The Honey-Don't List Page 4

  Ted Cox, producer of Home Sweet Home, is not going to appreciate this call from Robyn at—I glance again at the clock—1:30 a.m.

  Robyn puts the phone on speaker so we can all hear it ring. Melissa stands and paces the room, looking very much like she would like to pick up one of the football trophies Rusty insists on keeping and throw it at his head.

  An incredibly groggy Ted comes on the phone. “Ted Cox.”

  I close my eyes, wincing against the disgust I feel toward anyone who answers their phone with their own name.

  “Ted,” Robyn says, “it’s Robyn Matsuka. Listen, I have Melissa and Rusty here in a bit of a crisis. I think we need a little pep talk to get us back on track.”

  “We don’t need a fucking pep talk, Ted,” Melissa cries out. “We need someone to throttle this idiot.” She turns on Rusty, eyes wild. “I don’t care who you screw, how much beer you drink, or how many fucking times a day you check your stupid fantasy football team lineup. What pisses me off, Russell, is you got messy. You think the press would ignore a story like this?”

  “Sorry,” Ted sleepily cuts in. “What’s going on?”

  Melissa ignores him. “Who paid off the reporter that got wind of TJ trashing a hotel room in Vegas?” She waits for Russell to answer this, and the only sound is Ted, across the line, groaning at what he now realizes he’s been dragged into. When the kids get weaponized, the conversation is going nowhere good.

  “You did,” Rusty concedes, finally.

  “That’s right,” Melissa says, on a roll now. “And who made sure to bury the story of Kelsey getting her stomach pumped after her first frat party?” She doesn’t even wait for him to answer this time. “That’s right. Me. Because both times, you were watching TV, or playing with your tools, and didn’t bother to answer the calls. Do you think if word gets out that you’re sleeping around—that our perfect marriage is a mess—that reporters will hesitate to dig those stories up and throw our kids’ lives into the mix? Can you imagine the glee the media will have breaking the story that, not only are we terrible at being married, we’re terrible parents?” She stares at him, chin wobbling. “You think if we stop now, you can keep your airplane and your Super Bowl tickets? You think we’ll get to keep our four houses and your ridiculous collection of trucks? You think your kids will weather this fine, and we’ll live happily ever after, rolling in cash?”

  When she shakes her head, her hair comes loose from its bun, the wild strands sticking to her cheeks where tears have tracked. “No, Rusty. We’ll lose everything. So, I’m sorry that you got busted sleeping with a washed-up beauty queen who can’t even spell ‘asbestos,’ but this is bigger than anything else you’ve got going on. We’re in too deep. You can just suck it up and keep making millions of dollars by being an idiot on television.”

  That was brutal, but masterful. I have to actively resist the impulse to let out a low, impressed whistle.

  Silence falls, slowly covering the lingering echo of Melissa’s tirade.

  “That seems to cover it,” Ted says groggily over the line. Before he hangs up, he asks, “When does the book tour begin?”

  Robyn lets out an incongruously chipper “The day after tomorrow!”

  “Robyn,” Ted says, “I assume you’re traveling with them?”

  “Yes,” she answers, just as Melissa counters with an emphatic “No.”

  “No?” Robyn eyes her. “Melly, the plan has always been that I’d—”

  “Carey will come with us,” Melissa interrupts.

  My stomach drops because I have become clairvoyant. I know what’s coming next. Melissa’s eyes swing to me, and the two words stretch out in slow motion. “And James.”

  Robyn gives her a tight smile. “I’m your publicist. You’ll need me out there.”

  “No, I need you here with a reliable signal where you can monitor what’s happening and put out fires as they arise. I need Carey with me, and Rusty needs James to help keep his dick in his pants.”

  “Uh.” I’m afraid to correct her, but I’m less willing to let this ship go down without a fight. “I don’t think—we shouldn’t plan, uh, that I go anywhere near Rusty’s—He doesn’t need me for this.”

  “Yeah, I do.” It’s the first thing Rusty has said since Melissa’s tirade. He looks at me, oddly determined, like he’s scoring a win against his wife by strongly agreeing with her. “I’m not going without James.”

