Page 74 of The Lipstick Flip

And things would go back to normal. I’d have to find a lawyer. Figure out how to get the divorce finalized, if that was still even possible. Or start the whole process over from the beginning. And then Noah would be out of my life for good, and I could move on.

Move on to what?

Nights eating TV dinners in a shell of a house. Nights sleeping fully dressed because I didn’t want to run the furnace. Work all day. Work until the sun went down and then go back to wherever I was living and sleep and do it all again the next day. Because Si always had work, and she’d be back on her feet soon enough. And maybe I’d get some sort of job with Otto Pang. Maybe I’d have my own thing going by then. I liked the old houses. I liked working with Si, but I liked the restoration projects the best. I’d have plenty of work. Forever.

And it wouldn’t be like last time. I’d get on the apps. There were lots of guys out there. Normal guys. Guys who just wanted to hook up. Guys who just wanted to fuck. Guys who didn’t want you to hold their hands. Guys who didn’t want you to meet their families. Fuck, I didn’t even need to go on the apps. I could go to the Pretty Pretty. And if I took somebody home, he’d be out the fucking door before midnight like the world’s worst fucking Cinderella, because there was no way I was getting myself into a mess like this again. You came home late, and he was already starting a fight because you forgot you had plans. You just wanted to relax, and he dragged you out the door to dinner with his friends. You forgot your lunch, and he came by on his break to make sure you had something to eat.

I’d forgotten about that. About Noah pulling up behind Si’s truck in that ridiculous Mini Cooper, frantic that I wasn’t going to eat lunch, like I’d never missed a meal in my life.

You did something simple. Something anybody could do. You changed an outlet. Or you remembered—half by luck—to clean the condo while he was at work. You carried in the groceries, or you filled up his car with gas, or you—you showed him how to cut down a Christmas tree. And he made you feel like you were special, when nobody had ever made you feel special before. You gave him a necklace that you picked up at the farmer’s market, and he danced with you, the light coming in off the snow. You were dead. You were a dead man. And every day, he brought a little more life into the world, until you couldn’t be dead anymore. You asked him to marry you. And he said yes.

The tears came slowly at first, escaping in spite of my best attempts to blink them away. Then faster. And then my throat clenched, and I was fighting sobs. Around me, the sounds of the hospital continued, and I hunched over in the chair, trying not to make any noise, trying to breathe.

He was gone.

And it was my fault.

Again.

I stopped crying eventually. And yeah, crying didn’t fix anything. It didn’t even make me feel all that much better. But the worst of the hurt—the poison—was gone, and now I felt raw and empty and tired.

A soft noise came from the bed. A change in breathing. And then a hand touched my arm, fumbling blindly until fingers closed around my wrist.

“Hey now,” Si said muzzily. “What’s wrong?”

“Si,” I said. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Si.”

“It’s okay,” she said in that sleep-scratched voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I was sure about one thing: I was crying again. “I didn’t think you were— I thought you were asleep.”

Her next breath sounded like she might be dozing again, and when she spoke, the words were mumbled. “Just resting my eyes.”

24

Right on cue, it turned out, meant the nurses had been trying to contact me to tell me they were bringing Si out of the medically induced coma. And because I was a jackass, I’d left my phone at the house.

I stayed with her most of the day. She was still disoriented, and at times she got confused and agitated. She didn’t like that they’d shaved the side of her head. She slept a lot, but the fact that she could talk, that she knew who I was—that was all I cared about. The doctor told me that there was still a long way to go, but she thought Si was out of the woods.

When I left, it was dark, and the parking lot was a white patch of security lights. An inch of snow had settled on the truck—I guess the clouds had finally made up their mind.

She was awake.

She was out of the woods.

I was humming “Holly Jolly Christmas” as I cleared the windshield.

The house wasn’t dark when I got home. The Christmas tree. The undercabinet lights. I kicked snow from my boots in the mudroom. The punch bowl—clean now—was still on the counter. The punch bowl, the chaise, the paintings, the ornaments. That fucking piano. Stuff I’d have to find a way to get back to Noah.

I moved into the living room. I sat in front of the tree. He had boxes for all the ornaments; I’d seen them when he was decorating. They were in the basement now. I needed to bring them up. I could start tonight. I’d get a beer—

That was such a strange thought that I shook my head.

When was the last time I’d had a beer?

I wasn’t sure. Years. Since I’d gotten into recovery. And maybe it was the fact that I’d spent the whole day in that hospital room, hadn’t eaten lunch, hadn’t had anything to drink except water out of the drinking fountain—but a beer sounded good.

There was an older guy, Pete, in the first NA meeting I went to. Before I switched. And he’d always called it greasing the wheels. You took a drink to grease the wheels. Hell, maybe you only took one drink. But either way, the wheels were greased, and it was a whole lot easier to slip after that.