Page 6 of The Lipstick Flip

He stopped and watched me.

My jaw ached, which was strange because I hadn’t opened it in what felt like forever, hadn’t said anything in what felt like forever.

“Or,” Noah said more softly, “we can do this the easy way.” He waited, but I focused on staying upright, not moving, not losing my balance—because it felt like that cold air that had been washing around my ankles was still there, threatening to take my feet out from under me. Noah finally said, “My parents are in town for the holidays, and they want to spend some time—”

“You are unbelievable.” But it was flat. Disbelief more than anger.

“—with us, and I’m not asking you to do anything except show up a couple of times—”

The laugh seemed to come out of nowhere. “You are un-fucking-real, Noah.”

“You have to!” Noah snapped. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“I heard,” I said, and I shouldered the door open. The night yawned open to swallow me. “Fuck you.”

3

The house was dark when I got there. Dark except for a light in the back—in the kitchen, which Si must have left on. For me. Because that was Si.

Dark. And cold.

I let myself in. I threw the bolt behind me. I made my way past the table saw, almost tripped on an extension cord, caught myself and then immediately knocked over a sawhorse. So much fucking shit in this house. Which was strange, because once Si left, it always felt so empty.

The kerosene heater was off; Si had taken care of that too.

In the kitchen, a single exposed lightbulb hung from the ceiling where a fixture needed to go in. The light was warm, yellow, and it curled at the edges to leave shadows in the corners. A piece of paper lay on one of the plastic-wrapped countertops.

Call Ed.

Si’s blocky letters. And if that wasn’t signature enough, she’d written the message on the back of a hotdog receipt.

The refrigerator held bottled water, individual containers of yogurt—the Greek stuff, with extra protein—a few perishable protein bars, the kind that were way too fucking expensive but at least they didn’t taste like shit, and several takeout containers: Emperor’s Wok, Fratelli’s, and yeah, two foam clamshells that were exactly the same size as a hot dog.

I took a microwave dinner out of the freezer, carried it into the other room, and set it to warm in the microwave that was currently plugged into the closest functioning outlet, in what would eventually be the powder room.

And then I stood there, hands balled in my pockets, the microwave whirring, as the smell of Salisbury steak started to seep into the air.

Kick the shit out of something.

Grab the sledgehammer.

Bare hands. Punch a fucking hole through a sheet of drywall.

My fingers were stiff as I unfolded them and took the phone out of my pocket. I called Ed.

He picked up on the third ring. “Howie.”

“Hey.” And then it was like I’d stepped off a diving board without looking down. “Sorry. I don’t know—is this a bad time?”

“Nope. We just finished It’s a Wonderful Life.” The faint sounds of movement came. “What’s up?”

And this was where the rubber hit the road, so to speak. Because you could work on yourself. And you could try to get a better handle on your shit. And you could talk as much as you wanted about—about everything. About how things were, I guess. But none of it counted for ass-all unless you walked the walk.

“I’m really fucking angry,” I finally said. And then it all came out: the phone call from the lawyer, learning the divorce had never been finalized, Noah trying to squeeze me for—for whatever the fuck he wanted.

When I finished, my head was better. That blown-open feeling was gone. The red haze had thinned. Instead, I felt tired, empty, cracked down the middle. The microwave dinged, and I realized it had been dinging for a while, telling me it was done.

“Well,” Ed said, “what are you going to do about it?”