Page 13 of The Lipstick Flip

The grin slanted so suddenly across my face that it almost hurt.

“My dad has asked me twice,” Noah said. “Twice, if your family always cuts down their own tree. I swear to God, he got a boner when they handed him the saw.”

And my laugh surprised me too.

“If he weren’t a middle-aged workaholic with womanizing issues,” Noah said dryly, “I’d think he has a crush on you.”

Which made me laugh again, but it was shorter this time. Because Noah was right; Jonathan had always liked me. From the first time we’d met. Which might have had something to do with the fact that his default expectations for homosexuals was that we all ran around painting our nails and wearing women’s underwear. At first, it had been nice, because I’d wanted Noah’s family to like me. And because they’d been so different from my family. Because they’d been a real family, if that made any sense. But that hadn’t lasted long.

“Well,” I said. “It’d kinda be a shame if we didn’t let him have the full experience. You know, picking out a tree. Cutting it down.” A little grin crooked the corner of my mouth. “All by himself.”

“Oh my God,” Noah said, breathy with excitement. “Please tell me it’s harder than it looks.”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s difficult. But it’s not like cutting through butter, either.”

“If he gets a blister, he’s going to be impossible to be around,” Noah said. “I guess we’d better find our own tree. And take our time cutting it down.”

“Huh,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”

It wasn’t that easy, obviously. Nothing ever was with Noah. I picked out a tree. He told me no. I picked out another tree. He said no to that one too. And the third one. Because one was crooked. And because one wasn’t fluffy enough. And because one—well, he didn’t actually say. He just wiggled his fingers like he touched something he didn’t like, made a face, and shook his head. Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

Which was how we ended up spending the next thirty minutes finding the perfect tree for Noah to cut down.

That last part was a surprise to him, and he stared at me as I held out the saw.

“I don’t want to cut it down.”

“We’ll take turns,” I said. “You get it started.”

“I don’t want to take turns. Look at how cute I am.”

Tilting my head, deep in thought, I said, “I guess we could go back and find your family.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m not mean.”

“You like this. You like doing this kind of stuff to me.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You think it’s funny.” And without missing a beat, he said, “Give me that,” and he grabbed the saw.

But the strange part of it all was that Noah didn’t actually sound mad. He sounded like he used to. A long time ago. When I knew how to push his buttons, and he liked that I pushed his buttons.

Noah crouched; I could tell he didn’t want to do what he was eventually going to have to do, namely, lie on the ground and get his coat and leggings dirty. He inspected the trunk of the tree. It wasn’t actually all that big—maybe the size of my forearm. He put the saw against it and gave it a half-hearted push. The teeth skittered along the surface of the trunk.

“I can’t do it,” Noah said, looking up at me.

In the dark, the blue of his eyes was almost black.

“Then I guess we’re going to be here a while.”

“This saw doesn’t work.”

“I don’t think the saw’s the problem.”

“Howie!” He inspected the tree again. “This is going to take forever. Why did they give us this little saw? I thought we were going to use a chainsaw.”