Chapter Six: Off the Rails

I drove all night, not having this much energy since I'd pulled all-nighters in preparation for student court trials in college. When I reached the border, I didn't think twice as I got in line, the desert around me warm and dry, and I found I wanted more of that in my life. I provided my ID and passport to the border patrol, and they let me pass without a second glance. Fucking Trump's America, I thought to myself as I continued along the long stretch of highway. Trusting white people just because of the color of their skin...

As I drove, I took a cursory glance at my cell phone, lying in its charging compartment, where it had been since I put it there the afternoon before. It lit up again—Ian was calling for the millionth time—and I couldn't bear it. This time, out of frustration, I ignored the phone call and kept right on driving. The stretch of road continued for as far as the eye could see, and after putting about an hour between myself and the border patrol, I pulled off at the first bar I saw. It was a tequila bar, but I was fully prepared to accept whatever consequences came my way from the moment the foreign drink came to my lips.

I got out of my car, pocketing my keys, ID, and passport in case the bar had a thing about giving alcoholic beverages to foreigners without proper identification. Stepping inside the rural-looking brick building, I caught a whiff of home cooking from the back, but found I did not want to eat, despite not doing so for nearly twenty-four hours by that point. I stepped up to the bar, ordering a tequila sunrise, and the bartender eyed me for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and mixing the drink for me. I sat there, ridged upon the barstool, hoping that nobody in the bar would speak to me. All I wanted to do, in that moment, was temporarily drown out my sorrows in a foreign country—and even though Canada was closer, I didn't care.

"Where you from?"

Shit, I thought to myself as the bartender placed my drink in front of me. The damned customers can't keep to themselves, even here... "South Side," I replied, not wanting to get too technical about my identity as I brought my drink to my lips.

"Of Chicago?"

I cleared my throat at the interrogation, the taste of the drink alien to me as I fought to keep my wits about me. "Yeah," I replied.

"Like it there?"

I shrugged. "I was shipped off to Seattle at three months—adopted," I say, putting as little emphasis into my words as possible. "Just moved back."

"Why?"

"Got a job," I said.

"Doing what?"

"I'm a fucking attorney, okay?!" I say, turning to look at the person speaking for the first time. I looked him up and down—slicked back black hair, silver eyes... Looked like one of the most normal, white-bread people out there. "What?!" I demanded as he looked at me then, as if he'd seen a ghost. "What's your deal?!"

The guy sitting next to me shakes his head, turning to look at the beer in front of him. "Fuck," he said, pushing it away from them. "I spend way too much time here..."

"Alcoholic?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "If you drink to forget."

I scoff then, picking up my drink and downing another sip, my senses already starting to swim out of control. "Oh, yeah?" I asked. "What could you possibly have to forget?"

"A lot of shit."

"Huh," I said, shrugging my shoulders like I didn't care.

"What's your name?"

I rolled my eyes, hating my moniker now. "Scarlett Davies."

"Nice," he replied. "Do you have anything to forget?"

"Yeah, plenty. I mean, normally wouldn't know what you mean but, after yesterday..." I sighed, leaning onto the counter. "Well, let's just say, I found out some shit I should've known a long time ago..."

"Like what?" the stranger asked.

"Like my biological family," I replied.

The stranger nodded, absorbing my words. "Maybe I know them."

I looked over at him again, summing him up. "How could you know them?"

"South Side, born and raised," he replied.

My eyes widened then—something about him, I couldn't explain it, but in that moment, I knew who I was speaking to. "Mickey?" I asked, deliberately keeping my voice quiet.

Immediately, the stranger turned and looked at me, his eyes fearful at the implications of what I was saying. "Do I know you?"

"No," I said, hanging on his every word, "but I know you."

"How?"

"Stories."

Mickey looked shaken at that, unsure of whether or not to continue the conversation. "Has... Has Ian mentioned me?" he asked.

I sighed. "Yes," I said at last, "he's mentioned you."

Mickey dragged his beer back towards him, tipping the last of it into his mouth. "Fuck," he said to himself.

"What?"

Mickey hesitated for a moment, before hastily wiping some tears out of his eyes. "I fucking loved him," he said.

