Page 27 of The Lipstick Flip

Jonathan passed one of the gingerbread walls to Noah and kept the other for himself. I placed my stripe of frosting on each side.

“Get it lined up before you press it in.”

Noah snickered. Even Jonathan smiled faintly.

“God damn it,” I said. “I hear it.”

Noah started to laugh.

As Jonathan set his wall in place, he asked, “How was work today, Howie?”

“All right,” I said. Noah was leaning back, studying his wall as though he’d made a mistake, so I said, “No, Noah, you’re doing it right. You got it.”

Noah flashed me a grateful smile, but he spoke to his dad. “Howie’s making so much progress with the house. You aren’t going to recognize it.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing it,” Jonathan said.

“Well, it’s not ready yet,” I said.

“I know. But Noah said you’d be on the holiday house tour, so I bought tickets.” He leaned back, studying the walls. “Do you think it’s set?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

For some reason, Jonathan chuckled as he eased his hands away from the wall. “God, why is that so satisfying?”

“It’s nice to see something come together,” Noah said. “Something you made. That’s what Howie always says.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Jonathan told me. “You can see what you do. It has meaning. What do I do? Sit in an office all day on Zoom calls. God, we don’t even meet face-to-face anymore.”

“You do a lot of important work, Dad—” Noah began. With his family smile. With his family voice.

“I do a lot of bullshit,” Jonathan said over him. “Some days, I sit in that damn office and think about walking away from it all. Just walking away. Doing real work. A man’s work. You gave yourself a gift, Howie. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you didn’t.”

A gap followed, and I realized everyone—except maybe Tracy, who looked like she’d fallen asleep sitting up—was waiting for me to say something. So, I told the truth. “Noah’s always been real supportive.”

Jonathan favored Noah with a considering look and finally said, “This family got lucky with you.”

Pink rose in Noah’s face, and for a moment, his eyes were wet and shining. Then he ducked his head, as though looking at the gingerbread house more closely.

“If you’re bored with your job, Dad,” Marty called, “you should do crypto. I do crypto, and I’m making a killing.”

“It’s like he doesn’t have a pair of ears,” Jonathan muttered.

“If you’re not doing crypto,” Marty said, stirring one of the little tubs of sprinkles with a finger—the same finger that, earlier, he’d been pretending was his dick—“you’re getting left behind.”

Noah had looked up again. The tears—if they had been tears—were gone, and he was smiling again. He was always smiling. Jonathan could run him over with his fucking car, and he’d be on the ground with that fucking smile and say, Great job, Dad.

“Whoa,” Jonathan said.

A glob of frosting lay on the counter; too late, I realized I’d squeezed the bag of frosting without even being aware of it.

I set the bag down, wiped my hand on my pants—I hadn’t gotten any frosting on myself, but I wiped my hand anyway—and because I had jack shit to say, asked, “How was your day, Noah?”

Noah looked at his dad when he answered. “It was interesting—”

“How interesting can it be, changing people’s diapers all day?” Marty called from where he was stabbing his finger into a bowl of M&M’s. “Right, Dad?”

The color in Jonathan’s face was faint. But it was there.