21

It'd been three weeks since Kev and V's party — since the night Liam ended up in the fridge and I slow-danced with Lip in the middle of all that Gallagher chaos like we were the only two people on Earth.

And for a minute after that... things had felt good. Like maybe we had something real. Something solid, even if the rest of our lives were on fire.

But then came the spiral.

Lip had always had a short fuse, a sharp tongue, a streak of destruction just under his skin. But lately, it wasn't buried anymore. It was right there, out in the open. Bottle in his hand more nights than not. Slurred words. Picking fights. Blacking out and pretending like it was no big deal the next day.

And tonight, it all came to a head.

⸻

He stumbled into my house around midnight, smelling like beer and gasoline, with a busted knuckle and a cocky smirk like he didn't know how close to the edge he was.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, dragging his feet across my carpet. "Miss me?"

"You're drunk."

"No shit," he laughed, slumping down on the couch. "Long day."

I just stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. The same old routine. Come in loud, reek of trouble, pretend everything's fine.

"You were supposed to come over three hours ago," I said.

"Got caught up."

"At a bar?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it fucking matters!" My voice cracked. "You told me you were gonna slow down. That you were trying."

"I am trying," he said, but it came out defensive, like a kid caught in a lie.

"No, you're drinking yourself sick. Every goddamn night. You missed dinner with the boys. Again."

He rolled his eyes. "You want a medal for feeding your brothers or something?"

That did it.

"Get out," I said, quietly.

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No, come on," he said, standing up, wobbling a little. "We're not doing this tonight. I had a few drinks, yeah, but Jesus—"

"It's not just tonight, Lip!" I shouted. "It's every night! You're not even trying anymore. You show up wasted, or you don't show up at all. And I keep telling myself it's temporary, that you're gonna pull yourself together—but you're not."

He scoffed. "So what, you're done? Just like that?"

I looked at him. His eyes were glassy. His lips were chapped. He looked like a ghost of the boy who slow-danced with me in the living room and whispered that I was it for him.

"I don't want to be done," I said, softer now. "But I can't do this with you like this."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine," I snapped. "You're breaking everything good in your life, and you don't even see it."

"I'm not Frank."

"I know you're not," I said, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "But you're acting like him. And that scares the hell out of me."

He looked away. That landed. I saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched.

"I love you, Lip," I said, stepping closer. "I do. But I'm not going down with you."

He swallowed hard, still not looking at me. "So that's it?"

"No," I said. "It's not it. But we're done for now. Until you get this under control."

Silence.

He finally looked at me then. Really looked at me. His eyes were red, but he didn't cry. He just nodded.

Once.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He grabbed his hoodie off the chair. "I get it."

He headed for the door. I wanted to stop him. I didn't. I couldn't.

Just before he stepped outside, he turned back.

"You think I'll fix it?" he asked, voice raw. "Come back?"

"I hope you do," I whispered. "But I'm not gonna be here waiting if you don't."

He held my gaze for a second longer. Then he walked out into the night.

And I shut the door behind him.

Then I leaned against it, slid down to the floor, and cried like I'd just torn my own heart out.

Because I had.The second Erin shut the door, it was like something snapped inside me.

No yelling. No screaming. Just that quiet little click as she locked me out. And that was worse.

I stood on her porch for a second, jaw clenched, heart pounding, not sure if I was gonna knock again or just scream into the night. But I didn't do either.

I turned and stormed next door.

Didn't even bother being quiet about it.

Kicked the gate open. Slammed the Gallagher front door behind me so hard something upstairs thudded. The living room light was still on. Fiona was sitting on the couch folding laundry — again — wearing one of her old hoodies, eyes half-closed like she'd been dozing off.

She jumped when the door slammed.

"What the hell, Lip?"

I didn't answer. Just grabbed the lamp off the end table and threw it across the room.

It shattered against the wall.

"Jesus Christ!" Fiona jumped up. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"She kicked me out!" I shouted, pacing across the living room like a caged animal. "She fucking ended it."

Fiona blinked. "Erin?"

"Yeah. Erin." I grabbed one of the couch cushions and chucked it across the room like that would help. It didn't. "Said I've been drinking too much. Said I'm acting like Frank. Frank, Fiona."

Fiona winced, but didn't say anything.

"I've been showing up every day," I kept going, hands in my hair now. "I've been trying. I've been there for her and the boys and the stupid family movie nights and the fake-ass birthday cake we made out of pancake mix last week—"

"She didn't say you weren't there, Lip. She said you weren't you anymore."

That stopped me for half a second.

I looked at her. "What does that even mean?"

"It means she sees what the rest of us have been seeing."

I stared at her. "Are you taking her side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side," Fiona said carefully. "But you've been spiraling for weeks, and if you weren't my brother, I'd have kicked your ass out too."

That hit like a punch to the gut.

I sank down onto the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers pressed to my temples.

"She said we can try again... once I get it under control."

"That's not the worst thing someone's ever said to you," Fiona said gently.

"It felt like it."

I sat there, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, blinking fast.

"I'm not Frank," I muttered.

"I know you're not," Fiona said, moving to sit beside me. "But if you keep drinking like this, you're gonna start looking a hell of a lot like him."

I didn't answer. My throat was closing up. Something hot and awful started pressing at the back of my eyes, and I tried like hell to push it down.

"She was supposed to be different," I said finally. My voice cracked. "It was supposed to work."

Fiona didn't say anything.

"I don't even know how to fix it," I whispered.

"You don't have to know yet," she said, her hand gripping my shoulder. "You just have to want to."

I didn't want to cry. I really didn't.

But my body didn't listen.

Tears hit before I could stop them, and the next thing I knew, I was curled forward, chest heaving, full-on breaking down like I was some kid again — the kind that used to wait at the window for Monica and lie to himself that she'd come back.

Fiona held me. Not like it was nothing. Not like she was trying to fix it.

Just held me.

"I'll help you," she whispered into my hair. "Whatever it takes."

And I didn't say anything.

Because for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, I wasn't sure if I deserved it.