“I wish you were here,” she said, surprising herself with the heat in her own voice.
“Oh yeah?” His tone shifted, teasing, low. “What would we do if I were there?”
“Maybe you could take my mind off things.”
His breath caught, then, “I’d love to take your mind off things.”
A knock cut through the moment. Her mother’s sharp voice followed. “Hillary. It’s too late to be on the phone.”
Hillary closed her eyes, the balloon of playfulness deflating all at once. She cracked the door. “I’m a grown ass woman, Mom.”
“Do not be crass,” her mother snapped. “Whatever’s happening can wait until tomorrow.”
Hillary’s shoulders sagged. She shut the door, the weight pressing back down.
On the line, Murphy’s voice was gentle. “What just happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I have to go.”
“Hillary—”
But she hung up before he could finish.
Sliding into bed, she pulled the covers over her head, her chest hollow. Whatever Murphy had stirred in her, whatever light he’d given her—it was gone, snuffed out.
All that was left was the heavy, familiar weight of the world on her shoulders.
24
HILLARY
By the morning of the funeral, Hillary felt like she hadn’t taken a full breath in days. Every last detail, every phone call, every arrangement, had been hers to handle. Sydney helped where she could, but Hillary had shouldered the brunt, because that was what she did. What she hadalwaysdone.
She smoothed down her black dress, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, and joined the rest of her family as they filed into the funeral home. All of them dressed in somber black, as though the performance of grief could substitute for the real thing.
Inside, one wall was lined with flowers.
Tall, elaborate sprays from the organizations her grandmother had belonged to. Polished arrangements from her father’s colleagues, though he hadn’t even bothered to glance at them. Hillary was already cataloguing who would need thank-you cards. Cards she knew she’d be writing on his behalf.
Nestled among them were more personal offerings. A cheerful bouquet from Natalie, Sydney’s best friend. A thoughtful arrangement from the hospital where Sydney was doing her rotations.
And then one that stopped Hillary in her tracks.
A massive arrangement, lush with white roses and lilies, tied with the Magic’s signature purple ribbon. The card tucked in the center was signed by her staff members and players.
Hillary’s throat tightened as she traced the familiar names, her fingers brushing over Murphy’s bold scrawl.
For the first time in days, she felt something other than exhaustion.
A flicker of comfort.
The funeral director moved through the crowd, introducing himself to the family with practiced politeness. But then his eyes found Hillary, and he came straight to her.
“Ms. Lawson,” he said with a nod. “Just a few details before we begin.” He lowered his voice. “Service here, followed by a small graveside. Afterward, the wake at your parents’ house. The staff are coordinating with us already.”
“Of course,” Hillary said, though her throat was tight. She pulled out her phone and made another note.
When he asked which one was her father, she nearly laughed. Of course, he didn’t even know which man in an expensive tailored suit he was.
