Chapter 58 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy stretched, his hand skimming across cool sheets.
Empty. He blinked awake, reaching again, but the bed beside him stayed bare.
A quick glance at the clock on his phone told him it was just after seven, late enough that he should already be moving if he wanted to catch the doctors during rounds at the hospital.
Dragging himself out of the narrow bed, he padded into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. That’s when the smell hit him, bacon, rich and salty, curling through the air. His stomach growled on instinct, even though his nerves were tight as wire.
For half a second, he was fourteen again, waking up in this same house after long nights at the hospital with Patrick, the sound of his mom clattering pans downstairs the only reassurance that things would be okay.
Now, years later, he was back in the same hall with the same smell, and Hillary somewhere in the middle of it.
Murphy followed the scent of bacon into the kitchen and stopped short in the doorway.
Hillary was there—barefoot, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, moving easily at the stove like she belonged.
A bakery box sat open on the counter, the sweet glaze of donuts mixing with the savory smell of sizzling bacon.
She flipped eggs onto toasted English muffins with quick, efficient movements, assembling breakfast sandwiches one after another.
Beside them was a row of takeout cups filled with coffee, lids neatly snapped on.
“Morning,” she said without looking up, her voice soft but steady. “I figured everyone could use something quick to grab on the way.”
Murphy’s chest tightened. She wasn’t just here. She was in it.
Before he could answer, Maddie padded in, her hair still sleep-mussed, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the boxes. “Donuts?” she squeaked. “You bought donuts?”
Hillary finally glanced over her shoulder, smiling as she reached into the box and held one out. “I got an assortment. Hopefully you can find your favorite.”
Maddie all but launched herself across the room to take it, grinning so wide Murphy thought her face might split. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his sister laugh, watching Hillary laugh with her, and the knot of tension inside him loosened just a fraction.
Maybe things were still hard. Maybe Patrick was still in that hospital bed. But right here—in this kitchen, with donuts, bacon, and Hillary—he felt something like hope.
Hillary slid a coffee across the counter toward Maddie. “I got you my order, but . . . ” she hesitated, her tone almost shy, “without the double shot. You’re still technically a minor.”
Maddie’s brows arched, a smirk tugging at her lips, but she took the cup anyway. “Fair enough.”
Hillary reached for another and held it out toward Murphy. “And for you. Black, just the way you like it.”
Murphy wrapped his hand around the cup, warm against his palm, and when he lifted it to glance at the side, his breath caught. Written in Hillary’s looping handwriting: Rookie—with a little heart dotting the i.
It was nothing. It was everything. The sight nearly brought tears to his eyes.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the cup to her. She was watching him from across the room, trying not to fidget, the faintest smile playing at her lips.
The air between them softened.
Murphy didn’t think. He just moved. Crossing the kitchen in a few long strides, he pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight before tipping his head down to capture her lips in a kiss.
Behind them, Maddie groaned. “Ugh, gross. People are trying to eat donuts here.”
Murphy laughed against Hillary’s mouth, but he didn’t let go. He just kissed her again, sweeter this time, because even in this house, even in the middle of so much uncertainty, she’d found a way to make him feel grounded.
The drive felt longer than it was, tension filling every quiet minute. By the time they wound their way back through the hospital corridors, Murphy’s chest was tight.
When they stepped into Patrick’s room, though, the sight loosened it a bit.
Patrick was propped up in bed, color back in his cheeks, an IV still taped to his arm, but his hands firmly wrapped around a video game controller. On the rolling tray beside him, his Switch lit up with Animal Crossing.
“ . . . and then I moved the Able Sisters’ shop so it’s closer to the beach,” Patrick was explaining proudly, his voice scratchy but determined, “because that’s where all my villagers like to fish. You gotta keep your villagers happy.”
Maddie rushed forward with a laugh, dropping her bag at the end of the bed. “Of course, you’re already running a whole town. You don’t even rest when you’re recovering.”
Their mom was standing by the bed, eyes damp but smiling as she brushed Patrick’s hair back. Their dad leaned against the wall, arms folded, but his whole posture relaxed for the first time in days.
Murphy stood frozen just inside the door, Hillary at his side, his throat tight.
Patrick finally noticed him, brightening instantly. “Murph! You’re here!”