  Carey and I glance at each other, and I’m sure her pulse skyrockets, too.

  I am immediately scrambling. “It was my understanding that, in addition to Robyn, the tour company has a handler in place to coordinate everything, so you’ll have a staffer on hand.”

  Ted sighs, reminding us that he’s still there being deeply inconvenienced. “I’m going to ask that you two join the tour. We need you to help manage the public-facing aspect of this, and Robyn can handle things backstage. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that all our best interests lie in keeping this ship sailing true. Get some rest, and I’ll see everyone in the morning.”

  When the silence feels infinite, I know Ted has already hung up.

  Robyn turns her face from her phone screen up to the room. I can see the moment she realizes this is the only way and, to salvage her dignity, she needs to appear Completely On Board with this plan. “Yes,” she says, gaining steam. “Yes. Absolutely. Ted is right.”

  I’m already shaking my head. I negotiated this week off when I was hired; it was meant to be my first true vacation in four years. The workload at my previous job in New York at Rooney, Lipton, and Squire was so overwhelming I didn’t take a single day off while I was there. And then I was so desperate to find another job after the FBI raided the firm’s offices that I applied for fifteen positions the next morning—including director of engineering for Comb+Honey—and was offered the job at the interview a few weeks later. They were the only ones who called me for an interview at all.

  Although I’ve yet to do any actual engineering, I do work nearly fourteen hours a day managing Rusty’s schedule, meetings, paperwork, contracts, blueprints, and general poky-puppy bullshit. I haven’t had a second to breathe.

  “Actually,” I say into a room that is so tense the air feels wavy, “I’m headed to Florida to see my sister and her kids.” I pause. “We negotiated this when you hired me. I can’t go.”

  Carey meets my eyes, and I think it’s fair to say she would bare-hand strangle me if I were closer.

  “And I had plans, too,” she says, her voice thin.

  “I write both your checks,” Melissa reminds us, “and if you want to be around to cash the next one, you’ll start packing.” Striding angrily to the door, she opens it, walks out, and slams it shut.

  “Sorry, Jimbo. If I’m stuck, so are you.” With an infuriating little Oops, my bad shrug, Rusty stands, too, and leaves.

  “Robyn,” Carey starts with similar desperation in her voice, “we don’t need to go. I know them. They’ll get it together in the morning. They always do.”

  “We can’t risk it, Carey.” Robyn shakes her head, resolute and unsympathetic. “Everything is riding on this, including your jobs. Change your plans and pack up for a weeklong trip. Your only job for the next ten days is to keep the Tripps from falling apart.” She attempts a smile, but it is a sad, sad approximation as she glances at her watch. “See you for Netflix in seven and a half hours.”

  She leaves, and when the door closes, Carey grabs a pillow, bends, and releases a scream into it that is surprisingly primal.

  I, too, want to let out an unholy string of curse words. I want to scream to the room, Why can’t I find a job that is somehow both legal and relevant to my graduate degree? Is that too much to ask? Am I being transitioned into Rusty’s full-time errand boy?

  If I quit now, the only other position on my résumé is the black stain of RL&S; my former firm is still on the front page of national newspapers for its shocking accounting scandal that, so far, has resulted in fourteen arrests, job lo
ss for nearly two thousand employees, and apparent loss of hundreds of millions of dollars in company retirement benefits. A few brief months at Comb+Honey won’t make my résumé look better. I’m backed into a corner, and the Tripps know it.

  “This is bullshit,” Carey says. “And one hundred percent your fault.”

  “My fault? I wasn’t the one having s—” With a full-body shudder, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see bursts of light. Maybe if I press hard enough I’ll never have to see anything again. “I wasn’t the one cheating on his wife. This is Rusty’s fault, and we’re the ones who are paying for it.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have helped you.” She sits back against the couch with a growl. “This is what I get for trying to be nice.”

  “That was you being nice?” I start, stopping short when she turns to glare at me. I drop my head into my hands. “At least you’re doing what you’ve been hired to do. Babysitting adults is not what I went to school for.”

