Chapter 23 Hillary
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.
The list in her planner was half a page long, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
She pulled it closer, clicked her pen, and drew in a steadying breath. She would handle this. She always did.
Hillary stared at her planner, pen tapping against the margin, wishing she had someone to lean on.
Someone who would pick up half the weight and carry it without being asked.
But even if that person existed, she doubted she’d know how to let them.
Not after the way she grew up. She learned love was conditional, affection was withheld, and leaning on someone always came with a cost.
Her phone dinged.
For one hopeful beat, she thought it was Murphy. Just the thought of him, of his goodness, his easy humor, the warmth he carried like a second skin, felt like sunlight in this cold, stuffy house. He had been texting her, and while she hadn’t had the courage to text back, they made her smile.
But it wasn’t Murphy.
It was Sasha.
Sasha - Everything good there?
Hillary typed back quickly:
Hillary - Yes. How’s the online stuff?
She waited while the three dots danced on her screen. She hated leaving this mess with Sasha to clean up by herself, no matter how confident she was that Sasha could handle it.
Sasha - Murphy’s still trending. But nothing outrageous.
Hillary’s jaw tightened.
Hillary - Good. Make sure Murphy’s comfortable with it all.
Sasha - Already did, he says he’s fine.
Sliding her phone back into her pocket, Hillary felt irritation simmering beneath her ribs. Murphy was out there gathering attention like sparks on dry grass, and here she was, drowning in the weight of her family’s dysfunction. It wasn’t fair. But she didn’t have the luxury of spiraling, not now.
The doorbell rang, sharp and formal.
She closed her eyes for a beat, inhaled once, then got to her feet. The funeral director had arrived. And of course, no one else in the house bothered to greet him. No one but her.
So she smoothed her skirt, squared her shoulders, and went to do what she always did. Handle it.
"Hello," she said as she entered the sitting room.
The funeral director was polite, his expression composed in the way of a manwho had done this a thousand times. He offered his sympathy as she led him into the parlor, his handshake firm but not lingering.
“We had your grandmother’s wishes on file,” he explained, pulling a neat folder from his case. “I’ve already shared the details with your father. If you’d like, we can go over them now.”
They settled on a date and time with relative ease. Hillary scribbled the confirmation in her planner, the only small relief in a day already drowning in chaos. At least some of it was handled.
When she showed him out, she thanked him for his time, her voice smooth and professional despite the exhaustion pressing behind her eyes.
But then she returned to the table and the list.
Her grandmother’s list.
Pages of instructions written in a spidery hand full of what hymns should be played and in what order.
Which relatives should sit together. Which ones must not be invited.
The photographs that were allowed on display, and which were not to see the light of day.
Even notes on what trinkets she was to be buried with, some petty, some absurd.
Hillary’s throat tightened as she spread the papers out. The weight of it all was crushing.
Sydney sat down beside her, blowing out a long breath. “It’s a lot.”
Hillary pressed her lips together. “Yeah.”
Sydney picked up a pen, squared her shoulders, and looked at her big sister. “Let’s get to work.”
“I got this,” Hillary said with a stiff set to her shoulders.
“Let me help you,” Sydney insisted.
“No, you have enough on your plate. I’ll handle it.”
“Why do you always do this? I’m not a little kid anymore, Hill. I don’t need you to protect me. Let me help you.”
“Just let me do it,” Hillary snapped.
“No.” The firm set to Sydney’s jaw took her back.
“No?”
“You have heard the word before at some point, I’m sure. Hillary, I’m not letting you do this on your own. Either you let me help, or I’ll tell mom you keep the family painting she made us sit for in the closet.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” Sydney said as she sat down at the table. “Our parents should be doing this, but we both know they won’t. So let’s do it . . . together.”
Hillary’s chest nearly split in half as a tear dripped down her cheek.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And just like that, the two of them began sorting through the ridiculous demands of a woman who had controlled everything in life and was still managing to control them in death.
While they were working, her mother came down and stood in the doorway to the dining room where they had the papers spread out. She gave a disapproving hum that Hillary could feel in her bones.
“Are you two really doing the things detailed in that ridiculous list?” she said as she tapped at it with her perfect manicured fingernail.
Hillary bit back a sigh and, with a tight smile, said, “Well, they were her last wishes.”
“There are people who can take care of this,” she said coolly.
“We are family. Isn’t that what family does?” Sydney protested.
“It just seems like a waste of time. Can we push the funeral an hour? Your father has a business call he can’t get away from.”
Sydney’s mouth fell open. She was about to protest, but Hillary knew it was futile.
“I’ll send a message to the funeral home. As long as the programs and obituary haven’t been printed, I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Hillary said.
Her mother simply nodded and turned around.
“I can’t believe her!” Sydney exclaimed.
“Really?” Hillary asked in disbelief. This was so typical. So fucking typical.
“Has it always been like this?” Sydney asked quietly.
Hillary chewed on her lip. Shielding her from this for years may have been a disservice, but she was seeing it for what it was now, and for Hillary, how it always had been.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Hillary said as she emailed the funeral director.
—
By the time the last call was made and the final email sent, Hillary felt wrung out. She dragged herself upstairs, showered off the day, and collapsed into bed.
She flipped on the TV, remote in hand, more out of habit than interest. But her breath caught when the Magic’s game filled the screen. She hadn’t watched like this in years—not as PR, not from the press box or her office, but as a fan.
Before long, she found herself leaning forward, cheering quietly under her breath, her heart jumping with every rush down the ice.
Sydney poked her head in. “What are you doing?”
“Watching,” Hillary said simply, patting the space beside her.
Her sister climbed in, curling under the blanket. Together they watched the last minutes of the game, the two of them shouting when a near-miss puck clanged off the post.
The Magic lost, but the feed rolled straight into the postgame interview—and there was Murphy. Helmet off, cheeks flushed, sweat darkening his hair. Answering questions with that calm, professional focus of his, slipping in a boyish grin now and then.
Hillary’s chest tightened.
When she turned, Sydney was looking at her. Really looking.
“What’s that face about?” Hillary demanded.
Sydney’s brows rose. “What face?”
“That face you’re making.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hillary said quickly, turning back to the TV.
Sydney’s look lingered, doubtful but mercifully silent.
Hillary wanted to tell her. She wanted to spill everything, to finally say out loud the thing she’d been holding so close. But the words stuck, heavy and impossible.
“Night,” Sydney said finally, sliding off the bed.
“Night.”
Hillary turned onto her side, willing herself toward sleep.
Her phone rang.
The screen lit up with his name.
Murphy.
She answered quickly, surprising herself. She’d ignored his texts all day, buried under lists and family politics, but the thought of hearing his voice made her smile before she even spoke.
“Hey,” he said softly, concern woven through the single word. “I was starting to worry. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she lied automatically.
“When’s the funeral?”
“In two days,” she said, her voice flat. Then, softer, she continued, “I watched your interview.”
“Rough game,” he admitted. “But we’ll get them next time.”
Silence hung for a moment, warm but fragile. Then he cleared his throat. “You getting enough coffee and muffins?”
The corner of her mouth curved despite herself. “Maybe. Why? You planning to deliver?”
“Always.” His grin was audible. “I’d bring you one right now if I could.”
Flirting came easier on the phone. Removed from the press of family walls and her grandmother’s endless lists, she let herself relax into it, hungry for his lightness.
“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.