Page 58 of The Lipstick Flip

“Are you getting a new job? Are you quitting MagnaCare?”

“No.”

“What did you wear to your last job interview?”

“It’s not a job interview, Howie.” He fiddled with the collar on the shirt. “It’s…” He sighed. “It’s for a nurse practitioner program.”

Which was something we’d talked about. A lot. Before.

“Oh. That’s great.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, of course. You’ve wanted to get a master’s for a long time now.”

His shoulders stiffened, and it took me a moment to recognize the sudden defensiveness. But Noah’s voice was cool as he said, “It’s a doctoral program. Actually.”

I thought about that. And then I said, “Doctor Reynolds? That’s fucking fantastic. Wait, like an MD?”

“No, it’s—a lot of the advanced practitioner roles for nurses are doctoral programs now, or they’re transitioning that way. If they’re going to require a doctorate down the road, I think it makes more sense to get one now.”

“Yeah, okay. And you’ve already got an interview?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“When is it?”

Noah gave a wary shake of his head, still staring into the mirror. But he said, “It’s coming up.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes you have to apply three or four times to these programs to get accepted. And I’m not a great candidate—”

“Fuck that. Of course you’re a great candidate. You’re a fucking fantastic candidate. Jesus, Noah, we should be celebrating.”

He did glance over at me then, head tilted, the expression on his face unreadable. Finally he said, “Thank you.”

That left me unexpectedly off-balance. “Well, yeah.” And then I said, “Nothing with your nips.”

A laugh burst out of Noah. “What?”

“Noah, you’re a great nurse. You’d be awesome in that program. But please, for the love of God, you can’t go to that interview with your nips poking out.”

He laughed again, and the lines of his body relaxed. “Message received.”

And he went back into the fitting room.

It wasn’t like I was a huge help. I didn’t know anything about clothes. And I didn’t know anything about nursing programs. Hell, I didn’t know much about interviews—the last time I’d done one was when I’d joined the police, and I’d been so nervous I’d tried to throw up twice in the toilet beforehand. But Noah seemed to appreciate when I said, “That looks nice,” or “You look really good in blue,” and I could handle that.

He ended up with an outfit that was, well, Noah. But a professional Noah. Not the oversized hoodie and leggings. Not the cat ears. A white wool coat, a gray turtleneck, black jeans. He fell in love with a pair of white suede ankle boots that I couldn’t talk him out of—he got this look in his eyes I’d seen with animal hoarders, and I realized if I tried to get between him and his suede booties, I was going to get shanked.

We were driving home when he said, out of nowhere, “Thanks, Howie.”

He was staring out the windshield. The sun sparkled on the glitter on his cheeks.

I should have said thank you too. I should have said anything, I guess. But I squeezed the back of his neck, and I kept my hand there the rest of the drive home.

18