  It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The last person to storm out of the office is Carey, with an infuriated “Yes, yes, James, we all know you’re brilliant.”

  Carey

  My roommates, Peyton and Annabeth, pause midconversation when, just over twenty-four hours later, I roll my shitty suitcase into the living room and set it beside theirs. I look back longingly at their enormous leather sectional; it’s not pretty—it’s old and bulky—but I had really looked forward to making it my home base for the next week. Yet here we are: instead of a staycation at home in my pajamas, I’m facing eight days cooped up in a van with a married couple in the midst of a crisis and Mr. Morality McEngineeringpants.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell my roommates. “I’m not crashing your romantic getaway.”

  Annabeth looks at the suitcase and then turns bright, inquisitive eyes on me. Her face falls. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.” I round the counter that separates the kitchen and living room and open the fridge to retrieve a protein shake. “James and I have to join the Tripps on their book tour.”

  Peyton lets out a sympathetic groan. “He’s the new one, right? The hot nerd assistant?”

  I swallow down a long drink of the shake—as well as the petty desire to ask her to slowly repeat the word assistant while I record it for him. “Yup.”

  “What happened?” Peyton pulls her thick dark curls into a ponytail. “I thought you had the week off?”

  “It’s complicated.” That’s about all I can say. NDAs aside, I’ve never complained about work—other than my long hours—and never disclosed just how rigid Melly can be, how maddening Rusty can be, and how hard this job is most days. In other words, I’ve always done what I can to protect the Tripps. I owe them that loyalty.

  Because of this, Peyton and Annabeth think my bosses are everything the public believes they are: charismatic, creative, in love. It’s such a happy image; I hate to ruin it for anyone, even the two people closest to me in nonwork life.

  Is that depressing? That the couple I met through a classified ad when they were looking for someone to rent the second bedroom in their condo, and whom I rarely see, are the closest thing I have to friends? Is it terrible that I haven’t made time for my brothers in at least six months, and they only live a half hour away? Am I a monster for not having been home for Christmas in two years?

  Obviously the answer to all of these questions is yes. My life is an embarrassment. This is also why I started seeing a therapist. I’d never been to therapy before—never thought it was for me—but sometime last year I realized that I never really talk to anyone. I didn’t have anyone I could unload on to help me unclutter my brain the way I unclutter Melly’s inbox, QuickBooks, and calendar.

  Maybe it helps that my therapist’s name is Debbie. She’s soft and comforting and looks a lot like my aunt Linda. The first thing I saw when I walked into Debbie’s office was one of those granny-square afghans that my dad used to keep on the back of his La-Z-Boy. After a few sessions, I felt right at home. We’re currently working on my ability to be assertive and brainstorming ways I can take control of my life. As you can see from the suitcase I didn’t want to pack for the trip I absolutely don’t want to go on, I’m not crushing this assertiveness thing.

  I stare at my roommates’ luggage—they’re bound for Kauai to celebrate their fifth anniversary. I can’t even imagine taking a trip to the Hawaiian Islands by myself, let alone with a significant other. It’s like I started walking down one road and a day became a week became a month became a year, and here I am, ten years later with no idea if this is the right road or what I’m supposed to do when I’m not walking down it.

  Flopping onto the couch, I moan dramatically. “Have fun, but feel sorry for me occasionally.”

  Annabeth comes and sits near my feet. Her auburn pixie cut perfectly frames her face, and I can already imagine how sun-kissed she’ll be when she returns. “We will raise a fruit-decorated drink in your honor.”

  “Oh my God,” I lament, “I was going to lie on this couch for days and drink boxed wine and catch up on like seven hundred different shows.”

  Peyton leans over the back and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know I’ve said it before, but if you want a job with regular hours, I can always find a spot for you.”

  Her offer is sweet, but the only thing that sounds worse to me than being Melissa Tripp’s assistant is being an assistant to an insurance claims adjustor.

  “That’s so nice of you—” I begin, and Peyton cuts me off.

  “But you want to keep your insurance,” she says.

  I do. The medical benefits are amazing, and I’m not sure I’d be able to find that in a private plan that won’t bankrupt me.

