Page 18 of The Lipstick Flip

“Go away,” I said and shut the door.

But nothing like that had ever worked on Noah, which was why as I turned to head deeper into the house, I heard the door open behind me.

“We need to talk,” Noah said.

“No, we don’t.” I put my hands on my hips and tried to focus. What absolutely had to be done before the tour? The lights, but I’d already decided I could do those. The cabinets in the kitchen, but I already knew about that too. Noah was still there, like a prickle at the edge of my awareness.

“What happened?” Noah asked.

The pocket doors still wouldn’t open correctly. For that matter, they wouldn’t shut correctly either. Hell, they were barely hanging on their tracks. Si had looked at them, but she thought we were going to have to tear out part of the wall to get to the track, and there was no way we had time for that now. Maybe the best thing would be to keep people from going near them.

Noah must have noticed I was looking at them because he said, “I thought these didn’t work. When we bought this place, that lady said—”

He reached out.

“No!” I barked

But I was too late. He was already grabbing one of the pocket doors, giving it a tug.

And with a crash, the door came off its hinges and hit the floor.

I do not lose my shit, I told myself. I do not act like a fucking two-year-old throwing a tantrum. I’m a grown man, and sometimes life just happens, and the only thing I can control is myself.

But it was hard, repeating all that, because life didn’t happen. Noah happened.

“Oh my God!” Noah squeaked.

I headed into the living room and crouched in front of the heater.

Footsteps came behind me. “Howie, I’m sorry.”

I checked the fuel. The smell of kerosene wafted up.

“Here, I’ll—” The thump of wood on wood. Noah’s sounds of straining. A hint of whatever scent he was wearing floated over to me—floral. Rose.

The heater clicked once, and a ring of flames sprang to life. When I got to my feet, Noah was trying to lift the door. By its side.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“I can get it.”

“Leave it alone. You can’t do it like that; I’ll take care of it later.”

He let the door settle back against the floor. The pink was high in his cheeks now, and he held his hands at his side as though afraid to bump into anything else. He wouldn’t look directly at me.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I said.

At the same time, he said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

“I don’t care. It was a mistake, and I’m not doing it. Tell your parents I had a family emergency. I had to go take care of my dad.”

Which was such a strange thing to say, the way it came rolling out so easily, when I hadn’t thought about my dad in years.

“Howie, I don’t—that’s not why I came. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You were being really sweet, and I acted so shitty toward you.”

Now he did look me in the eye, and he was on the brink of tears.

Whatever I’d been about to say melted, and I heard myself mumble, “Forget it.” More seemed to be required, so I said, “I wasn’t—it was a weird night.”