Page 70 of The Lipstick Flip

That was when I realized that Noah wasn’t in bed anymore. A light showed under the bathroom door, and the shower was running.

For a moment, I lay there. My body felt loose and warm and run down all at the same time, and I closed my eyes, like maybe I’d fall back asleep until Noah came out of the shower, warm and smelling sweet, and we’d just…see what happened. It was his birthday, after all.

But then my phone vibrated, and instinct took over. I picked it up.

Patriotboner commented on your post.

And there, in the notification, was a snippet of the comment: I knew he was a faggot.

I stared at the screen. The shower was still running, this white hiss of noise.

Below that notification was another.

RuralEagle commented on your post: This tracks.

And below that was another.

BlueNana commented on your post: Ignore the haters, Howie. We love you! I’m so happy! Love is love!

And below that was another.

LibertyBellMama commented on your post: Why can’t I find one account to follow on this stupid app that isn’t trying to destroy traditional families?

I opened the app. And I watched my number of followers drop.

That white hiss seemed to have crawled inside me. Was filling up my chest inch by inch.

I tapped on the notifications, and they took me to the post I’d made the day before, the one that had showcased the house just before the holiday tour began.

There wasn’t anything in there.

No pride flags.

Nothing in the caption.

No Noah.

And under that, a half-thought floated: I’d been so fucking careful.

There were more comments. More of the same.

Why’s everyone saying he’s gay? What’d I miss?

Why does anyone even care?

People are so fucking stupid

But then, a reply:

Over here, and then a link to Noah’s account: @noreynoldsrn.

I tapped the link.

Noah’s most recent post was a series of images, and I swiped through them in slow-motion—or what felt like slow-motion. Me kneeling next to the Christmas tree, doing something with one of the branches. Me covered in sawdust as I tried to shim one of the doors. Me pretend-scowling at Noah over a takeout box. The final image was just text: Second Chance Homes - Wahredua, Missouri. An LGBTQ owned and operated business.

In my head, like the words were coming through ice: Si would like that.

Below the images, Noah’s caption read, I just wanted to share a few photos of the work Howie has done this year. He’s one of the most talented people I know, and I’m so proud of him. If you know anyone who needs help with home repair—from small jobs all the way up to full rehabs—please reach out. You can see the amazing work he did on a historic home by checking out his account here. I love you, Howie!