I nodded. "I know."

"You know?" he asked, not looking at me.

I sighed. "I know what it's like to love someone, but, due to circumstances out of our control, we can never be together..."

Mickey turned and looked at me, dashing the tears out of his eyes again. "You look like him, you know," he said quietly, and I felt my face flush. "Like Ian..."

Immediately, I turned away. "We frequently adopt mannerisms of people that we're around on a weekly basis—"

"Speak fucking English!" Mickey said, growing impatient.

I sighed, gripping my drink glass. "People can become similar to those they hang around with a lot," I say, feeling like an elementary school aged textbook. I quickly down the last of my drink and slap the bar for another round, and the bartender quickly complies before going on his way of wiping down the other side of the bar. "I mean, yeah, I hang out with the Gallagher's a lot. It's only natural that I would—"

"You look like Ian in girls' clothing—and with longer hair," Mickey said, and I immediately felt myself turning to look at him. "It's not an insult—Ian's gorgeous."

I shook my head, beginning to chug my drink, my senses beginning to leave me entirely. "Guess he and I have more in common than I thought."

"What do you mean?"

I hesitated for a moment, slowly sipping my drink. "Ian ever run away?"

"Twice," Mickey confirmed.

"I know about the army already," I said. "I didn't know there was a second time."

Mickey sighed, downing the rest of his second beer. "Kidnapped my son."

I feel myself whirl around again to face Mickey, which was a mistake, due to the fuzziness that was going on in my head. "You have a son? How can you have a son?!"

"I'm married," Mickey replied. "My dad made me."

"Why would that son of a bitch make you?!" I demanded of him, already disliking the guy already—having his gay son marry a woman, come the fuck on.

"Caught me and Ian together," he explained. "Hired a prostitute to come over to fuck the gay out of me. Made Ian watch."

I felt the hot tears come to my eyes as I envisioned the scene. "You took control," I say quietly, not knowing how I knew the information. "Took control, to make it seem like you were cured, so that Ian could leave."

"You were in Seattle at the time," Mickey said, shaking his head. "How could you possibly know something like that?"

I shook my head, downing the rest of my drink and slapping the bar for a third. "I don't know how I know the things I know," I said, shaking my head. "I think it all has to do with what I found in those damned documents..."

"Documents? What documents?"

I sighed. "The ones that prove that I've been living a lie all this time, and that my worst fears have been confirmed."

"Fears? What fears?"

"You ever commit a crime, Mickey?" I ask him.

Mickey sighs. "Why the fuck do you think I'm here, instead of back in South Side, with Ian, where I belong?" he asks bitterly.

"You do love him," I say, nodding to myself.

"No shit," Mickey replies, in that same bitter tone, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing a crude etching of Ian's name, minus one 'L'.

"You know, of course, that Gallagher—"

"Ian told me when I showed him."

I reached out then, tracing the crude lettering. "It's over your heart," I say, moved by the notion of the meaning it held.

"Yeah," Mickey replied, not slapping my hand away.

"I'm sorry," I say, my speech halting, due to my drunkenness, as I raised my eyes to Mickey's, and moved to tear my hand away from Ian's name.

Mickey caught me by the wrist then, keeping my hand over his heart. "It's okay."

"Mickey..."

"What?"

I shake my head at him, not caring that we are around a million people, who, thankfully, are each wrapped up in their own lives. "Don't do this."

"It's the next best thing—"

"Do you hear yourself right now?" I whispered, looking at him desperately. "We're each broken inside because we can't be with the ones we love. We can't just fix it—not like this, anyway. If you knew... If you knew the real story..."

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "You don't have to tell me, Scarlett. I've figured it out, so you don't need to say it."

I feel my resolve weakening as I stare at him then, wanting so badly to tear my hand away, but also wanting to fix my pain, no matter now temporary it was. "We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because you love Ian..."

"You love somebody too, Scarlett. Who do you love?"

"Lip," I whispered, shutting my eyes and feeling the tears fall. "I love Lip."

"Sounds like your shit you want to forget is even more complicated than mine," Mickey puts in, and my eyes snap open then. "Isn't it?"

