9-1-1.

That was the first time I realized how small she was, how skinny. She was always wearing baggy clothes, and to be honest, I was too preoccupied with what was happening in my own life to notice she was withering away. My own twin.

And now she’s back there again.

Why does this keep happening?

Anger flows through my veins, and I can barely keep myself from falling apart. I want to curl my fingers into a fist and punch something. Anything.

Grabbing the first duffle I can get my hands on, I leave my room and go across the hall.

Jeanette’s room is the same. The bed is messy, pillows thrown all over. Books on her desk are open. She was probably doing her homework. Her violin box is carefully leaning against the nightstand. Some of her clothes are thrown over a chair, and one pair of boots is left scattered in front of her closet.

Normal.

I open her closet and start pulling things out. A pair of pajamas. Make it two. Some T-shirts, leggings, sweaters. That girl is always ice cold. I throw in some socks and underwear, her charger and her iPad.

My eyes scan the room for anything else she might need when she wakes up.

You have to wake up, sis.

Still going through my mental list of essentials, I walk into her bathroom.

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