Page 161 of Power Play
“Oi! Echo! Murphy’s in love!”
“Echo!”
I throw a crust at his head. “Say that again and I’ll make you carry the wardrobe by yourself.”
“You’re just mad I said it first,” he sing-songs.
He’s not wrong.
Jacko’s scrolling through his phone. “Mate, you’ve got twelve new fan pages. One of them is calledSophieAndMurphy4Ever.”
I groan. “Kill me.”
“Some of them think the ice tackle was staged,” Dylan adds. “One girl said she’d body check her own grandma for a love story like that.”
“That’s sweet,” I mutter. “And deeply disturbing.”
I keep laughing with them, but my eyes keep flicking to the empty hallway. To the bathroom stocked with Sophie’s shampoo, even though she isn’t moving in. To the little ceramic mug, she lefton the counter after we toured the place, already claiming a shelf like she belonged here.
She still hasn’t said if she’ll move in. She hasn’t said no, either.
After the boys leave, I finish unpacking what I can. Mostly clothes. A few photos. My lucky hoodie she always stole.
I hang her key by the front door. Not as a guilt trip. Just in case.
The silence creeps in around six. I try music. I try TV. I even open the fridge five separate times like food might magically appear or offer sage emotional advice.
But mostly I sit on the couch we picked together, staring at the spot where she joked about putting a bookshelf, wondering if she ever will.
My phone buzzes.
Sophie:Hope the couch made it in one piece. Also hope Jacko didn’t try to assemble anything. That man once glued a spatula to a frying pan.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Me: Jacko’s banned from tools. Ollie tried to “feng shui” the cutlery drawer.
I now own five forks and a knife named Brenda.
Sophie: Tell Brenda I said hello. And that I miss her. (The knife. Not you. Obviously.)
Me: Obviously. Miss you too, Hart.
There’s a pause. Three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
Sophie: You’ll make it feel like home. I know you will. I’m just not ready yet.
My chest tightens, but not in that gut-punch way it used to. More like a quiet ache. The kind that means something’s healing.
Me: I’ll be here. No rush. No pressure. Just a spare key and too many throw pillows.
She doesn’t reply straight away, and I don’t expect her to. That’s not how this works anymore. It’s not about fast fixes or grand speeches. It’s the day-to-day. The little things. The fact that she texted at all.
I get up, wander to the bedroom. The walls are still bare, but the duvet smells like her shampoo. I left it that way on purpose. I crawl into bed alone, let the weight of the day settle in. This place should’ve been filled with her laughter today. With boxes of her books, her shoes scattered by the door, her complaints about how I fold towels wrong.
Instead, it’s just me. But the towels are still folded her way. And that has to count for something.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
