Page 43 of The Lipstick Flip

“Where’s the party?” I asked.

His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “You’ll have to excuse my dad; work emergency.”

There were a lot of those.

“What about Marty? Trying to solve the problems of the world?”

Noah made a disgusted noise. “He’d love that, but no, Dad told him to buzz off. Not so politely, either. So, Marty told me and Mom he was going out to meet someone. A friend.” He stopped. Shook his head. He lifted his eyes—not like he was praying or seeking guidance, but like he was trying to keep tears from welling. “A friend,” he said again. “How stupid does he think we are?”

“He’s using again?”

“He never stopped. He’d been out of rehab—the last time—a day, two. And he told Mom he was going to see his new therapist.”

“Ah.” That was all I said. But one thing you learned in recovery was that some people were drawn to addicts, had them peppered throughout their lives. A mother who couldn’t dry out. A brother who snorted his allowance. A junkie ex.

Noah shivered, as though shaking off something, and his face changed—that stupid smile he wore around his family was glued back on.

But before he could say anything, a voice called from the next room. It grew stronger, as though moving toward us. “Where are you? I thought you were answering the door.” And then Tracy appeared in the opening, backlit so that she was nothing more than a shadow. Even that much was enough: the way she held on to the wall to keep her balance; the slight unsteadiness when standing still, as though caught in a strong wind; even the wisps of her hair that stuck out like she’d slept on her side—probably because, at some point this afternoon, she had. “Howie! Oh thank God. Finally, someone who knows how to have a little fun!”

Noah’s whole body tightened.

“Come have a drink with me,” she said. “And help me convince my beautiful boy that he can do so much better with his life.”

“Ouch,” I said. And the most unexpected part was that it really did hurt—the surprise of the sting almost as bad as the sting itself.

“Mom,” Noah said.

“Noah,” Tracy said with a laugh. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean it that way. Come on, come on.”

She had a drunk’s insistence, a drunk’s fixation, and like a drunk, as long as she had a glass in her hand, she had all the time in the world.

The kitchen was a high-ceilinged room that melded into another, more casual living space. Marble countertops and dark cabinets, a hand-worked backsplash that you knew just from looking at it had taken fucking forever, pendant lights with boxy shades. Tracy was sitting at the breakfast bar. She had a glass in one hand, the bottle of Bombay Sapphire a few inches away, the bottle of Fever-Tree just beyond that. It was Christmas Eve, so maybe that was why my first thought, as I got closer, was that she smelled like a pine tree.

“My, my, my,” Tracy said. “Don’t you clean up nice.” She pursed her mouth like she wanted a kiss. “Come say hello.”

I tried for a quick hug, but it turned into a boozy grapple, with Tracy clinging to me, making pleased noises as she held me against her. When she finally let me go, she said, “The man of steel. I swear to God, Howie, do you have an ounce of body fat? I always thought it was a waste you were gay. So much rock-solid man.”

“Mom,” Noah said. And then, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m teasing,” Tracy snapped. In a softer voice, she said to me, “Howie knows I’m teasing. Don’t you, Howie?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Noah is embarrassed of me.”

“I’m not embarrassed of you,” Noah said stiffly as he racked the bottle of wine I’d brought. There was a moment where I could feel him trying to resist, and then Noah turned to me. “I said maybe we shouldn’t go out after dinner.”

“I’ve had two drinks.” Tracy held up two fingers. “Two.”

Noah shook his head, but all he did was smile, like somebody was putting this whole fucking debacle on TV. “Dinner is almost ready. I hope you don’t mind if we’re a little more casual about it tonight.”

Now that Noah mentioned it, I caught a whiff of the food—meat, onion, garlic. I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten lunch, and my stomach made a loud noise. Noah’s face went from startled to a grin, and then the grin disappeared just as quickly.

“Noah uses food as a coping mechanism,” Tracy was saying. “Which is not a healthy lifestyle choice.”

“Mom, Howie doesn’t want to talk about this.”

“Noah gets defensive when I try to help him. Does that seem right to you, Howie? When your mom tries to help you, do you get defensive?”