Page 26 of The Lipstick Flip

“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Jonathan said. “Noah said you got tied up at work.”

“Moved some stuff around,” I said. And then to Noah, “Hey.”

He’d been staring at me with huge eyes throughout the greetings. He had one finger curled around the necklace as though—what? He wanted to hide it? He wanted me to see it? He wanted to rip it off? Whatever we’d said about kissing seemed like it had been years ago, and I couldn’t remember anyway, so instead I put my hand on his waist. God, he was thin. But he was still Noah, too, and his hipbone slotted into my palm like we were made for each other, and I drew him against me in a half-hug.

“Hi,” Noah said in a half-whisper.

His eyes were red. He was smiling, but around his family, Noah would smile even if somebody was peeling off his skin.

“Turns out none of us are any good at this,” Jonathan said. “Thank God you got here in time.”

He beckoned me over to a gingerbread house that wasn’t exactly falling over, but definitely didn’t look structurally sound. Noah squeezed my wrist once, but whatever the message was, I didn’t get it. Tracy tried to prop herself on her elbow and knocked over the tray of sprinkles and colored sugar, all of it spilling across the counter. Noah caught Tracy and straightened her, and the dark-haired woman in kitchen whites came over and started cleaning up.

“The problem is none of it will stay upright,” Jonathan was saying, drawing my attention back to the house. “And we followed the instructions.”

I gave the house a quick look and nodded toward the bag of frosting. “Looks like it needs more frosting.”

“Well, we talked about that,” Jonathan said, and he was slipping into that we’re-men-talking-about-man-stuff voice he had. “But look at those finished houses. They hardly used any icing at all.”

“Contractor trick,” I said. “You put the caulk where they can’t see it. Or the duct tape. Or the spray foam.” I picked up the bag of frosting and motioned for Jonathan to steady two of the gingerbread walls. “Or in this case—”

“The icing,” Jonathan said with a big smile.

“Dad, do you know that joke about contractors?” Marty said. He was trying to lean between us, his face almost resting on my shoulder.

“Get out of the light,” Jonathan said.

“They like to pack it full of caulk,” Marty said. “Get it? Dad, do you get it?”

The smile slipped as Jonathan looked over his shoulder and barked, “Move, Marty!”

Marty flinched and retreated.

The sounds of Noah and the chef—or whoever that dark-haired woman was—cleaning up the spill continued as I piped a thick line of frosting on one piece of gingerbread and then on the other.

“All right,” I said. “Don’t push too hard.”

“You’re sounding like Marty’s caulk joke,” Jonathan said not quite under his breath, but he lined up the two walls and pressed them together.

“Hold it.” I set a timer on my phone, and when it reached a minute, I said, “Okay, let’s see.”

“They’re going to fall,” Marty said behind us. There was something weird about his voice, and it took me a moment to recognize it: he was out of breath. Like he was desperate to get into the mix. Like a puppy who’d already been scolded once. “We already tried that—”

“Good God, Marty, go help your mother,” Jonathan said. “Noah, can you give your husband a hand here?”

Noah appeared at my side a moment later. Smiling. Because yeah, family time. His hip settled against mine, and I couldn’t tell if it was the cramped quarters of the kitchen or if—what? He was leaning against me?

“Not really anything for you to do,” I said. “We’re just going to see if the walls stay up.”

With a grimace, Jonathan released the gingerbread.

The walls stood.

“Just gotta give it a little time to set up,” I said.

“This is what I’m always telling people,” Noah said. “Howie can do anything.”

“Let’s do the rest of the walls,” I said.