Fiona froze in the doorway, staring at the massive cardboard box and the huge bouquet of roses. "This—what the hell is this? Did they deliver to the wrong house?"
The delivery guy checked his clipboard. "Nope. Paid in full by a Steve. Addressed straight to you, ma'am. Have a good one."
He and his partner muscled the giant Samsung 34-inch TV into the living room, dropped the flowers on the coffee table, and left. The Gallaghers just stood there in stunned silence.
Veronica let out a low whistle. "Damn, Fiona. That's one hell of a suitor. That TV ain't cheap."
Fiona didn't answer. She picked up the bouquet, pulled out the little card, and read it.
"No offense meant. Just figured you'd enjoy watching games on this more than that old piece of shit. Have a good day—Steve."
Her fingers traced the edge of the card. Surprise, confusion, and something warmer flickered in her eyes.
Shane saw it all. Yeah. Steve was making his move.
Time to have a real talk with his big sister.
The living room was lit only by one floor lamp, the new TV already sitting on the stand like it owned the place. The roses sat in a vase on the table. Frank was passed out on the rug, snoring like a chainsaw.
Shane grabbed two beers from the fridge, handed one to Fiona, and dropped into the armchair beside her.
"Still up?"
Fiona blinked like she'd just woken up. "This TV… it's too much, Shane. I shouldn't keep it, right?"
She bit her lip, eyes drifting back to the flowers. "I only hooked up with him once. He seems decent, but this? It's too big. I'm not used to this kind of shit."
Shane took a slow sip and just watched her. That spark in her eyes—the one she hadn't let herself feel in years—was finally showing.
"You like it, though. Not just the TV. The feeling of someone actually giving a damn about you."
Fiona stayed quiet. She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. She didn't deny it.
Shane felt a sharp ache in his chest. He remembered every brutal detail from the memories he'd inherited. Fiona at sixteen running four jobs just to keep the heat on—frying fries at dawn, cashier at noon, cleaning hotel rooms in the afternoon, slinging drinks at night. Coming home so wrecked she couldn't even sit down to eat without passing out. Scraping together two dollars and ninety-nine cents for Debbie's hair tie and still having to make one out of old ribbon instead.
She was twenty-one and already looked like a machine that had run out of parts.
Fiona had spent her whole life giving. Sacrificing. Saving the good stuff for everyone else. She'd forgotten how to want anything for herself.
"Fiona," Shane said, voice low and steady. "If this guy seems decent… if you actually like the way it feels to be put first for once—then go for it. Go on real dates. Enjoy yourself. Chase your own happiness. You don't have to keep punishing yourself for us anymore."
Fiona stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "What? No. No way. Not right now."
She waved her hands. "The store paperwork's still not done. Frank's gonna slack off the second I turn my back. Ian and Lip—Liam still needs his shots—"
"I'll handle it," Shane cut in, firm. "I can run the paperwork. I'll keep Frank in line. Liam can stay with Sheila for a bit. I'm part of this family too, remember? Hell, right now I'm basically running it."
He reached over and covered her clenched hands with his. "Give me some of that goddamn responsibility, Fiona. You've earned the right to go after what you want. Even if it's just to try. You gave us your whole youth. Take something back for yourself."
The room went quiet except for Frank's rhythmic snoring. Fiona looked at Shane, eyes shining.
No one had ever said that to her before. Especially not her little brother.
After a long moment she pulled her hands back and wiped her eyes. "Okay. Fine. I'll… think about it."
Shane smiled and stood up. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day."
"Night, Shane."
"Night."
He headed for the basement, pausing when he passed Frank sprawled on the floor, mouth open, drool everywhere, sleeping like the world owed him.
Shane's jaw tightened. After everything this bastard had put Fiona through, after all the years she'd carried everyone while Frank drank and lied and ran…
Bang.
His boot connected hard with Frank's face.
"Guh—mmph." Frank grunted in his sleep, brow furrowing, but didn't wake.
Shane kicked him again for good measure. Frank mumbled something slurred and rolled over.
"Thick-skinned motherfucker," Shane muttered, feeling a little better. He started humming under his breath and headed down the stairs.
One night down. The family was changing. And Fiona… maybe she'd finally let herself live a little.