Chapter 28: The Party
In short, Ian was a hardworking, goal-oriented teenager—resilient, diligent, and filled with ambition. He was everything Frank was not.
All of Ian's admirable traits didn't come from Frank. They likely came from Ian's biological father—Frank's younger brother—who, ironically, was the most respectable member of the Gallagher family. A modest success story. Of course, the brothers had long cut ties with each other.
As Frank and Ian walked home together, the atmosphere was awkward. Frank realized that, though he had spent time alone with each of his kids at some point, he had never actually been alone with Ian before.
"You've done shooting drills at training camp, right? Teach your old man how to shoot sometime," Frank said, using a topic Ian was interested in to break the ice and close the distance between them.
Ian, being a typical fifteen- or sixteen-year-old, was easily drawn in. Their conversation grew more relaxed, and the awkwardness began to fade.
When they arrived home, Lip ran over. "Ian! I heard Mickey grabbed you—are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Mickey won't mess with me again. Frank took care of it," Ian replied.
"Frank?" Lip glanced at Frank with surprise.
Word of what happened spread quickly throughout the house. In true Gallagher fashion, they threw a party to celebrate—cranking the music loud, paying no mind to how late it was or whether the neighbors might complain.
In most families, with finances stretched thin and barely enough money to cover phone bills, throwing a party would be unthinkable. The atmosphere would be one of gloom, not laughter.
But the Gallaghers never bowed to life. Even when life beat them down, they raised a middle finger and shouted "fuck you" right back.
Money or not, they knew how to enjoy themselves—especially when it came to parties.
Everyone had been through a lot lately. They needed an excuse to blow off steam and forget their problems for a while.
"Hey! Do you even know what time it is?!" Kevin and Veronica stormed in, pounding on the door.
"I told you," Kevin said, "ever since we became neighbors, we agreed—you can play your music whenever, but if you're gonna go this hard this late, at least play something we like." He walked over and queued up a wild dance track on the stereo.
"Let's get it!" Fiona shouted, nodding to the beat.
"I've got some good stuff~" Veronica grinned, pulling a small baggie from between her generous curves.
What's a party without a little something extra? A few beers, some hard-hitting music, and you could dance away all the misery life had to offer.
"To Frank!" Fiona raised her bottle.
"To Frank!!" Everyone joined in, laughing and cheering, bottles in hand.
Frank's first instinct when he saw the baggie was to stop them—but he held back.
This was a Gallagher party. Stuff like that was normal. If he tried to shut it down, it would ruin everything. Besides, from Frank's memories, nothing serious had ever happened. Lip and Ian had started smoking years ago and were still alive and well.
Now was not the time for parenting—it was party time.
Something in Frank stirred—the old Frank-ness within him, awakening at the smell of drugs and bass-pounding music. He found himself joining in, high and swaying to the beat. The house felt more like a nightclub than a home.
The party raged deep into the night. Eventually, everyone was too tired to go on—some collapsing right there on the sofa—and things finally settled down.
Frank carried the kids to their rooms, one by one, then poured himself a glass of milk and sat on the couch.
"When did you start drinking milk?" Fiona asked, plopping beside him with a beer in hand.
"Because I want to drink beer… but I also don't want to," Frank said, sipping the milk—which barely had any taste to begin with.
Frank had been a raging alcoholic for over forty years. It was muscle memory at this point. His body craved it. If he didn't drink, he'd feel sick—withdrawal symptoms kicking in.
Despite being in his fifties, Frank still had all his bodily urges functioning, enough to make many middle-aged men jealous. His vitality was disturbingly impressive.
But Frank had been restraining himself. The more he drank, the stronger Frank's influence became.
It wasn't like Frank's soul would suddenly possess him and wrest control away. It was more subtle—his subconscious getting nudged, reshaped little by little.
So now, when Frank craved a drink, it felt just like wanting to play games while doing homework, or wanting a vacation while sitting at a desk job.
But he knew he couldn't indulge. He couldn't let himself fall. The work needed to be done. Bills needed to be paid.
More importantly, Frank knew those cravings weren't truly his. He wasn't a drinker by nature. Frank was. That was his desire.
If Frank gave in, if he lost to that urge—would he slowly become someone else? A stranger? A deadbeat drunk like Frank?
And if that happened, wouldn't that be Frank coming back to life inside his body?
So Frank drank milk instead. He wanted beer. But he didn't want to want it.
"You actually quit drinking?" Fiona looked at him in surprise.
"Sort of," Frank nodded.
"You didn't make another bet, did you?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Frank had quit once before, successfully—for a few thousand dollars. Someone bet he couldn't go a month without drinking. He proved them wrong. Money was more important to Frank than booze.
And while sober, he'd poured all his energy into being a father—distracting himself from the urge to drink by actually acting like a model parent. He was shockingly good at it, for a while.