10

Lip went home pretty soon after we talked. I didn't want it to lead to anything else—not yet. Not until I could trust him again.

The boys were at school, which meant I finally had time to hit the store without any distractions.

I hadn't heard from Lip since last night, but then again, I hadn't texted him either. I guess we both needed time for everything to sink in.

I was halfway down the pasta aisle when my phone buzzed. An unknown number.

"Hello?" I answered, cautious.

"Hi, is this Erin Bishop?" a woman asked. Her voice was calm, clinical. I figured it was something about Conner or Lucas.

"Yeah, that's me. What's wrong?"

"You're listed as Philip Gallagher's emergency contact. He's just been admitted—we're guessing alcohol poisoning. I'd get here as soon as you can."

My stomach dropped. "Fuck. I knew something like this was gonna happen. I'm coming now."

I didn't even hang up properly. Just shoved my phone in my jacket pocket and left my cart in the middle of the aisle. I bolted to my car and sped off.

On the way, I called everyone I could think of to watch the boys after school. Eventually, Sierra—someone I used to work with—agreed to go over to the house and wait for them.

I didn't even lock the car when I pulled into the hospital. Just parked and ran, heart hammering.

"Hi—uh—Lip Gallagher?" I said breathlessly at the front desk.

"Yeah, follow me," the nurse said, already walking.

"He's going to be okay," she added as we reached the room.

I stepped inside.

Lip was lying in the bed, hooked up to two IVs. His skin looked washed out, his lips dry. He was awake, but barely there.

"Lip," I said, moving quickly to his side. I rubbed his back, trying to ground both of us.

"Oh shit," he muttered, pushing himself up too fast. He grimaced.

"What the hell happened?" I asked, breath shaky. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I just... overdid it, that's all."

He looked anything but fine.

"You need help," I said, tears already stinging my eyes. "You're gonna kill yourself, Lip. I'm worried about you. I want to help you—but you have to want that too." I grabbed his hand and held it tight.

"I'm not an alcoholic," he said quickly, almost defensive.

"I'm not saying you are. But if you keep going like this and don't get help now, you will be."

He didn't say anything. Just stared down at our hands.

Then, quietly, like it physically hurt to get the words out, he whispered, "I don't wanna end up like Frank."

I froze.

That hit harder than anything else could've.

"I fucking hate him," Lip said, voice shaking. "Everything about him. The way he drinks, the way he uses people, the way he never takes responsibility for anything. I always said I'd never be like him. But now I'm in a fucking hospital bed for drinking too much and..."

He trailed off. His eyes were red—not from the alcohol this time.

"You're not him," I said softly. "But if you don't start making different choices... you could end up there. And I know you don't want that."

He shook his head. "I was just trying to sleep. To quiet everything in my head. It wasn't supposed to go that far."

"I believe you," I said, squeezing his hand. "But this—this was a warning. And you need to listen to it."

He looked away. Swallowed hard.

"I don't know how to fix it," he admitted. "I don't know how to stop before it gets that bad."

"That's okay," I said. "You don't have to know how to fix it yet. You just have to want to."

He blinked fast, like he was trying to stop himself from breaking. A tear slid down anyway. He wiped it fast with the back of his hand, like it pissed him off to even feel it.

"You stayed," he mumbled.

"Of course I did."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For all of it."

"I know."

The room was quiet except for the soft beeping of the monitors. I pulled a chair close and sat beside him, still holding his hand.

"When you get out of here, we talk. For real this time. No more avoiding shit. No more pretending."

He nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "I'll try."

And for now... trying was enough.

They let him go the next afternoon.

I offered to drive him home, but he said Fiona was already on her way. The nurse wheeled him out with a paper bag full of prescriptions and a packet of aftercare instructions he probably wasn't going to read. He looked better—less pale, more like himself—but still a little shaky on his feet.

I kissed his forehead before he got in the car with Fiona.

"I'll come by later," I said. "Let the boys see you're not dead."

He gave me a tired half-smile. "Tell 'em I fought off a whole bottle of Jack and won."

"You didn't win," I said, brushing my thumb across his cheek. "You barely survived round one."

He didn't argue with me.

⸻

That night, once Conner and Lucas were asleep, I walked over to the Gallagher house. The living room was dim, lit only by the TV, which was playing some old crime show no one was really watching. Fiona was in the kitchen doing dishes, and Ian was passed out on the couch.

Lip was upstairs.

I found him lying on his bed with the lights off, a cold washcloth over his forehead. His shirt was wrinkled, and his hair looked like he'd given up trying to tame it.

"You decent?" I asked, knocking softly on the doorframe.

"Unfortunately."

I walked in and sat beside him on the bed. He didn't move, just slid the washcloth down to rest on his chest and looked at me.

"You feeling any better?" I asked.

"Physically? Yeah. Mentally? I dunno. I feel like I should be more freaked out than I am."

"You almost died, Lip," I said. "That's freak-out worthy."

