Sven slid onto the stool beside him, raising his beer. “Why’re you doing that?”
Murphy blinked. “Doing what?”
“Turning every single one of them down.” Sven tipped his chin toward the cluster of women nearby. “You’re the man of the night. You could have your pick.”
Murphy shrugged, playing casual. “Not into it.”
Sven’s eyes narrowed. “You seeing someone?”
The pause was too long. Sven’s grin sharpened. “Who is she?”
Murphy shook his head, but his mouth betrayed him, curving at the edges. “It’s new. But I’m hoping it’ll be something.”
Sven clapped him on the shoulder, satisfied, and slid off the stool to join one of the women who’d just peeled away from Murphy.
Murphy watched him go, then signaled for water instead of another beer. It was time to head home.
The walk back to his condo was brisk, the city lights cool against the night sky. He hadn’t told Sven the truth, not really, but for the first time, he’d let some of it slip. Said it out loud. And it felt good.
Back in his building, he checked his phone. Still nothing from Hillary.
His chest tightened. He typed again.
Murphy - I know you’re busy, but if you need anything—anything—I’m here.
A beat. No reply.
He added another, trying to lighten it. A gif of North Star’s lead singer belting into a mic.
Murphy - Since we’re best friends now, I can make this happen.
He hit send and stared at the screen, willing it to buzz. Nothing.
Murphy tossed his keys onto the counter and dropped into a chair, the hollow ache settling in. He wanted to be there for her, to dosomething.But she was gone, and he was stuck here.
Helpless.
23
HILLARY
They arrived in Connecticut last night. Being here made Hillary want to crawl out of her skin. The house smelled the same as it always had, like old wood polish and a faint trace of gardenia that clung to the heavy curtains. It was stuffy, suffocating.
Hillary sat on the edge of the bed in the room that had once been hers, staring at the frilly lace curtains and the floral bedspread that looked like it belonged in a fancy bed and breakfast. Nothing about this place felt like home.
Her stomach growled, but when she padded downstairs toward the kitchen, she froze at the sound of voices. Staff. Caterers, assistants, people her father had called in to make sure everything “just happened.” She turned back. No appetite anymore.
Her mother had flatly refused to help with the funeral.Didn’t like the woman,she’d said, as though that excused everything. She’d liked her enough to guilt Sydney for not coming to see her, but that apparently meant nothing now.
Her father? Too busy to plan his own mother’s funeral. He assumed money and influence would make it happen for him. Rich, entitled, and utterly detached.
Which meant it was all falling to her and Sydney.
Except Sydney had already taken on too much. She had medical rotations, the weight of her own grief, and still that soft heart that had always left her vulnerable. Hillary had promised herself long ago she’d shield her little sister from as much of this family toxicity as she could.
So, Hillary was doing it. All of it.
Funeral home. Flowers. Obituary. Calls to family who barely deserved them.
