Page 85 of The Lipstick Flip

“Oh God, don’t wish that,” he murmured, but he was still crying. “I don’t think the world can handle two of me.”

“I’m going to work on it,” I said. “I’m going to do my best. And I want you to know I’m not going to run, Noah. I’m here. I’m staying here. With you, if you’ll give me another chance.” My throat tightened, and my vision blurred, and I gripped his hands like we were holding each other on the edge of a cliff. “I’m not going to run.”

27

Si was early for the housewarming party, of course. By about three hours. Which was classic Si.

It was two weeks later, and the snow was gone, and the January day looked like an old dime. When the knock came at the door, I was shirtless, hopping downstairs as I pulled on what Noah liked to call my slutty sweatpants, thinking Noah had put in a last-minute DoorDash for the party.

Instead, Si was standing on the porch, leaning heavily on a cane, a bowl tucked under her arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked when I opened the door.

“Coming to your party.” She handed me the bowl—under the plastic wrap, it looked like potato salad—and then she took an unsteady step forward. She was leaning on her cane, so I took her other arm and helped her inside.

I didn’t bother saying the party didn’t start for a few more hours; that kind of stuff didn’t register for Si. So I said, “I was going to pick you up.”

“I was already out running errands.”

“You’re not supposed to be running errands. You’re supposed to be resting.”

Si eyed me as I helped her out of her coat—a bulky wool thing that looked like Paul fucking Bunyan might have owned it first. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you eat?”

“You’re not supposed to be driving.”

“Noah doesn’t feed you?”

“Noah feeds me fine.” Then I growled, “I feed myself, thanks very much.”

“You’re skin and bones. This is why you couldn’t get laid for two years.”

“Come here,” I said, taking her arm like I was going to be rough with her. “So I can push you down the fucking stairs.”

Si laughed about that while I got her settled in the living room. We’d taken the tree and the Christmas decorations down, but Noah had swooped in with a whole new set of trinkets and pictures and throw pillows. It still looked nice—anywhere Noah settled for more than five minutes would look nice—but I missed our tree.

I grabbed a sweatshirt from the bedroom and called through the bathroom door, “Si’s here.”

Noah was in the shower, which might have been why it took him a couple of seconds before he said in a neutral tone, “Okay.”

“Told you she’d be early.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“Nah,” I said, “you’re fine. Just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

By the time I got back downstairs, Si was in the kitchen, and she’d found a can of mixed nuts.

“You’re not supposed to be eating those,” I said.

“They’re healthy. They come from a tree.”

“The sodium.”

Si made a sound that meant sodium was for the birds. “You got a Coke or something?”

“Where the fuck do you think you are? The Piggly-Wiggly?”

But I got her a Coke.