Page 73 of The Lipstick Flip

I folded my arms. I was suddenly aware of the cold in the house, my skin tightening against it.

“I’m sorry you hate yourself so much. I really am. But I can’t fix it for you.”

“Fuck you. Get the fuck out of here.”

“And I’m sorry I can’t—I can’t do this. I spent a lot of my life letting people make me feel like I was invisible. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t worth anything to them.”

“I said get the fuck out of here!”

“I’m not going to do it again.”

“What the fuck do you know about being invisible?” I couldn’t breathe. It was the darkness of the barn. And fingers clinging desperately to the doorjamb. And the crack of the belt. My chest locked up, but somehow I was still talking. “Mommy didn’t hug you enough? Daddy might cut off your trust fund? Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Tears finally fell as he ducked his chin.

“What the fuck do you know about anything?” I didn’t recognize my own voice. “Get out!”

He cut a wide circle around me. And he shut the door behind him. And his footsteps got smaller and quieter until they were gone.

23

I couldn’t stay in the house.

Somehow, I ended up in the truck.

Somehow, I ended up in the parking lot of Wahredua Regional.

The day was gray and still somehow bright, and the snow refused to settle, coming down in fits of icy flakes that cracked against the windshield. The sound of the truck idling was a faint click-click-click barely there under the rumble. I thought I could smell roses, and it wasn’t until I actually looked at the sweatshirt I was wearing that I realized it was the old Mizzou one, the one Noah had been wearing the night before. Two nights before. Whenever.

My eyes stung. I closed them. Pushed it all back.

Crying didn’t fix anything.

And anyway, whose fault was it really? Everything had been fine. Everything had been more than fine. It had been so good. And Noah had been the one to fuck it up. Noah had been the one who couldn’t leave well enough alone. And all the reasons I’d been telling myself for the last two years came back, like I’d had them locked behind a door, and as soon as I opened it, they came tumbling out. He was spoiled. He was immature. He’d lived this sheltered life where nothing he did ever had any real consequences. Oh, your dad was mad at you when you came out? Oh, he didn’t like it when you became a nurse? But your whole family still comes out here to spend two weeks with you, and you can go home whenever you want, and you’ve got a fucking bottomless trust fund from Pappy and Mamie. Jeez, what a fucking tragedy.

And the thing with Noah was that he was never going to be happy with me. He could make up this bullshit about not holding hands or whatever, but that was a moving target. Always had been. Because that was how the arguments had gone the last time, before the divorce. You won’t hold my hand in public. Okay, fuck it. I’ll hold your hand in public. But then, when I did, the fight was: But you don’t like it. You’re not comfortable. I’m comfortable. But your hand is stiff. It’s just my hand; I don’t know what you want me to do about it. You’re embarrassed. I’m not embarrassed. You hate yourself.

Yeah.

Well.

Lots of people hated themselves. It wasn’t like cocksuckers had an exclusive on that.

By then, the worst of the anger had—well, not so much drained out of me as settled. My head felt clear. Or clearer, anyway. I shut off the truck and headed inside. Hospital lights. Hospital smells. The sound of voices echoing off all those hard surfaces, and shoes squeaking on vinyl flooring, and a huge HVAC system whooshing at the edge of hearing. It made me feel like I was floating.

I went through the whole process of getting into Si’s room in the ICU.

“Right on cue,” the nurse said as I started around the desk.

I had no idea what that meant, so I smiled and nodded.

The room just had those thin privacy curtains, so it wasn’t like things changed all that much once I was in there. I could still hear the nurses moving around. I could hear a murmured conversation from somewhere else in the unit—a woman telling a story about a fishing trip. Feet moved. The curtains rippled.

But it was like those good days out on the water, when it didn’t matter how loud the outboard was, or the music pounding up from the beach, or the fact that somebody had already staked out the best hole. When I just felt like I was somewhere I’d been trying to get to for a long time, and I could sit for a minute, rest.

I’d have to pay Noah back. The house would sell—probably not to Jonathan now, but someone would buy it. And Si would get her money. And I’d write Noah a check. And that would be that. His family would leave in a day or two, after—

After his birthday.