  “And even if that wasn’t the issue, you’d rather die first, I know,” she adds.

  I laugh. “The idea of nine to five and three weeks of vacation a year sounds almost mythical, but—”

  “But then you wouldn’t get to work with Melissa Tripp!”

  I look over at Annabeth when she practically sings this, and grin. “Exactly.”

  She’s not being sarcastic. Annabeth is such a sweet, innocent angel baby it would be a shame to burst her image of Melly, who, admittedly, used to be a dream boss. But fame—and then her clawing need to hold on to it—is slowly eroding anything gentle or lighthearted about her. I’d feel sorry for Rusty if he hadn’t eroded in opposite but equivalent ways.

  Annabeth and Peyton are dressed and ready, which means that they’re about to leave to catch their flight, which means it’s nearly seven and I need to get a move on, too. I haul myself up from the couch, hug them in turn, and try not to look back at their bright, sunshiny dresses on my way out the door.

  * * *

  Granted, I was never an exceptional student—my crowning achievement in high school was a C in AP Lit and being voted secretary of our Future Farmers of America club—but the short walk from my car to the van has got to be some kind of metaphor for what a college education can do for a person. My shaggy old suitcase chugs along, veering off-path every time it hits a pebble. The fabric is worn out, the lock is broken, and the wheels are barely attached to the case. Up ahead, James McCann is shiny as a penny as he climbs out of his sleek BMW coupe and extracts his glossy aluminum luggage. He sets it down like it weighs nothing and, behind him, it glides across the parking lot like an obedient, high-end robot.

  I want to throw something at him, preferably my shitty suitcase.

  Plus, he’s wearing a neatly pressed navy suit like we’re going to another Netflix meeting instead of climbing into a cramped van for a fourteen-hour drive from Jackson to Los Angeles.

  Irritation crawls up my spine.

  “You’re wearing work clothes?” I have to yell to drown out the horrifying screech of my suitcase wheels struggling to stay connected to the bag.

  He doesn’t turn around. “Are we not headed to work?”

  “Not work work. We’re going to be sitting for a while.” Thanks to you, I t
hink. “I assumed we should wear something at least fifty percent Lycra with no zipper.”

  “I left my yoga pants at home.” He still doesn’t even look at me over his shoulder. “This is how I dress, Carey.”

  “Even when relaxing?”

  “We have an event tonight.”

  “And we can change at the last stop,” I say. “Won’t you get wrinkled?”

  This time, he looks back at me over the top of his glasses. “I don’t wrinkle.”

  I glare because, as impossible as it seems, if anyone can figure out how to be both stain- and wrinkle-proof, it’s James. He keeps walking, and I riffle through my memory. In the couple of months that he’s been working for Rusty, I don’t think I’ve ever seen James in casual clothing, or looking anything less than recently pressed. No jeans, certainly no sweats. Now all I can imagine is James McCann washing his silver BMW in his driveway wearing tailored chinos and one of his many Easter egg–hued button-down shirts.

  He’s definitely never spilled a forty-ounce Super Big Gulp down his cleavage.

  “Why are you so interested in my clothes?” he asks.

  For the record, I’m not—I mean, not really. It’s annoying that he’s seemingly so perfectly turned out, but if I have to endure a week of this, I’m doing it in an elastic waistband.

  “Because we’re here against our will,” I say, “and you and I are about to spend the entire day driving to Los Angeles. I’m wearing what I want.”

  “I’m sure Melissa won’t have anything to say about that,” he says dryly.

  I glance down at my leggings and faded Dolly Parton T-shirt. Melly doesn’t like what I wear even when I’m dressed up, though I do use the term dressed up loosely. Fashion is not my forte. But if I have to tolerate her disapproving face anyway, I might as well be comfortable.

  We roll our suitcases around the side of a building that houses one of the Comb+Honey warehouses, and James comes to an abrupt stop. My face collides with his shoulder blade.

  I’m too busy being annoyed that his back feels wonderfully solid and defined under that dress shirt to immediately realize what caused him to pull up short.