Chapter 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 had always done.
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.
She smoothed down her dress, taking another steadying breath. None of this should’ve been her job.
Her mother stood off to the side, aloof, the picture of brittle grace. She was short with Sydney, colder still with Hillary, ignoring her entirely as though she wasn’t even there. An ice castle of a woman.
Hillary pressed her lips together, holding herself steady. She had been steady all morning. All week.
But then the clock inched closer to the service, and she saw four familiar figures step through the doors.
Sasha.
Conner.
Cash.
And Murphy.
Her throat closed.
The tears came before she could stop them, blurring her vision until she had to press a hand to her face. The first tears she’d shed through all of this.
She wiped her cheeks, forced herself to breathe, and walked over to greet them.
Sasha’s hug was warm and familiar, grounding. Conner’s and Cash’s were strong and solid, easy to lean against for a breath before she pulled herself back together.
And then Murphy’s arms came around her.
Everything she had been holding inside broke wide open.
Her breath hitched as Murphy’s arms closed around her, and instead of letting go, he held her tighter.
Fuck.
She couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now. She felt her carefully built facade slipping, cracking under the simple pressure of his embrace.
Quickly, she mumbled an excuse and slipped out of his arms, heading straight for the bathroom. She shut the door behind her, bracing her palms on the cool marble sink.
What was it about him?
How did he have that kind of power over her? With a single hug, he could shatter walls she’d spent years fortifying. It wasn’t safe. None of this was safe.
She dabbed at her eyes, smoothed her hair, and reapplied her lipstick with steady hands that belied the storm in her chest. When she looked in the mirror again, the woman staring back was polished, controlled. The woman her family expected her to be.
By the time she walked back out, it was nearly time for the service.
The room was already filling, a sea of tailored suits and designer dresses. Rich, entitled people here not to grieve, but to perform grief. Faces she recognized only vaguely, voices murmuring condolences that rang hollow.
Her gaze swept the room once and landed on them.
Sasha. Conner. Cash. And Murphy.
Three friendly faces, steady and sure. And one that was more.
They felt like a lifeline.
She made it through the service. Made it through the graveside, too—standing stiff beside her family, nodding through platitudes, keeping her face composed until it all blurred into a hollow rhythm.
All that was left was the wake. That was fine. Wakes were similar enough to a work function that autopilot would set in.
She slipped into her childhood bedroom for a moment’s reprieve before she had to greet the mourners. She sank onto the edge of the bed and exhaled.
Funerals were strange things. People came to comfort you, but more often than not, you ended up comforting them.
They didn’t know what to say, so you offered them the words instead.
And in this case, it was stranger still, because she hadn’t had a relationship with this woman outside of familial obligation in years. Maybe ever.
Her gaze dropped to her hands folded tight in her lap.
It was normal, she supposed, to take stock of your own life in moments like this. To measure what mattered. She just hoped that when her life ended, she would be more than an obligation to people.
Her thoughts slid, unbidden, to Murphy.
People like Murphy mattered. People like Murphy would leave this world surrounded by those who loved him. There would be fond stories and laughter between the tears. There would be people who knew him.Not just his name or his stats, but him.
What would people say about her?
She was good at her job. Ruthlessly good. She made everyone else look good. But if she died tomorrow, who would know Hillary Lawson? Who she really was? Besides Sydney, no one.
The truth of it sat heavily in her chest. A sobering, suffocating weight.
But she couldn’t let herself sink into those thoughts, not when there was still work to be done.
The living room was already buzzing, full of mourners with hushed voices and careful smiles. She slipped through, checking in with the caterers, making sure the trays were replenished, the drinks flowing, much easier to work than feel.
And then she spotted them again.
Sasha. Conner. Cash. And Murphy.
She hadn’t expected them at the funeral. She certainly hadn’t expected them here, in her childhood home, among the icy perfection of her family.
Her breath hitched, and she ducked into the kitchen before anyone could notice.
The caterers glanced up at her with polite curiosity as she strode in, trying to look composed. She grabbed the first thing within reach—a muffin from a basket—and tore at the wrapper.
Only when it was in her hand did she realize.
A muffin.
Of course.
The thought of Murphy had sent her fleeing in here, and now here he was again, in the form of something as simple as a pastry.
Hillary set the muffin back down, unopened, and reached for a glass of cold water instead. She took a long sip, bracing herself.
Then she turned, lifted her chin, and walked back out into the hall.
It was time to say hello.