2

It's been five days since I last saw Lip.Five days since that party.

And I don't know what the hell happened, but something shifted.

He's been weird as hell lately—distant, dry. He doesn't call me before bed anymore. No more random "I love you" or "I miss you" texts. It's just... silence, unless I'm the one starting the conversation. Which is starting to feel humiliating.

And it doesn't make sense.We were fine on Friday. Laughing, dancing, sneaking off halfway through the night like we always do. Everything felt good. Easy. Like us.So what changed?

Maybe the drinking's gotten worse again.Or maybe he's cheating.Or maybe both.

I keep seeing it—Lip in his dorm, with that blonde girl from the party. Her on his lap, or worse, in his bed.Our bed. The one I helped pick the stupid sheets for.

Maybe I'm stretching. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Or maybe—maybe my gut's right.

My phone buzzes.

I glance down and see his name flash across the screen.

Lip Gallagher:Sorry, I got distracted. It's been a day. I'll call you in the morning.

That's it. No smiley face. No heart. No "miss you." Just another excuse.

I throw my phone onto my bed, hard, and head downstairs.

The TV doesn't even distract me. I flip through channels like a zombie, not really watching anything, until a knock at the door breaks through the noise.

I drag myself to answer it.

Ian's standing there, bundled up in a hoodie and holding a cup of gas station coffee.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, opening the door wider so he can come in.

"Nothing. They're driving me nuts over there," he says, stepping past me. "Also, I'm having problems with Mickey, and I figured—you'd probably know better than anyone."

I close the door behind him. "Well, that's perfect, because I'm having problems with Lip. We can trade sad stories."

He laughs. "Great, misery swap. You first."

I gesture to the couch. "No way. You came in hot."

We both drop onto the cushions.

"Well," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, "Mickey and I have been hooking up for a while, right? But I think he's embarrassed of me. Like, he won't kiss me in public, won't even sit too close if anyone's around. And it feels like all he wants is sex. Which would be fine if I didn't actually... like him."

His face is so raw when he says it. Quiet. Small.

I nod. "Mickey is, well—he's Mickey. Stubborn, mean as hell, emotionally backed up, and let's not forget his Nazi father. He's scared, Ian. Doing anything in public? That's probably life or death in his world. But that doesn't mean he gets to make you feel like crap."

Ian looks at me carefully.

"You gotta talk to him. Make it clear what you need. If he wants to keep you around, he'll figure it out. You guys are good for each other, even if he's still catching up."

"Thanks," he says, giving me a small smile. "Okay. Your turn."

I let out a breath and tuck my knees under me.

"Well... Lip and I went to that party Friday night, and it was honestly amazing. We had a blast—before, during, and after. We were close. Like, really close. And now it's like a switch flipped. Since Saturday he's been different. Off."

Ian watches me, totally locked in.

"I get that he's probably buried in schoolwork, but he used to call, even just for a second. He'd send little texts. Dumb memes. 'Thinking about you' type shit. Now I'm lucky if I get a 'hey.' It feels like I'm talking to a stranger."

I take a breath, trying not to sound as pathetic as I feel.

"I don't know if he's drinking again. Or if he's cheating. Or both. I keep replaying that night—him with that blonde girl at the party. The way they were talking. The way she touched his arm. I don't want to accuse him of something if it's all in my head, but it's driving me insane. And I love him. And the boys love him. And I don't know what the hell to do."

Ian's quiet for a second.

Then: "Okay, this might sound bad, but... show up."

I blink. "What?"

"Just show up at his dorm. Don't call, don't text. Just go. See what he's doing. If he's hiding something, you'll know. If he's not—then maybe you'll finally get peace of mind."

I think about it. About catching a train or bus. Showing up unannounced. Just walking into his space.

It sounds kind of crazy.

But it also sounds kind of... perfect.

"Not a bad idea," I say. "Thanks."

"If you ever need to crash here," I add, "we've got a spare bedroom. My grandma ghosted us."

Ian snorts. "Classic. Thanks though. I might take you up on that. And if you need help wrangling Lip, let me know."

"Will do," I say, walking him to the door.

⸻

The next morning, I wake up to sunlight spilling through the blinds and the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand.

"Hey," he says, voice a little groggy like he just rolled out of bed. "I'm sorry I didn't call last night. I got busy. I, uh... I miss you."

He says it like everything's normal. Like the last five days didn't feel like he disappeared.

"Are you sure about that?" I blurt out.I don't think. I just say it.

There's a pause on the line, and then—

"What the hell are you talking about?" he snaps, fast.

I sit up in bed, heart thudding now for a different reason. "You've barely spoken to me in days, Lip. You think one half-assed 'I miss you' is supposed to make me forget that?"

"Oh, come on," he says, and I can hear the eye-roll in his voice. "I've been slammed, Erin. You know that."

"Yeah, and I've been giving you space. But I also shouldn't have to beg for a damn text back," I shoot back. "A check-in. Something. It feels like I don't even exist unless I call you first."

"Jesus," he mutters. "Is this really what we're doing right now?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," I say, standing up and pacing the room now. "Because I'm not just gonna sit around pretending everything's fine while you pull away like I don't notice."

"I'm not pulling away."

"Then what are you doing, Lip? Seriously. Because it feels like you've already left and just forgot to tell me."

That quiets him for a second.

Then he says, softer but still defensive, "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah," I whisper. "But I don't know if you still want to be with me. That's the part I can't stop thinking about."

He exhales through the phone. "Erin..."

"No," I say, cutting him off before he can give me another excuse. "I'm not asking for a million texts a day. I'm asking you to show up. To care. Even when shit's busy. Especially then."

"I do care," he says. "I'm just trying to keep my head above water over here."

"Well, so am I," I say. "But I'm still here. Still trying. You don't just get to vanish and come back when it's convenient."

There's silence again. Not heavy. Just... there.

"I didn't mean to make you feel like that," he says finally, quieter this time.

I nod even though he can't see me. "Okay."

"I'll call you later, alright?" he says. "Tonight. I mean it."

"Okay," I say again, softer this time.

We both hesitate.

Then he hangs up.

⸻

I stare at the phone for a few seconds after the call ends.Not mad. Not relieved.Just... tired.

Because yeah, maybe he meant it.But I've heard that before.

And now, I'm not sure what's worse — that I still believe him, or that part of me doesn't.