Page 37 of The Lipstick Flip

For a moment, I stood in the entry hall. The glow came from deeper in the house, but it softened the darkness all the way out here. A break-in? Someone pulling copper, or trying to rip off power tools?

But no sounds came to me except the old house’s familiar creaks and groans.

It was the undercabinet lights.

Noah must have left them on.

I wiped my face again. And I wasn’t sure why all of a sudden, I wanted to cry.

Time for bed, I told myself. Time for a good night’s sleep. You’re exhausted, and you’re not thinking clearly, and seeing Si like that fucked with you.

So, I went upstairs. And as I was brushing my teeth, I realized nobody knew what had happened to Si.

I shot the video sitting on my bed, still dressed in the outfit Noah had picked out for me. I kept it as simple as I could—explaining what had happened to Si, and how little I actually knew, and that we were all hoping for a speedy recovery. After I’d finished, I uploaded it to my account, and then I tagged @yourlesbiandad. Without access to Si’s socials, it was the best I could do.

I went back to the bathroom. I washed my face. I stripped out of the clothes and pulled on joggers and a sweatshirt and climbed into bed. The house was so fucking cold, and now I thought of Noah spending all day here, giving up his time off to help me. What the hell kind of cheap son of a bitch was I that I couldn’t turn up the heat for him? God, he didn’t have an ounce of body fat. He must have been freezing his ass off.

As though thinking about him was magic, my phone buzzed. The message was from Noah

Great video.

That was all. But I texted back, Thanks.

How’s Si?

Same.

How are you?

I hesitated. And then I typed, Peachy. Before he could pull a classic Noah and start pushing and prodding and insisting, I sent a second message: You’ve got work tomorrow. Why aren’t you asleep?

In answer, my phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime. I had about zero-point-two seconds when I thought this was probably a bad idea, and then I answered.

The video was of Noah, but the angle was strange—low and to the side—and it took me a moment to realize he’d propped the phone on the bathroom counter. He was wearing a face mask—some sort of clay that was probably ounce for ounce more expensive than gold—and a white tank that left a lot of pale, smooth skin visible. I thought I could see his nipples through the fabric.

“Is this okay?” Noah asked, and then he splashed water on his face as he began to remove the mask. “I couldn’t keep texting.”

“It’s okay.”

The sounds of the water continued for a while. There was something relaxing about watching him go through his routine. He’d always liked a routine. He’d always taken such good care of himself. He tried so hard. The thought was clear, like a bell being rung: He wanted to be perfect.

“So,” Noah said, water dripping down his face as he reached for a towel. “How are you really?”

“Tired.”

“Howie.”

For some reason, it made me laugh.

“Can you please, please, please try to drill down under all that macho toughness and tap into your emotions for, like, five seconds?”

“Sounds fucking terrible.”

“Well, I’d like to know if you’re okay, if that’s not too much to ask.”

“I’m fine.” But then I said, “It’s so weird. I was thinking about my dad.”

Noah’s movements slowed. He patted his face with the towel. “Oh yeah?”