Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

Priority

When we got home, Lip was still fiddling with some construction bullshit. He was atop a ladder, playing with the wiring of the ceiling light with a pair of pliers.

Glancing at Lip with loathing, I wondered if it was too late to switch to Debbie's side on this house thing.

I lead the way through the living room while Ian trailed behind, still attempting to mend whatever he had broken. “You wanna make dinner together?”

Without looking back at him, I continued through the living room en route to the kitchen. “No. I want to shower.”

From his perch above, Lip quashed this small wish. “Hot water’s still out.”

Glaring daggers up at him, I questioned, “fuck you been doin' all day, sittin' around jackin' off?”

“Ignore him,” Ian told his brother as I grabbed a beer from the fridge. “He's just bitchy because we rented a place on the West Side.”

More of my anger shifted to Lip as I addressed my husband. “No, look, it’s his fuckin' fault we gotta move in the first place!”

The front door swung open and slammed closed before Debbie and Franny walked into the living room. Noting the tension in the air, Debbie wondered, “what’s goin’ on?”

Still atop the ladder, Lip asked his brother for more information. “W—wait. You found an apartment?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied with optimism. “It’s got a pool. And a garden.”

“You’re moving out already?” Debbie pouted, devastated. The war was over and Lip had won.

“Signed a lease and everything,” Ian confirmed to her dismay.

With a cold beer in my hand, I squeezed past Ian, Debbie, and Franny on my way back to the living room. In the process, I was pressed into the ladder. Instead of catching myself and minimizing the impact, I let the shifting weight transfer from my shoulder to the ladder, effectively bumping it and knocking the pliers from Lip’s hand.

“Shit!” Lip hissed at the turbulence as the pliers fell to the floor.

Ignoring him, I continued forward to sit on the couch. I glanced at Lip apathetically and took a long gulp of my beer.

From the top step of the ladder, Lip stared at me expectant and aggravated. “You pick that up? They’re right there.”

I scratched the side of my forehead he could see with my middle finger.

“Jesus Christ. Hand me the pliers, Mickey,” he commanded in his best “dad voice.”

“Get it yourself, bitch,” I retorted.

That got Lip to come down from his pedestal. “What the fuck's your problem?”

I set my beer down on the coffee table, rising to meet Lip at eye level. “You are my fuckin' problem. If you weren’t all Mr. Fuckin' Fix It, I wouldn’t be movin’ to the goddamn West Side.” I stepped into his personal space to show dominance, but Lip didn’t budge.

“Pick it up,” he ordered again.

Intrigued, I glanced down at the pliers and challenged, taking another step toward him, “or what?”

Lip was doing his best to stay calm, keeping his tone level as he said, “get the fuck out of my face.”

I gave him a shove, sending him reeling backwards. “The fuck are you gonna do?”

Bouncing back, Lip clenched his fists and punched me in the face. Pain exploded from the cheek he had made contact with, temporarily knocking me off my game. Luckily, I was quick to bounce back.