Murphy swallowed hard, stepped forward, and ruffled his brother’s hair. “Wouldn’t miss it, buddy.”
Murphy tilted his head toward Hillary. “And I brought my girlfriend. This is Hillary.”
“Hi, Hillary. Want to see my town?”
Hillary smiled warmly, her voice catching just slightly. “I’d love to.”
The room buzzed with warmth, even against the antiseptic walls and beeping monitors. Laughter rolled out of Patrick as he argued with Maddie about which villager in his Animal Crossing town had the best house, and his eyes met with Hillary’s across the room. She gave him a small smile.
That’s when his dad clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, kiddo. Walk with me to the cafeteria. I could use some coffee, and I think you could too.”
Murphy hesitated, glancing at Patrick, but his mom gave him a reassuring nod. Hillary was leaning close, listening as Patrick explained the rules of turnip trading, her smile soft and genuine. Patrick was in good hands.
So Murphy followed his dad out into the sterile hallway. The contrast was immediate. The quiet hum of machines was replaced with the squeak of nurses’ shoes and the smell of burnt coffee drifting from somewhere down the corridor.
They sat at a corner table, trays between them. Murphy picked at his sandwich, appetite gone, while his dad tore open a packet of ketchup like it was the most normal morning in the world.
After a long stretch of silence, his dad finally said, “So. This girl. Hillary.” His eyes slid over with that same sharpness Murphy remembered from childhood—the look that meant he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it anyway. “Is it serious?”
Murphy’s chest tightened. For a second, he wanted to dodge, wanted to say something light. But this wasn’t Conner razzing him in the locker room. This was his dad.
He took a breath, forced himself to meet his father’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low but steady. “It is. She’s . . . more than I ever expected, and I don’t want to let her go.”
His dad studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly, as if weighing the words.
“Good.” He leaned back, wrapping his big hands around the paper coffee cup.
“You deserve something serious. Something that’s yours.
You’ve spent most of your life giving everything to this family, Murph.
It’s about time you let yourself be happy. ”
Murphy’s throat ached. He couldn’t speak past the lump there, so he just nodded, the weight in his chest loosening slightly.
His dad smirked then, easing the heaviness. “Well, I hope she likes Red Sox and bad diner coffee, ‘cause that’s what she’s marrying into.”
Murphy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but inside . . . yeah. It felt good to say it. To admit it. To know someone else saw what he had with Hillary and thought it was worth holding onto.
When they stepped back into Patrick’s room, the cozy chaos of beeping monitors and low laughter greeted them. Hillary slipped in behind Murphy, quiet, warm, exactly what he needed.
But almost as soon as she sat down, her phone started buzzing against the pocket of her blazer. Once. Twice. Again. She flushed, pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and quickly silenced it.
“Sorry,” she whispered, tucking it away before anyone else noticed. “It can wait.”
Murphy didn’t say anything right away. He just watched her, filing away the tension in her eyes, the way her smile wavered as she reached for Patrick’s hand.
A few minutes later, when things had settled again—Maddie on her tablet, his mom fussing with the blanket, his dad unwrapping another vending machine snack—Murphy caught Hillary’s gaze and tipped his head toward the hall.
She followed, her heels soft against the linoleum.
Out in the corridor, with the hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the muted rush of a gurney being wheeled by, Murphy leaned down so his voice stayed low.
“What’s up?” he asked, eyes steady on hers. “That was the third time your phone buzzed. Is it Sasha? Something about the team?”
He tried to keep his tone calm, but he couldn’t hide the edge of worry. He needed her here with him, wanted her here, but he also knew her world didn’t stop just because his was hanging by a thread.
Hillary shifted against the wall, lowering her voice. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve just been talking to the EA Sports guy.”
Murphy’s head snapped up. “What?” It came out louder than he meant, echoing down the sterile hall.
She blinked at him, surprised by the outburst, then smirked faintly.
“Depending on how the Cup run shakes out, they’re looking at featuring someone from the team on the cover next year.
And with all the buzz around you lately .
. . ” She shrugged like it was no big deal.
“They’re asking about you. I just sent them your agent’s info. ”
Murphy’s face went slack. “But it’s only my second year . . . ”