Page 59 of The Lipstick Flip

It was the night before New Year’s Eve, and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and walked the house again. I moved through the rooms in the dark, with nothing but the light from the street filtering in through the windows, and the glow from Noah’s Christmas tree, and the undercabinet lights in the kitchen. So, maybe it wasn’t all that dark. But there was a softness to the shadows as I padded from room to room.

Everything was fine. Everything was good. It wasn’t perfect; fuck, we weren’t even close to perfect. But Si was still in that fucking coma, and I’d done the best I could. And it was, honestly, good. It was a beautiful house. And we’d made it better—keeping original details and features like the built-ins, the exposed beams, the paneling, while also making it, you know, livable again. Every light switch worked. Every cabinet door opened and closed. Every drawer ran neatly on its runners. And every room, thanks to Noah’s touch, looked like it had been professionally staged.

Tomorrow, everyone would get to see what we’d done.

The thought surprised me. I wanted people to see this. I wanted them to walk through this house. I wanted them to see the work we’d done, and I wanted them to enjoy it and appreciate it and tell their friends about the beautiful house they’d gotten to visit on the holiday tour.

Which wasn’t the point. The point was to get clients. The point was to get more work. The point was to sell this house, take the money, and flip another.

And yeah, that was still the plan. But alone, in the dark, it caught me off guard, that wanting. Wanting people to see something I’d made. Something beautiful.

I recorded some videos of my walk-through. And then I grabbed my laptop and began editing them into something I could post on Instagram. I wanted to keep it simple. I wanted to keep it quiet. Just a sneak preview of the house, with the soft lights, the Christmas decorations, before the whole world started tramping through here. I put on Ella’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as the background music, and I left it like that. No narration. No explanation.

I had just clicked upload when a knock came at the front door.

For one moment, I had this weird thought that it was Si. That she was better. That there’d been some miscommunication, and that’s why no one had told me, and she was here, and she was going to be so happy and surprised, and I’d get to show her everything and explain why we’d changed the sink and done a pedestal instead, and I was sure she’d like it once she got used to it.

But it wasn’t Si. It was Noah.

He huddled on the porch in his usual getup: the puffer jacket with the fur-lined hood, the oversized hoodie, the fleece-lined leggings, the Uggs. He was carrying plastic shopping bags, head down, stomping his feet. When I opened the door, there was a moment when the wind howled into the house, twisting around me, snapping like teeth.

“Hey,” I said, stepping aside for Noah to come in. “You’re up late.”

He moved into the house without looking at me, and he started toward the living room. “I did some last-minute shopping. I wanted to make sure everything was ready to go for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

Noah didn’t respond. He set the shopping bags on one of the chairs and began pulling out little trinkets—a Christmas village in a glitter-gold finish; terracotta Christmas “trees”; a freaky nutcracker who was supposed to look like he was made out of gingerbread. He picked up a little felt reindeer and started pacing in front of the fireplace, poking at the garland on the mantel, apparently trying to find that one perfect spot for the reindeer.

“You don’t have to stay down here,” he said. “I’m just going to finish up, and I’ll lock up when I leave.”

“Okay.”

He tried the reindeer behind the garland, like it was peeking out. He said, “God damn it,” and picked it up again. Without looking over his shoulder at me, he said, “You can go upstairs.”

I didn’t say anything to that. I just sat out of the way and watched.

He put the felt reindeer back in the bag and picked up an oversized glass ball. He tried it on the hearth. He put it under the tree, and the lights showed his reflection curving along the glass. He shook his head like he was the biggest idiot in the world and nestled the ball in one of the armchairs, where a throw pillow had been a moment before. He considered the ball for a few seconds and then snatched it up again.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” Noah snapped.

“Great. Because you seem like you might be upset.”

“I’m not.”

I rested my elbows on my knees.

“I’m fine,” Noah said, whirling around. His eyes were red. His nose was red. His ears were red too, but that was probably just the cold. “I’m great.” He raised his chin, and that fight-me-or-fuck-me look was back again, like he wanted me to argue with him. Or, well, fuck him. “He’s the one with the problem. He’s the one who is—who is fucked up. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about. No clue. Doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t care. Why the fuck should I have to listen to his opinion about anything? But that’s how it always is. It doesn’t matter if he’s talking out his ass—every day, everybody around him acts like he’s the smartest person they’ve ever met. He has zero fucking self-awareness. Zero concept of the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he has no fucking idea what he’s talking about.”

When Noah finished, his chest was heaving inside the puffer jacket. He shook his head. He transferred the ball to one arm. He wiped his eyes.

I got up, took the ball, and set it aside. Then I pulled him into a hug.

He didn’t have to say who. Because we’d done this before, plenty of times.

For a few minutes, Noah held himself like he was made of rebar. Then, slowly, the iron went out of him. He snuffled into my shoulder as I stroked his back—not a full cry, because Noah wasn’t a cryer. But there were definitely some overcharged emotions that were slowly working their way out of him.