The room was quiet, just the soft hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of feet from the hallway outside. His mom sat, holding Patrick’s hand, his dad unwrapped a vending machine candy bar, and his sister scribbling absently in her notebook. Life had stilled, condensed into this sterile little square of space.
He squeezed Hillary’s hand, needing her touch like air. God, he was glad she was here. Without her, he wasn’t sure how he’d be holding it together right now. But with her, standing there beside him, it felt just a little more bearable. Like he could breathe.
The quiet broke when the night nurse slipped in, checking Patrick’s chart and machines with soft efficiency. Everyone instinctively shifted out of her way. The beeping monitors, the sterile smell, the squeak of her shoes against the tile, it all pressed in on Murphy.
Maddie yawned, her head drooping against her notebook. His mom brushed her hair back, kissing the crown of her head. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
“I’ll stay,” Murphy said immediately, straightening.
But his mom shook her head. “No. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
His dad, leaning against the window ledge with a candy wrapper crumpled in his fist, gave Murphy a pointed look. “You should take Maddie home, get some rest. Come back in the morning when we know more.”
Murphy opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of his mom’s tired smile and his dad’s steady gaze cut him off. They were right. He wasn’t much good to anyone if he burned himself out. Still, every part of him balked at leaving Patrick behind.
Hillary squeezed his hand, reminding him he wasn’t doing this alone.
Murphy pressed one last kiss to his mom’s cheek before following his dad’s quiet orders. Hillary kept pace at his side, Maddie trailing behind with her hoodie pulled tight around her shoulders. The three of them slipped out into the hall, their sneakers squeaking against the waxed tile, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
As they pushed through the heavy double doors into the cool night air, Maddie gave a soft laugh. “It’s just like old times. You driving me home from the hospital while Mom stays with Patrick.”
Murphy’s chest tightened at her words. She was right, it was just like the nights of his childhood, when he’d been more brother-parent than kid, shepherding Maddie through long hospital visits, trying to be steady when the world felt anything but. The memory ached, even more now because he’d almost forgotten how heavy it could be.
He swallowed hard and forced a smile down at his sister. “Yeah, Mads. Just like old times.”
But inside, his heart twisted, because he didn’t want it to always be like old times. He wanted better for her, for Patrick, for himself. For all of them.
Hillary’s hand brushed his arm, steady and warm. Murphy let himself lean into her quiet strength as they walked toward the parking lot.
The drive was quiet at first, Boston’s streets washed in the glow of streetlamps, the hum of the tires steady. Murphy’s grip on the wheel eased a little when they passed a little taco shop with its neon sign still buzzing.
“It’s only eleven,” he said, shooting a look into the rearview at Maddie, his mouth tipping into a grin. “Still time for Don Taco.”
Her head popped up, eyes bright despite the long day. “Midnight chicken nachos?” she asked with a hopeful grin.
Murphy laughed, already flicking the turn signal. “Wouldn’t be the same without them.”
When he turned into the lot, the warm smell of frying tortillas already drifting out the open windows, he glanced at Hillary. “What about you, Boss? What’s your order?”
She met his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Somehow, with him calling her that in that easy way, things didn’t feel quite so heavy. “I’ll eat some tacos,” she said simply.
Murphy nodded, the knot in his chest loosening just a little more.
They left a few minutes later with a greasy paper bag full of nachos and tacos, the scent filling the car as Maddie hummed happily in the back seat. Hillary brushed her hand lightly against his knee as he shifted gears, a wordless comfort, and for the first time all night, Murphy thought maybe—just maybe—things were starting to feel better.
57
HILLARY
The house was small, tucked between two others on a quiet Boston street. A tidy row of red brick with shutters painted the same faded blue as the porch swing creaking in the night breeze. It was modest. Ordinary.
And it stopped Hillary cold.
Because, for all its simplicity, it was warm in a way the cold, stately manor she grew up in never had been. That house had gleamed with polished marble, echoed with silence, and hummed with rules. Murphy’s house . . . this house . . . hummed with life.
She followed him and Maddie inside, clutching the bag of tacos. The entryway was narrow, but the walls were covered with framed photographs. School pictures. Hockey trophies. A faded shot of Murphy in braces with his arm slung protectively around Patrick. A family that wore its love out in the open instead of burying it beneath appearances.
The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something sweet that must have come from the kitchen earlier. Maddie kicked her shoes off by the door without hesitation, her bag dropping with a thud before she bounded toward the couch.
