Page 60 of The Lipstick Flip

“Want to talk about it?”

I got back a distinctly grumpy: “No.”

But when Noah pushed himself away from me and started drying his eyes, I said, “Come on.”

We ended up in the kitchen. I started water in the electric kettle. Found mugs. Dropped a bag of peppermint tea in each.

“You can’t,” Noah said. The tears were gone now, but they’d left tracks on his cheeks. “The house tour is tomorrow.”

“I’ve got about eighteen hours between now and then,” I said. “I’ll find time to wash two fucking mugs.”

He let out a breathy sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh, but it came closer to being a sob. He wiped his eyes again.

When the water boiled, I poured it into each mug. Then I slid one to Noah. He caught the little tab on the end of the string and dunked the bag a few times, staring down into the water. The only sounds were the bag and the water, and the scent of peppermint surrounded us.

“I got in,” Noah said.

“What? To that nurse practitioner program? But you— But the interview— God fucking damn it, Noah, you made it sound like it was happening weeks from now.”

“Why would I buy a white coat for an interview weeks from now?”

I stared at him. I honestly had no fucking clue what to say to that. But then my brain started working again, and I said, “You got in! Holy shit! Noah, that’s fantastic!” And before I could think about it—because it felt so natural, so easy—I wrapped him in a hug.

Laughing into my chest, Noah patted my arm. “Thanks. Thank you.”

When I let him go, though, his eyes were red again. “This is a big deal,” I said. “You should be proud of this.”

“I am proud of it, Howie. I just—” He drew a wet breath. “Do you know what my dad said when I told him? Keep in mind, he told me he didn’t really have time to talk right now. They’re here on vacation, right? They’re here to visit me, right? That’s the whole point of this—this mess. And now that Christmas is over, every day he’s in that stupid home office, handling ‘emergencies.’ They might as well be back in California. I had to text him to find a time so I could tell him about it.” He gave a shake of his head, and the light made waves on his blond hair. “He asked how much it was going to cost. And if I was going to pay for it out of my trust. That was all he cared about. And then he said, ‘You could have been a doctor from the beginning if you’d listened to me.’”

There were a lot of things you learned about dealing with your partner’s family and being a good husband and that kind of thing. It all went out the window as I said, “Oh, fuck him.”

Noah gave a soft laugh.

“Come on, Noah. Who cares what—” But I stopped.

Because not all the fights, back when we’d been married, had been about me.

The fight-me look was back on Noah’s face.

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “It was shitty he said that to you. You did something really impressive. What did you tell me? Some people have to apply three or four times to get in? You did it on your first try; that’s amazing.”

“Not as amazing as going to medical school,” Noah said dryly.

“You should be so proud of yourself,” I said. “This is what you want, right? You didn’t want to go to medical school. You’re smart. You’re accomplished. You’re a professional. Every day, you help people. Even cussed rednecks who won’t stay in bed because they think they’ve got better places to be.”

Noah laughed again, but it turned into tears, and he leaned his head against my shoulder as he cried. It didn’t last long because Noah really wasn’t a cryer, but it was long enough for me to draw him against me, to kiss the crown of his head, to smell roses mixing with the peppermint.

“I hate this,” Noah finally said. “I hate that I…that I care. God, Howie, he’s been doing this to me since I was fifteen. Why can’t I just let it go?”

Because they won’t let you; that was the first thing I wanted to say. And what came after it was, Because nobody can.

It had been easy, for years, to be angry about Noah and Jonathan’s relationship. To be angry at both of them, but especially at Noah. For wanting Jonathan’s love and approval. For twisting himself inside out to get it. For refusing to see that Jonathan was never going to give it to him, not the way Noah wanted, not without taking something in return. For not having—what? the dignity? the self-respect?—not to put up with Jonathan’s bullshit anymore. And it was funny how now, one little question flipped all that anger around, and all I felt was sad.

“I just want him to see me,” Noah said softly. “I’ve got a great life. I’m so happy. I’m good at my fucking job, Howie. People respect me. I’m not a doctor or lawyer or VP of sales. But I do something important every day. Why can’t he see this person I’ve become, even if it’s not the one he wanted me to be?”

Which was funny, a distant part of me thought, because the only thing I ever wanted was for my old man not to see me.

“I hate that I’m like this,” Noah whispered. “Why am I like this?”