Page 25 of The Lipstick Flip

Was it strange?

Next up was replacing some of the hardware on the doors. I started taking the handles off. I’d been at it for about five minutes when I gave up and took out my phone.

Six-twenty-one.

I unlocked my phone and started to type a message. Are you okay? felt like way too much, so I settled on Do you have time for a quick question?

Noah’s response came back almost immediately: Can’t. Family.

And then it came back to me: the gingerbread houses.

How’s it going? I asked.

No response.

Which was fine. It made sense. I mean, he was with his family, for fuck’s sake. Of course he wasn’t going to be checking his phone every five seconds.

I fitted one of the new handles I’d bought. Gave it a jiggle. Got my screwdriver and the screws.

He probably couldn’t have his phone out, anyway. Not without his dad complaining about Noah not paying attention to his family, like Jonathan didn’t get plenty of attention already. And Noah’s mom would be three drinks in already. She’d be talking about Noah’s clothes. She’d be talking about his weight. Fuck, one time when she couldn’t get a rise out of him, she started talking about his nails.

And Marty. Jesus Christ. Spending a night with Marty? That was cruel and unusual punishment. Marty talking about all the girls he banged, like he wouldn’t fuck a hole in the ground if he had five minutes and a shovel. Marty talking about his career, like he hadn’t shat his pants at every job Jonathan had ever gotten for him. Marty running his mouth all fucking night when he was too stupid to find his ass with both hands.

He asked if you needed to talk. He’s paying for the contractors. He didn’t twist your arm. He didn’t try to make you feel bad.

Christmas fucking village, I thought with something between laughter and panic.

I threw down the screwdriver and jogged upstairs.

Shower.

Shave. Not that there was much to shave, but Tracy noticed shit like that.

I found a clean pair of chinos—clean because I hadn’t worn them in about six months, and that had been to an NA luncheon. Last time, what had Noah said? You couldn’t put on a sweater? I had a blue one, but blue wasn’t very Christmas-y. I lost fifteen minutes going through boxes at the back of the closet, but I finally found one that was red. Noah would have called it something else like holly or cranberry or candy cane. It was red, though, and red was a Christmas color. I pulled it on, checked my hair—it’s a fucking buzz, motherfucker, I told myself in the mirror; what’s there to check?—and ran for the truck.

10

The Acadia had lights everywhere: around the windows, framing the door, climbing the sides of the historic hotel, even strung out across the plaza so that as I got closer, it was like walking onto a stage. In every window of the hotel hung wreaths with giant red bows, and giant nutcrackers stood on either side of the doors. There was so much fucking Christmas cheer it would have given Rudolph the shits.

Inside was even worse. Red velvet. Faux fur. Mistletoe hanging in the center of the high-ceilinged lobby—a young couple was kissing under it, trying to get a picture of themselves and the mistletoe at the same time. A twinky little guy in a gray suit started toward me, but I shook my head at him and followed the signs that said GINGERBREAD HOUSES.

Because this was the Acadia—and because this was the Reynolds family—the gingerbread house workshop wasn’t happening in one of the big multipurpose rooms. It wasn’t taking place on folding tables with disposable tablecloths in a ballroom that had been used the night before for somebody’s bar mitzvah. It was happening in the Acadia’s marble-slabbed kitchen, surrounded by gleaming copper pots, a copper-finished ceiling, with boughs of holly and pine garlands everywhere. A handful of families were stationed throughout the kitchen, working at the gleaming countertops. And the Reynolds family was impossible to miss.

That had something to do with Marty, who was sticking his finger out of the zipper of his trousers and pretending it was his dick. Who the fuck knew why? Trying to get a laugh. Trying to get attention. He kept wagging his finger in the direction of a dark-haired woman in kitchen whites, grinning and swirling his drink in his other hand.

But it also had something to do with Noah. Instead of an oversized hoodie, tonight, he wore a forest-green sweater that hit him at the thighs. And instead of leggings, he’d opted for jeans. Skinny jeans, yes. So skinny that they might as well have been painted on, as a matter of fact. And ankle boots that looked soft and buttery and probably cost a fortune. He’d swapped the dangly earring for a pearl stud, and he wore a necklace made up of long gold links. Which was strange, because I’d given him that necklace. I’d given it to him on our first anniversary.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I joined them.

Noah’s head whipped up, and his eyes widened. Tracy cooed and leaned in to kiss my cheek. Jonathan held out a hand, and I gave him a shake my own dad would have been proud of.

Act like a fucking man.

And Marty spun around, finger still sticking out of his drawers.

“Something special for the ladies,” I said.

Jonathan burst out laughing. Tracy tittered, and when Marty shot her a hurt look, she covered up the laugh by slamming the rest of her drink. She looked like she was one gin and tonic away from sliding off her stool.