13

I was trying to help Fiona fold laundry — and by "help," I mean I was sitting on the floor watching her fold like she was in the Olympics — when someone knocked on the front door.

"You want me to get that?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nope," Fiona said, not looking up from the towel she'd just folded with scary precision. "If it's someone I don't want to see, they'll keep knocking."

And like magic: another knock.

Lip called from the couch, "Probably Frank trying to trade a squirrel for a six-pack again."

"Not funny," I muttered, standing.

But when I opened the door, it wasn't Frank.

It was Jessie.

He looked... better. Cleaner. Less like he was sleeping in a Greyhound bus station and more like someone who had figured out how to wash his clothes in a sink.

"Hey," he said, his voice low like he didn't want to disturb anything.

"Jess." I blinked, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you. And... I think we're okay now."

I stepped back to let him in, then turned toward the living room. "Uh... Fiona?"

She looked up, eyebrows raised like she was already regretting this.

"This is my half-brother," I said. "Jessie. He's—he's the one who told us about my dad's, um, situation."

Jessie gave an awkward half-wave. "Hi. Thanks for letting her stay here."

Fiona blinked, then shrugged. "Sure. Hope you're not gonna cause drama, though. We're already fully stocked."

"I'm not. I swear," Jessie said quickly. "I just came to let her know it's safe now. Nobody's after Greg anymore."

That got Lip's attention. He sat up, narrowing his eyes. "You sure about that?"

Jessie nodded. "I talked to the guy Greg owed. He got paid off. I don't know by who — maybe my mom. Or he got lucky. Either way, it's over. You guys can go home."

I stared at him, like if I blinked too hard, it would all disappear.

Fiona stood up and gave me a look that wasn't exactly warm, but definitely not cold. "If you're really sure it's safe, then yeah. Might be time."

Jessie gave me a hopeful look. "I went by earlier. Door was locked. Nobody around. You should check it out."

I nodded slowly, heart doing weird things in my chest.

Before I could say anything else, Ian came in from the kitchen with a banana and a bandaid on his forehead. I don't even want to know.

"Is that the mysterious sibling?" Ian asked, nodding toward Jessie.

"Yeah," I said. "Ian, this is Jessie. Jessie, Ian."

Jessie gave him a small wave. "Hey."

Ian studied him for half a second, then smiled politely. "Cool. Good luck. It's a rough crowd over here."

"Thanks," Jessie said, like he wasn't sure if it was a joke or not.

When Jessie finally left, I stayed behind for a second. Ian was still in the kitchen, peeling the banana like it wronged him.

"Ian," I said, "thanks for not being weird."

He glanced over. "About your dad or the secret half-brother?"

"Both."

He smiled softly. "You deserve better family. So if he turns out to suck, we'll just trade him in."

"For what?"

He thought for a second. "A blender. Or a cat. One that doesn't poop on the bed."

I laughed. "You're weird."

"And yet here we are."

⸻

By the time Lip and I walked across the yard to my house, I felt like I was carrying a balloon in my chest — half hope, half nerves.

The front door creaked open, and the balloon popped.

Everything was wrecked.

The living room looked like a tornado had taken a personal grudge against it. Couch cushions gutted, the coffee table in pieces, broken lamp shades, drawers open and emptied. It smelled like mildew and bad karma.

Lip stepped in behind me. "Jesus. Did a raccoon learn how to pick locks?"

I didn't answer. I just walked slowly toward the boys' room. Their bunk bed had one leg snapped and was leaning against the wall like it had given up.

I swallowed hard. "Guess we're not totally safe."

He knelt down next to a pile of scattered LEGO bricks. "I dunno. This is kind of an upgrade from the Gallagher house."

I looked at him.

He grinned. "Fewer fire hazards. Only some urine smell."

"Lip."

He stood up, brushing dust off his jeans. "Alright, alright. Don't cry. You'll make me cry, and then we're both gonna be emotionally unstable and need Fiona to parent us."

