Page 23 of The Lipstick Flip

“That doesn’t mean we can’t do a theme!”

“No. Themes.”

“You don’t even have to do anything!”

“No.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being such a stick in the mud about this. Christmas village is going to be so cute!”

“Because the last time you tried to do a theme, it was underwater fucking bedroom, and you bought, like, fifteen water lights I was supposed to install, and every time we fucked it felt like we were humping on the Titanic!”

Silence.

You dumbass, I told myself. You big-mouthed dumbass.

Laughter erupted on Noah’s end of the call. “Oh my God, I forgot about underwater bedroom.”

“I don’t know how you could forget about it. You bought all those fucking koi.”

He laughed again. “Okay, but this won’t be like that, I promise.” And because he was Noah, and it never mattered what I said anyway, he added, “The theme for the kitchen is gingerbread.”

“Oh my fucking God.”

“Why aren’t you home? I want to show you the little houses I bought, and I’m standing on your porch, and I look super cute, and I’m freezing my ass off.”

My radar dinged at I look super cute, but I ignored it. That was the kind of thing Noah said to anyone, anywhere. It didn’t mean anything.

It took me a moment to answer his question. Even though we’d been together—been married. Even though he knew the worst of it, the way nobody else did, it was still hard to say out loud sometimes.

“A meeting,” I said.

A beat. And then, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, you know. Just gotta keep going.”

“No, I meant…” He paused again. “You sounded off. When you answered.”

I toed the asphalt and tried to think of an answer. The best I could come up with was “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

And that was such a Noah thing too. Because he meant it. If I wanted to talk, he’d listen. And he wouldn’t interrupt. Wouldn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t judge. There had been a time—when I’d been at MagnaCare, and shortly after leaving—when it seemed like I couldn’t shut up. The words just kept coming out. And Noah had always been there to listen. On that little loveseat in his apartment, his feet tucked under him, a pink chenille throw across his lap. Or sitting on the floor, legs crossed, looking up at me. Or in the kitchen, with a pot of tea steaming the air between us. He’d put his hand on top of mine, and it had been so long since someone had touched me. So long since someone had wanted to touch me. And that night, when he walked me to the door, I kissed him. A part of me was still stumbling around in surprise about that. Still wondering why he hadn’t thrown my ass out the door. Wondering why he’d kissed me back.

Another ding on my radar. Because this—all of this—was exactly what had gotten us into this mess in the first place.

I cleared my throat. “No, I just meant, yeah, I’m fine.”

He didn’t say anything. I could hear his disbelief.

“We’re almost done here,” I said. “I can be back in half an hour or so if you want to wait inside.”

More of that silence. “Do you want me to wait?”

Ding, ding, ding.

“Whatever you want.”

When Noah spoke again, something had changed in his voice. “Well, I can’t come by tomorrow because I’ve got something.”