Page 12 of The Lipstick Flip

“It’s not like he’d have to take charity, Noah,” Tracy said. “God forbid. Your father would give him a job.”

“The man’s got a job,” Jonathan said. “A real job. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

That pinched, savage look was back on Marty’s face. “I had a really great connect with the people at Investeri. Noah, you don’t know about them, but they’re a very big deal right now.”

“Dad,” Noah tried again, “you know what Howie and I were talking about the other night? Investing in crypto. Do you think—”

Jonathan actually stopped in his tracks and turned to face his son. “Crypto? Good Lord, Noah.” And then, to me, without missing a beat, “You’re the one who handles the money, right?”

Noah got so small inside his puffer coat that he almost disappeared into the fur-lined hood.

“You know,” I said, “we make all our decisions as a family.”

And I had zero fucking idea why I said it except sometimes, people pissed me the fuck off.

“Here’s some free advice,” Jonathan said as he started forward again. “Don’t let Noah spend it on magic beans.”

It wasn’t that my brain snapped. Not exactly. But there was definitely this sense of reaching a breaking point.

I pulled free of Tracy and gave her a push toward Marty. She tottered, and Marty caught her. And I said, “Shit—excuse my language—I just saw a couple of our gay friends. You don’t mind if we say hi, do you?”

Jonathan’s mouth tightened at gay friends. Tracy looked like the sudden sea change might make the schnapps come back up. Marty was sneering like he was trying to think of a joke—I’d check back with him in about forty minutes.

Before Noah could say anything, I grabbed his hand and towed him into the line of trees.

We went about twenty yards. The sounds of the farm faded behind us—music dwindling, voices thinning, until the only noise was the powder compressing under our shoes, and the hum of the strands of light overhead, and our breaths alternating in small explosions.

I was still holding his hand, so I let go.

“Our gay friends?” Noah asked.

“Well, I don’t fucking know. Half the time they think you and I are living in an episode of Queer as Fuck. Remember when your mom asked if we had an open relationship?”

A startled laugh—a real laugh, the first one I’d heard in a long time from him—bubbled up from Noah. But all he said was, “Queer as Folk.”

I grunted.

“We should go back,” Noah said after a few minutes. His puffer coat rustled every time he moved, and when I glanced over, he had his hands over his eyes. He dropped them almost immediately, and it didn’t look like he’d been crying, but his cheeks were still pink, and his eyes were too bright. “The whole point of tonight is to spend time with my family.”

“Yeah, and that was going great.”

“I know you don’t like them—”

“You don’t like them. I don’t like how they treat you.” And for a moment, it was like I’d stepped two years back in time, and the disorientation was so strong that I almost lost my footing. Noah still hadn’t said anything, so I cleared my throat. “I thought you could use a minute, that’s all.”

We walked on.

And then, softly, Noah said, “Thank you.”

Now what in the seven fucks was I supposed to say to that?

Eventually, because I was such a fucking genius, I came up with “Does your dad seriously want to cut down his own tree?”

“Have you met my dad? He’s been talking about it for weeks. Keep in mind that my entire life, he’s used a delivery service—we never even went to a tree lot. My mom hires a tree designer. Did you know that’s a job? A professional Christmas tree decorator.”

“Fuck me.”

“If flipping houses doesn’t work out, that could be your backup.”