Page 46 of The Lipstick Flip

We’d fought. By the end, we’d been arguing almost constantly. Noah had wanted me to be someone else. And I hadn’t understood why he couldn’t just let me be myself. But while those were answers, and they were the truth, they also seemed like…like they were too easy, maybe. Had we even tried to work things out? Or had it just been fighting, pushing, demanding, insisting? I wanted to say yes, I’d tried. But had I?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, because I didn’t think I’d like the answer. So, instead, I let the questions drift away, and I focused on enjoying the moment. The roast was perfect—a crispy crust on the outside, tender and flavorful on the inside. Anybody who had known me growing up—or in my early twenties, for that matter—would have thought it hilarious if I said I loved vegetables, but fuck me, I loved the vegetables. I’d never even heard of celeriac before I met Noah. I’d heard of parsnips, but I’d never eaten one. I had no idea how he prepared them except that it involved roasting, but whatever he did, they were like crack.

Noah did most of the talking, but that was normal; he’d always been the talker for the two of us. But the thing with Noah was that it wasn’t like a wall of words. Somehow, that nonstop flow of chatter was like a river. You could step into it whenever you wanted, and Noah would make you feel like you were supposed to be there. I hadn’t even realized I was falling in love with him until one night, on his sofa, when I suddenly realized we’d been talking for hours.

“—every time we clean him up,” Noah was saying, giggling between words, “he screams, ‘Watch the nuggets!’”

I couldn’t help myself—the memory was so strong, laughing with Noah like this back at MagnaCare about a patient who couldn’t keep his hand out of his pants, feeling like it was the first time I’d laughed in my whole life. “Oh my God, Mr. Hahn’s nuggets!”

Noah burst out laughing. “Mr. Hahn! I can’t believe you remember that!”

And then I was laughing too. It felt strange. Not because I was laughing. I’d laughed plenty since Noah and I had split up. Si had a great sense of humor—not her dad jokes, but in general. But for some reason, I couldn’t remember laughing like this. What I remembered, when I tried to think if I’d laughed in the last couple of years, were sharp, cynical bursts. Laughing at the world. Or at a fuck-up—mine or somebody else’s. But not like this, my body loose and warm after the sound rolled out of me.

I was so caught up in the conversation that when Noah stood and started picking up plates, it took me by surprise.

I managed not to look like a total asshole—I hoped—when I lurched to my feet a moment later. “Here, I’ll do that.”

“You’re the guest.”

“I’m doing it,” I said, and I took the plates from him.

With a half-smile, Noah sank back into his seat. He watched as I carried everything over to the counter. One slender finger ran around the rim of his glass.

“What do you want me to do with the leftovers?” I asked.

“Leave them. I’ll take care of them.”

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

For some reason, that made Noah giggle. I found storage containers in one of the drawers, and I packed up the food. There was a lot of it. Sure, Noah had been cooking for five. But how much had Noah eaten? A few bites? A little of everything, moving it around on his plate so I wouldn’t notice?

“There’s pumpkin pie for dessert,” Noah said as I put the last of the food into the refrigerator. “Do you want some now, or would you rather wait?”

“We can wait.” Tracy’s soft snores from the sofa made me add, “You can open your present.”

Another smile ran across Noah’s face, and he led the way into the living room. The only light now came from the Christmas tree, softening all the room’s edges with its warm glow. Noah moved over to a Bluetooth speaker, and he pressed a few buttons and then did something on his phone. Music began to play—Ella Fitzgerald singing, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” He sat on the floor and curled his legs beside him. I sat crisscross; that was how my dad always sat.

Noah dug around inside the bag for a moment, rustling the tissue paper, making a whole production out of it until I rolled my eyes. Then he drew out the little velvet box. When he opened the lid, his breath caught. He said, “Howie,” and this time, I had no idea what to make of his tone. Intent. Almost like he was angry.

“It’s—” I began.

“It’s garnet. It’s my birthstone.” He looked up, his eyes—different. Maybe it was the way the lights were shining. And maybe not. “Howie, this is too much.”

“It’s just a necklace.”

“This is gold.”

I shrugged, because what was I supposed to say to that?

“You shouldn’t have,” Noah said.

“Then give it back, and I’ll return it.”

“Don’t you dare!” He twisted around. “Help me put it on.”

It had been a long time since I’d done this. A very long time. And I’d only ever done it for Noah. I’d shown Ralph, once, how the clasps worked, because he was curious. And Dad had come home. And What the fuck are you wearing? My fingers trembled, but I got the clasp on the first try.

Noah glanced down, straightened the chain, and whispered, “I love it.”