"Fucking complicated," I whisper to him, and, even though I know I should, I don't stop it when Mickey Milkovich inches closer to me.

. . .

I drive back to the border as soon as I can, knowing that I will have hours to spend in the car alone with my cell phone. It didn't matter to me; I had spent nearly a day ignoring the outside world, and I just couldn't do that anymore. I knew there would be worried texts and voicemails waiting for me, and I would have plenty of time to read and listen to them all.

As soon as I'd gotten a spare moment, I'd gone to the ladies room and puked for what seemed like hours. All the regret and alcohol consumption came back to haunt me as the information in the documents seemed to hit me at full-force. Where I'd been numb before and going on auto-pilot, it now came at me, like I was suddenly awakened by a nightmare, and had to run to get back to the fray.

Most of the voicemails were from Ian, and they got progressively angrier as they went on, and I was touched that he seemed to care so much.

Hey, Scarlett. Called your office and Rachel said something about a family emergency that you were involved in. Um, call me crazy, but you said you didn't talk to your family. What's going on here, Scar?

Scarlett, it's Ian. Come on, I know you're getting these calls. We're getting concerned that you're not calling us back. Please, if something's wrong, we can help. Call me back.

Scarlett. Ian. Look, I've called twice already and nothing. You're never like this—you're always on top of things. Please, I'm getting the feeling that something's wrong here. Just call me back and we can figure it out together.

Scarlett, stop avoiding the phone calls, please. I've been where you are—something bad happens and I just want to run. If that's what you did, all right, but please come back soon. Come on, Scar, you know we're here for you.

That was about it for Ian's voice messages, but I knew there would be several from Lip. As I drifted through the voicemail, and past Fiona's progressive worrying ones, I felt my heart skip a beat as I got to Lip's. Hesitating for a moment, I let the phone allow me to hear them.

Scar, it's me. Please...please don't do this. We're all worried sick. Call one of us, please.

Scar, I'm starting to panic. There was a fucking pile-up on the freeway and I'm reading reports like a madman, hoping that you weren't there. You can't be in a fucking car wreck, Scar, you just can't...

I'm starting you think you ran off because it was too much too soon—that we were too much too soon—and I just want to talk. You said that communication was important, remember? Please, just talk to me, Scar, please...

Scarlett? You there? Please. Please, just...just talk to me. I love you—we all love you—and we are seriously in full panic mode here. Just come home, please...

I couldn't listen to any more messages after that, so I just sat back in my car and attempted to sleep, but sleep successfully managed to evade me as the sky began to lighten. I kept track of the time, and as six o'clock came, I could hear car engines starting up ahead of me. Staying in line, I kept my documentation close and presented it when my turn came, and was welcomed back to the United States. I wasn't looking forward to another day of driving but, I knew, deep down, that the distance would give me time to come up with what needed to be said.

I drive north back the way I'd come, hardly taking notice of anything other than street signs, very aware of how I must look. When I was about an hour away from town, I debated stopping somewhere to change, but decided to wait until I got back to my apartment. Once I arrived, it was mid-afternoon, and I got inside and hopped into a shower immediately. Once the grim of the trip had faded away, I knew I had a lot of explaining to do, but I still hadn't managed to find the words that were necessary.

I drove across town to the Gallagher house, parking in front and making my way up the path and the stairs to the house. I didn't even bother knocking—I just tried the door and, when I found it was unlocked, stepped inside. I heard talking in the living room, suddenly silenced as I stepped in and made myself known, the only unfamiliar face I saw was a young girl with long, brown hair, holding a toddler, who I immediately knew was Debbie. I saw Ian standing with Trevor, who I recognized from photographs, and everyone looked equally shocked at me just standing there, and then the surrounding began.

"Scar!" Lip cried out then, closing the distance between us and attempting to throw his arms around me.

In those fractions of seconds, so many thoughts swirled through my mind—of how much I loved him; of him saying he loved me; of the kind of future we could've had together... However, I dodged his arms, and Fiona's, and ran to Ian, who immediately caught me up into his arms and held me as I sobbed into his shoulder. I vaguely heard Ian saying something to everyone, and then they all shuffled out, the front door opening and closing behind them.