Despite everything, I laughed. "Too late."

⸻

We spent the next hour trying to clean up. Lip found a broom with half the handle missing and immediately began "sword fighting" the broken furniture while humming the Pirates of the Caribbean theme.

At one point, I caught him duct taping two pieces of the coffee table together. "This isn't going to work," I said.

He looked up. "That's quitter talk."

"Lip, you can't just fix everything with duct tape."

"Says who?"

"Literally society."

"Society also thinks you shouldn't drink boxed wine out of a measuring cup, and yet here we are."

He smirked, pushed his hair out of his face, and walked over to where I was kneeling by the TV stand.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded. "Mostly mad. But yeah. I'm okay."

He nudged my foot with his. "You still have a place. Even if it's a little busted."

"You think?"

He nodded. "Yeah. And you've got me."

That made my heart do a weird cartwheel. He must've seen it on my face, because he added, "Not in a mushy way. Just, like, you know. In a grumpy ride-or-die kind of way."

I leaned into him. "My favorite kind."

He reached up, pulled a crayon out of my hair, and held it up like a trophy.

"You're officially back home," he said.

It took all day and a whole roll of duct tape, but we did it.

Well — mostly. The couch still looked like it got in a fight with a bear, the coffee table was held together with enough tape to qualify as a safety hazard, and one corner of the carpet was permanently sticky. I didn't want to know why.

But the trash was out, the dishes were clean, and for the first time in weeks, the place felt like it belonged to me again.

Lip stood in the kitchen, hands on his hips, squinting at the crooked painting he'd just rehung like he was inspecting fine art.

"It's not even," I said.

"It's charmingly slanted," he said. "Adds character."

"Character like a haunted house."

"Exactly."

I rolled my eyes and sank down onto the couch — slowly, carefully, like it might bite me. It didn't.

Progress.

Lip flopped down next to me with a sigh that sounded like it came from his soul. "I'm never touching another Clorox wipe again."

"Oh, please," I smirked. "You used, like, two."

"And that's two too many." He looked around, then nudged me with his elbow. "Proud of you."

I blinked. "What?"

"For not setting the whole place on fire and running away. You could've. No one would've blamed you."

I smiled a little. "I thought about it. But you kept stealing my lighter."

"You're welcome."

⸻

The front door burst open before I could answer, and two whirlwinds tumbled inside.

"ERIN!" Lucas shouted, dropping his backpack in the middle of the floor.

"YOU'RE HOME!" Conner yelled right behind him.

They both collided into me like tiny missiles, arms around my neck, legs scrambling over the couch.

"Oof—okay, okay—Jesus," I laughed, hugging them tightly.

Lucas pulled back and looked around. "Where's all our stuff?"

"Put away," I said. "Like it's supposed to be."

Conner narrowed his eyes. "Did you clean?"

Lip raised an eyebrow from across the room. "She had help."

Lucas climbed onto Lip's lap like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Did you clean too?"

Lip looked mildly offended. "Yeah, I clean. I'm very hygienic."

Conner pointed. "There's tape holding the table together."

"It's modern art," Lip said. "You wouldn't get it."

Lucas reached into Lip's hoodie pocket. "You still have candy in here?"

"Don't eat that," I said quickly. "It's probably older than you."

Lucas sniffed it. "Smells like sadness."

Conner looked at the duct-taped table again, then at Lip. "Are you gonna live here now?"

Lip looked like he'd just been asked to babysit a raccoon. "What? No. Why would I—no."

Lucas leaned his head back on Lip's shoulder. "I want pancakes."

"It's 6 p.m.," I said.

"I still want pancakes."

Lip sighed. "You break into someone's hoodie, insult their snacks, then demand pancakes?"

Lucas nodded.

"I like him," Lip said.

I looked at my brothers — sprawled out like they owned the place, faces smudged from the day, shoes definitely still on — and I felt it.

Home.

A little broken. A little patched up. But still ours.