Page 72 of The Lipstick Flip

“You always make it about this, Noah. Give it a fucking rest.”

“That’s not what it’s about? Then what’s it about, Howie?” He laughed, pushed a hand through his hair, hipshot and barefoot and tiny and still somehow making me feel like I was the small one. “God, nothing has changed, has it? I thought—” But he broke off, shaking his head.

“What’d you think?”

He shook his head some more. He bent to pick up his socks.

“What’d you think?” I asked. “You’re so fucking smart. You know what everything is about. What’d you think?”

“I thought things were different. I thought you’d changed.”

“What the fuck do you want to change?”

But he just sat on the bed and pulled on his socks.

“What’s so awful about me? Why am I always the fucking bad guy? You want to talk about nothing changing? Not one fucking thing has changed. You’re right. Because what I want, the way I want things to be—none of that fucking matters. The only thing that matters is what Noah wants. It has to be the way Noah says. If it’s not, it’s wrong.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Noah doesn’t like the sofa, so we’re getting a new one. Noah doesn’t like that color, so we’re painting the bedroom for the third fucking time this year. Noah doesn’t like how I dress, so fuck me, I’m getting a new fucking wardrobe.”

He grabbed his shoes and stood. “This was a mistake.”

“You’re the problem. You.” I was still standing there, still holding that stupid sweatshirt in one hand, and I stabbed a finger at him again. “I didn’t want to get divorced. I didn’t want to call it off. I loved you then. I love you now. I do everything you want. All I do is try to make you happy.” It was strange, confusing, to say try instead of tried. Like a part of me couldn’t tell if this was then or now. If we’d done this all before. If we were just doing it all again. “I play nice with your friends, even though half the time they’re raging bitches. I try to learn about the stuff you care about so I can talk to you about it. Whatever you want to do—go back to grad school, apply for a new job, paint the fucking bedroom—I’m on board. Jesus Christ, Noah. I stand up to your fucking family for you.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m the problem.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Fuck you.”

“Do you know something, Howie? You’re right. You do a lot for me. And that—that means a lot to me.” His voice broke. “There’s nobody in my life who’s ever made me feel the way you do. Who’s ever treated me the way you do. But have you ever thought about the fact that maybe—just maybe—you should be trying to make yourself happy too?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means why do you put yourself through this? You’re miserable when we go anywhere in public—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“—you don’t want to kiss me—”

“This again. This. The same fucking thing over and over again.”

“—you don’t want to hold my hand—”

“Why is it such a fucking problem that I don’t like doing that in public? There are all sorts of gay guys who go out in public and aren’t grabbing each other’s asses and sticking their tongues down each other’s throats.”

“But it’s everything, Howie! You don’t want people to know we’re together! One time you called me buddy!”

Even through the heat of the anger, the memory of that moment made me cringe. Somehow, though, my mouth kept moving. “I don’t understand why I’m such a bad guy when I just want to act normal when we’re in public.”

A little laugh escaped Noah. And then he said, “Well, there you go.”

“What?”

“Normal.”

“What?”

He just nodded, as though seeing me clearly for the first time. “I’m sorry, Howie.”