"Would you please tell me where the fuck you've been?!" Ian demanded, holding me at arms-length as soon as everyone left the house. "You had us worried sick! What happened?!"

"Mexico," I replied.

"Mexico?! Why the fuck—?!"

I shook my head at him. "I don't know!" I replied. "Answers, I guess..."

"What do you—"

"I met him, okay?" I said, letting Ian go and feeling myself shaking all over again. "That's what I did down there. I met Mickey."

Ian looked as if someone had stabbed him. "Mickey?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"What did Mickey have to say?"

"He said I looked like you," I replied, shrugging my shoulders. "And he said..."

"What?"

"He has a message for you, Ian."

"What's the—?" Ian immediately cut himself off. "Fuck this. I have a fucking boyfriend and he never seems to get that."

"Ian..."

"No," he says firmly. "Just go, Scarlett."

"But Ian—"

"I can't! Not again!" he says, his voice breaking. "Not with him. Please don't put me through that again, Scar, please."

I nodded. "Okay, fine," I reply, turning around and walking out of the house.

. . .

"What was the message?"

I am standing in Allie's office the following day, after somehow managing to get up in time to leave for work that morning. "From Mickey?" I ask.

"No, from the fucking pope. Yes, from Mickey!"

"He loves you," I reply, and Ian looks away from me, not wanting to believe it. "Mickey loves you, and he says he'll always be waiting."

"Great." Ian turns to leave then, opening the door. "Thanks."

"Ian!" I cry out, running forward then, forcing my voice not to break completely. "Please. You can't go. We have to talk."

"Talk was before you ran off to fucking Mexico," Ian said, his voice a hiss. "Not now, Scar. I can't talk to you now," he says, dragging his arm away from mine and walking away.

And so went the next week of Ian avoiding me, and me avoiding Lip and Fiona, who still wanted answers. I was desperate to give them, but I needed to talk to Ian first—once I did, I hoped, at least, he would understand. Court was a welcome distraction, and I was pleased that Teddy Whitmore wasn't asking me about my personal life, which was good, considering the courtroom setting. He did, however, intervene on my behalf with Nicholas, who had to remain in his seat while I questioned witnesses, armed with my own notes.

Once the judge withdrew to chambers to decide his verdict—which he would be deciding the following day—I was permitted to leave the courthouse. As I walked down the steps, I stopped then, seeing Ian standing there waiting for me in his EMT uniform. I hesitated for a moment before I walked towards him, on unsteady legs, which wasn't good when you were walking in the middle of a massive staircase in heels.

"Ian," I said, my voice full of relief.

"You want to talk?" he asks. "Talk."

I sighed. "Look, this isn't going to be easy, but I do know that, in time, maybe we can come to an understanding about all this. So, please, be patient with me."

Ian sighed. "Okay."

I sighed, knowing that I should start at the beginning. "I got a call last week from Judge Whitmore, who was impressed with some case notes of mine," I began. "He's been following me academically, and was so impressed that he decided to do me a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"A legal favor," I replied. "He got my birth certificate."

"So, you know who you are?" Ian asks.

I nodded. "Yes," I replied, feeling my voice shaking as I said it. "I know who I am."

"Tell me, then," Ian said. "Tell me who you are."

"Ian, it's not that simple..."

"Scar, fucking tell me, or don't bother talking to me again," he replied.

I raised my eyes to his. "Ian, please..."

"Fuck this," Ian said, turning around and walking away from me.

"Murphy Gallagher!" I called after him, and Ian stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at me with a horrified expression on his face.

"Scar, what are you...?"

"Murphy. Margaret. Gallagher," I say, chopping up the words into sentences as I reach into my briefcase, handing my birth certificate to him. "See that? Murphy Margaret Gallagher, daughter of Frank and Monica Gallagher."

"Scar..." Ian whispered.

"What?" I asked.

Ian raised his eyes to mine, from where they'd been staring at the birth certificate. "The date. It's the date..." He stammered, unable to speak.

"What about it? I assumed we were Irish twins..."

"We're not Irish," Ian replied, and I felt my eyes widen then.

"What are you saying?" I whispered.

"We're just fucking twins," Ian said quietly.