Page 29 of The Lipstick Flip

But instead, I said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

A wet laugh escaped him. He touched his eyes again; the tears had stopped, and they looked puffy. “I’m sorry, there must be something wrong with my hearing.”

I bumped him with my hip, and he stumbled. But I still had my arm around his waist, so he didn’t fall. It startled a laugh out of him, though, and I smiled a little too. He settled against me again, and this time, there was no crowded countertop, no tight quarters. He was a few inches shorter. He was so fucking thin. He looked like he was made out of air and glass, and my chest hurt when I looked at him, but he was soft where he pressed into me, and warm. And then my arm was around his shoulders instead of his waist.

“It’s okay to get upset,” I said.

He made a sound that could have meant anything.

“You don’t have to do anything with it. What you’re feeling, I mean. You can just feel it.”

“Who are you?” he said, turning his face up to mine. He had full, pink lips. And they were only inches away from mine. He murmured, “And what have you done with Howie Cartwright?”

I didn’t say anything to that because I didn’t know what to say.

He settled his head against my shoulder again, staring out at the street as he spoke quietly. “I know my dad doesn’t—doesn’t respect my job, I guess is one way to say it.” Noah’s voice turned wry. “Or as he likes to put it, that I’m wasting my life.”

I didn’t say anything to that either.

“And Marty is—” Noah blew out a breath. “He’s Marty. He’s—whatever. I mean, he’s never going to change.”

I wasn’t convinced about that on my part, because I had a feeling Marty could change pretty damn quick if he had the proper motivation. That might have been why I said, “Maybe your dad should cut off his trust.”

“He already has,” Noah said with what was almost amusement. Then he was silent. “I just wish—” Noah’s voice caught, and when he spoke again, it was rough with emotion. “This man died today. Mr. Vickers. He was so sweet. And he didn’t have anybody there. Nobody. So, I sat with him for, like, an hour after my shift ended because I knew nobody was coming.”

“Noah.”

“It’s fine.” Noah shook his head. Out of the corner of my eye, tears glistened on his cheeks, but his voice grew stronger. “It’s fine. He wasn’t awake; he didn’t even know. It was for me, not for him. But I liked him, and—”

And it hurts, I almost said for him. Because I’d forgotten this, too. How it cut both ways. All the things that made Noah a good nurse—the kindness, the compassion, the sensitivity—meant he brought it all home with him. That was one of the things we’d bonded over in the beginning. Because cops brought their work home too. And other people didn’t understand.

“Anyway,” Noah said in a different voice. Bright. Like Christmas lights on a fake tree. “I’m a wreck, but that’s definitely not news to you. God, how bad is my face?”

His eyes were still rimmed with red. His nose was raw. The glitter on his cheeks made him look like something I’d caught in another world and dragged back to this one, and now, with his face turned up toward me again, I could feel his breath on my neck.

And I was at half-mast in my fucking trou.

I cleared my throat. I tried not to think. About anything. And finally, somehow, I said, “You look perfect.”

11

“Howie,” Noah sang from the front of the house. “I brought you coffee. Oh, hi, Joe!”

Joe, the carpenter, answered in a low rumble, the words indistinct.

I was halfway up a ladder, trying to get this fucking pancake light into place, so all I could do was roll my eyes.

“Howie?”

“It’s still early, God damn it,” I said.

“Good morning!” Noah sang even more loudly.

And—there. The fixture slid into place, and I finished mounting it.

When I glanced down, Noah was waiting at the bottom of the ladder. He was back in his uniform of oversized hoodie, leggings, and Uggs. Instead of the bunny hat, today he had one with antlers. There was a little red nose front and center, and it was glowing.

I groaned.