"I know." He sat up slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "But it's like... everything feels muted. Like I know it was serious, but it still feels far away."

"That's probably your brain trying to protect you from how scary it really was."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah well, tell my brain it's doing a shit job."

I reached for his hand again. He laced his fingers through mine without thinking.

"I don't want to be Frank," he said, quieter now. "I keep thinking about when I was a kid. How many times he ended up in a hospital bed, or drunk on the floor. And I used to tell myself, 'I'll never be like that. I'll be the one who gets out. Who does it different.' But now I'm here."

"But you're not him," I said. "Frank would've blamed the bartender, or the bottle, or anyone but himself. You? You're sitting here scared out of your mind about becoming him. That already makes you different."

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe me but wasn't sure he could yet.

"I'm trying," he whispered.

"I know you are." I leaned in and kissed his cheek. "But trying doesn't mean doing it alone."

He nodded. "I don't know what to do first. I don't even know what help looks like."

"It looks like talking to someone. It looks like cutting back, setting rules for yourself. It looks like reaching out before it gets this bad again."

"You gonna babysit me now?" he said with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm gonna love you," I said simply. "And I'm gonna hold you accountable. Because I'm not gonna lose you to this."

He stared at me for a second, then tugged me closer until I was sitting between his legs, my back against his chest. His arms wrapped around me tightly.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured into my shoulder.

"Too bad," I whispered, resting my head against his. "You've got me anyway."

We sat like that for a long time, not talking, not needing to. Just breathing, together. His heart was still beating. He was still here.

And for now, that was enough.The next morning, I sent the boys off to school with extra Pop-Tarts and the promise that I'd be home early to help with their homework. Conner asked where I went last night, and I just told him Lip wasn't feeling well and I went to check on him. He didn't ask more.

I grabbed my jacket and walked back over to the Gallagher house. It was just barely 9 a.m., and the South Side already smelled like burnt toast and motor oil.

Inside, the house was already alive in its usual barely-functioning way. Fiona was in the kitchen drinking coffee and cursing at the broken toaster. Liam was watching cartoons with the volume cranked too loud. Debbie brushed past me in the hallway with a backpack twice her size.

Lip was on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, hood tied tight. He looked like he was trying to disappear into it.

"You look like shit," I said, dropping onto the couch beside him.

"Love you too," he muttered, eyes still closed.

I nudged him with my elbow. "Brought you Gatorade. The blue kind."

That got a small smirk out of him. "You know me too well."

"I live with two boys who've had the stomach flu in rotation for the last year. Blue Gatorade is my brand now."

He sat up slowly and took the bottle, unscrewing the cap with sluggish fingers.

Fiona appeared in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Well look who's alive."

Lip groaned. "Please don't start."

"No, I'm saving my big speech for when you're less pathetic," she said. Then her tone shifted, softened. "You scared the shit out of me, Lip."

He looked away. "I didn't mean to."

"I know. But it still happened. You wanna end up like Frank, you're well on your way."

"I don't," he snapped back, too quickly. "I don't want to be like him."

"Then don't be. Start figuring out how to be someone else."

She turned back to the kitchen before he could reply. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it had the answers.

"I hate when she's right," he muttered.

"Maybe she could make it easier to listen to her if she wasn't so smug about it," I said, and Lip cracked a smile.

A few minutes later, we heard the door slam open and Conner's voice shout from the porch.

"ERIN? YOU HERE?"

"In here!" I called, standing up. The boys both barreled in, dropping their backpacks in a heap by the door.

"Is Lip okay?" Lucas asked. "You said he was sick."

"I'm alive," Lip called from the couch.

"Barely," I added under my breath.

The boys ran over to him. Conner made a face when he saw him up close. "Dude, you look dead."

"Thanks, man," Lip said dryly. "That helps."

Lucas climbed onto the couch beside him. "Did you throw up?"

"Like four times."

"Cool."

I laughed. "Alright, that's enough. Give him a minute to finish being a corpse before you start interrogating him."

Conner looked between the two of us. "Wait, are you guys back together?"

Lip and I exchanged a glance.

"Yeah," I said. "We are."

"Oh, okay," Conner shrugged. "Cool. Can we get donuts this weekend?"

"Sure," I said. "If you don't get a call home from school."

Lucas looked up at Lip. "You coming too?"

Lip blinked, like he hadn't expected the invite. "If I'm not dead, sure."

Lucas beamed.

The boys grabbed snacks from the kitchen and ran off, leaving Lip and me alone again. He looked down at his hands, still pale but steadier now.

"I keep waiting for you to change your mind," he said quietly.

"I keep waiting for you to stop giving me reasons to," I replied.

He looked at me, eyes soft but serious. "I want to get better, Erin. I just don't know what that looks like yet."

"It looks like this," I said. "Waking up. Owning your shit. Letting people in. Trying again tomorrow."

He didn't say anything, just reached for my hand and held it tight.

For the first time in days, I felt like maybe we were really going to be okay.