Page 33 of The Lipstick Flip

“That’s easy; I can do that.”

“If you buy those cheap-ass lights from Walmart, they’ll probably set the tree on fire.”

“Don’t you have a lot of work to do?”

I pointed the saw at him, but Noah never knew when he was being threatened. He just laughed and started fluffing the tree.

Because I did have a lot of work to do, I went out back and started cutting baseboard. Sure, Joe could have done it. But Joe was costing me—well, Noah—a fucking fortune, and I could handle the baseboard. The whole process meant a lot of trips in and out of the house: measuring, cutting, fitting. I took advantage of the opportunity to shoot some videos for my Instagram account. Baseboards weren’t exactly rocket science, but one thing I’d learned from having this account was that people just wanted to see you do something—and there was always somebody who’d never seen it before.

That was how I spent my morning. I didn’t even know it was lunchtime until Noah showed up with a twelve-inch meatball sub and a large Coke.

“Thanks,” I said. “Can you put it in the kitchen?”

“No, because if I put it in the kitchen, you’re never going to eat it.”

“I’m just going to finish this room.”

“And then you’ll be on a roll, and you’ll start the next room. Or you’ll remember you wanted to do one little thing, and you’ll decide to do that before you eat. Or you’ll—”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to finish this piece.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

I honestly had no idea, but I said, “Yes.”

“Liar. Wash your hands. I’ll get this ready for you.”

“What’s there to get ready? It’s a sandwich—”

Let me tell you, I remembered the look on his face.

So, I went inside. I washed my hands. Noah had pulled a couple of boxes near the window in the living room, and he’d spread the takeout bag over one like a plate, and the sandwich had its wrapping cuffed and looking like someone was going to take a picture of it.

And so—because people on Instagram like weird things—I did.

I sat and ate, and the sunlight coming through the window warmed me up. It wasn’t like I’d been cold outside—not exactly, not bundled up and working. But there was a difference between not being cold and feeling warm. And that difference might have had something to do with meatballs, mozzarella cheese, and white bread.

I was halfway through the sandwich when I heard Noah say, “No, the other way.”

Joe said something I couldn’t quite hear.

“Because I don’t like it that way,” Noah said. “We talked about this.”

This time, Joe’s response reached me: “That’s how they’re supposed to go in.”

“I don’t care how they’re supposed to go in.”

“Okay, let me check with Howie.”

I remembered something from chemistry class about how some metals—or elements, or something—boiled at room temperature. I couldn’t see Noah’s face, but I winced. And then I took another bite of my sandwich.

“You don’t need to check with Howie. I’m telling you right now that’s not how I want you to install those lights.”

Joe’s silence lasted several seconds. And then he said, “Sure.”

And it was the kind of tone guys used when they wanted someone to stop bothering them.

Maybe there was something wrong with my brain. Maybe I’d been spending too much time on this stupid Instagram account. Maybe I just wanted to see somebody else step on one of Noah’s fucking landmines—like, a guilty pleasure in watching it happen to someone else.