Page 7 of The Lipstick Flip

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I want to drive back over there and—” Things had never gotten physical between me and Noah; things had never gotten that bad. But there was this part of me that wanted to—to grab him. To shake him.

The way he’d flinched when I’d clapped my hands.

“I feel really out of control,” I finally said. “I feel like I’m about to fuck things up.”

“You might,” Ed said. “We all screw things up sooner or later.”

That was Ed for you. Real fucking helpful.

“You do a spot check?” Ed asked.

I breathed out. There was this pressure that felt like a sinus headache. The microwave dinged again, and I pressed the button to pop open the door just so it would shut the fuck up. The smell of Salisbury steak and brown gravy got thicker.

Finally, I said, “No.”

He didn’t say anything. What I should have said, I realized a second too late, was Not yet.

“So, I’m pissed at Noah. I’m—” God, I hated the word. “—resentful.” And I made myself close my eyes and sit on the toilet we hadn’t installed yet. Packaging crinkled under me. “Because he didn’t finalize the divorce. Because he lied to me. And the first thing he did when I called him out was—was threaten me. Try to squeeze this fucking, I don’t know, whatever he thinks he’s going to get out of me. A performance.”

It sounded like Ed was washing dishes.

“And that hits at my ego,” I said. It was like draining a blister, like something toxic was oozing out of me. “And you know how much shit I’ve got packed around, uh, relationships. And my sense of security.” But all of that was just dancing with my dick out, so I blurted, “I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay. Everybody gets afraid sometimes. What are you afraid of?”

Of Noah, I almost said.

But that was literally insane, so I said, “You know the house?”

Ed made a sound of agreement.

“It’s almost—I mean, God, Ed, we are so fucking close. The holiday house tour is two weeks away. People with serious money are going to be walking through here. I’ve been hyping it up on this stupid Instagram account for months. And he’s right: if he wants to fuck me over on this, he can. And—”

I cut myself off because—well, because I really was afraid. And that realization was such a mind-fuck that I laughed. A rough laugh. But it loosened something in my body.

“And Si has poured money into this,” I said. “Dumped everything she had into it. If it goes under—I mean, if it was just me, fine, Noah can fuck me over again. But it’s Si’s money.”

“Does Si know?”

“This just happened.”

“Do you think you should talk to her before you make any decisions?”

“Yeah, obviously I should fucking talk to her. What the fuck kind of sponsor are you, giving the most obvious fucking advice in the universe?”

Ed laughed on the other end of the call.

“What about the rest of it?” he asked.

The rest of it meant my part. Because that’s one of the things you learn when you’re in recovery. You’ve always got a part in it.

“I should have taken care of that fucking divorce myself,” I said. But at the same time, the thought didn’t really make sense. Because Noah was right; I hadn’t wanted the divorce. That had been Noah.

Ed made a sound like he wasn’t impressed.

“Yeah, well, I should have made sure everything was clear on the title,” I said. “And I shouldn’t have gone into this with Si without knowing everything was legit.”

“And?”