5

Christmas was in four days.

I still had some money saved from when Dad left us the five hundred grand. Not much—most of it had vanished into overdue bills, rent, food, gas—but enough to make sure Conner and Lucas had a real Christmas. I'd been stashing little things away for months, wrapping them when the boys weren't looking. This week, I used the last of what I could spare to buy them something special.

Lip... I had bought him a couple of things too, back before we fell apart. A hoodie he pointed out in some store window. A used copy of The Design of Everyday Things—I'd hunted it down at a thrift store for two bucks. A stupid joke mug that said "I void warranties" on it, because it reminded me of him.

I thought about returning them. Thought about smashing the mug. Instead, I wrapped them. Shoved them into the back of my closet and told myself it wasn't about us being together again. It was just... just in case.

The boys were next door at the Gallagher house, bundled up and pelting Carl and Debbie with snowballs. Lucas had lost a glove and didn't seem to care, his hand red and raw. Conner was laughing so hard he fell face-first into a snowbank. It was freezing, but the kind of freezing that made everything feel clean. Honest. Sharp.

Then came the knock at the door.

I opened it slowly, half-hoping it wasn't who I knew it was.

Lip stood there, snow clinging to his lashes, breath puffing in front of him.

"Hey," he said. "Can we talk?"

I didn't answer. Just stepped aside and let him in.

He shook the snow off, standing awkwardly in the center of the living room like he didn't remember how to be in this space anymore. I sat down on the edge of the couch, arms folded across my chest.

"I know I fucked up," he said.

"Yeah. You did."

"I'm not here to make excuses. I just... I want to be honest."

"So be honest."

He hesitated, jaw tightening.

"Did you fuck Amanda?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," he said, eyes not leaving mine.

"Damn it, Lip." I pressed my fingers to my temple. "You said it didn't mean anything."

"It didn't."

"Then why?"

"Because I was mad. And drunk. And stupid. I thought maybe hurting you would make me feel less like shit."

"You really thought that would help?"

He looked away, ashamed. "No. I just didn't think at all."

I stood and crossed to the window, watching the boys tackle Carl. "I'm not ready to forgive you," I said.

"I'm not asking you to," he said from behind me. "I just... I still care about you. That hasn't changed."

I turned back to him slowly. "I care too. That's the part that sucks."

He stepped closer, his hands in his pockets, eyes soft but uncertain. "Then maybe we start with that."

I didn't say anything.

Then we heard it—screaming from outside. Not the fun, goofy kind. The sharp, panicked kind.

"Lucas!" I bolted to the door and flung it open. The kids were clustered at the bottom of the front steps. Debbie was trying to pick Lucas up off the ice, her face pale. His leg was bent the wrong way.

"Oh my God." I ran across the yard, falling to my knees next to him. He was crying hard, shaking, face red and soaked with snot and tears.

"He slipped on the stairs," Carl said. "He was trying to beat Conner back to the porch."

"I didn't push him!" Conner shouted, scared.

"I know, baby," I said quickly, brushing his hair back. "It's okay."

Lip knelt beside me. "We need to get him inside."

"Don't touch it," I snapped, panic rising. "Don't—just—fuck."

"I'll call Fiona," Debbie said, already pulling out her phone. "She'll take us to the ER."

Lip didn't move, just hovered next to me as I held Lucas's hand, trying to keep my own voice from shaking. "It's gonna be okay. We'll get you to the hospital, baby. Just breathe. Okay? Just breathe."

His cries quieted a little. I could see the swelling in his ankle, already starting to bruise.

By the time Fiona's van pulled up and we got him loaded inside, my hands were numb from the cold. Lip climbed in next to me without asking. I didn't tell him to leave.

Lucas gripped my hand so hard his nails left little crescent moons in my skin. Conner sat up front with Fiona, silent and pale.

At the hospital, we were told it was a clean break. No surgery needed, just a cast and some rest.

When we finally made it home—Lucas half-asleep in my arms, the white cast fresh on his leg—it was well past dark.

I laid him on the couch and pulled a blanket over him. Conner curled up on the floor next to him without a word.

Lip stood in the doorway, unsure.

"You should go," I whispered.

He nodded, turned to leave.

"Lip?"

He looked back.

"Thanks for staying."

He gave a quiet nod. "Anytime."

Then he disappeared into the cold again.

I closed the door, sat on the couch beside my brothers, and exhaled slowly. Maybe nothing was fixed. But at least for tonight, none of us were alone.