The Honey-Don't List Page 5

  “So I guess they’re not going for subtle,” he says.

  I follow his attention to the giant bus parked at the loading dock.

  Wow. “Am I the only one who thought the publisher had booked a van? I mean, a fancy van, but still.”

  James heaves a sigh of resignation at my side. “No.”

  “I definitely didn’t think we’d be traveling inside Melly’s and Rusty’s heads.”

  But why am I surprised? Melly loves flash and she loves her brand—the Comb+Honey logo is literally stamped or embroidered on everything from golf shirts to key chains to the staplers in the office. (If she didn’t think tattoos were the worst kind of tacky, I’m sure she would have gotten a Comb+Honey tramp stamp years ago.) So obviously I was expecting a logo on the door. At most, I was thinking the book title would be tastefully scripted along the side. I did not expect a mammoth tour bus wrapped in a giant photo of Melissa and Rusty.

  Their too-white smiles are stretched in vinyl across forty-five feet of windows and steel. Don’t get me wrong, the Tripps are a good-looking couple, but nobody looks their best at that scale, in high definition.

  I leave my bag at the curb and take a few steps to the left, and then a few to the right. “The eyes follow you.”

  James doesn’t even crack a smile. Apparently engineers don’t enjoy humor as much as assistants do.

  A brown head of hair pokes out of the bus door, followed by the rest of a man with broad shoulders and a set of biceps that test the durability of his T-shirt. I’ve never really been into muscles before, but… I mean, I’ll admit these are pretty nice.

  “Hey there!” Biceps shouts, easily skipping down the three steps from the bus to the ground, landing with an effortless bounce. “You must be the assistants.”

  Beside me James goes completely still, in what I’m sure is an attempt to not have a toddler-level tantrum in the parking lot. Of course, I am delighted. Roll-dragging my suitcase toward the bus, I smile, make a fist, and shake out my fingers before offering my hand. “Yes. Yes, we are. I’m Carey.”

  I catch him logging my movements, but he gamely takes my hand to shake. I’ve never enjoyed a handshake before, but in this case, I’ll happily make an exception.

  “Joe Perez. I’ll be the handler on the bus. Our driver, Gary, is in there getting settled.” He jerks his thumb and I wave to a portly older guy already seated behind the steering wheel.

  Joe looks over my shoulder to where James has begrudgingly joined us, and smiles, introducing himself again.

  “James McCann,” Jimbo replies. “Director of engineering.”

  I look at him, amused, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

  The two shake hands and do the requisite guy nod, and then Joe is showing us the enormous luggage compartment under the bus. “I know this isn’t a very extensive tour,” he says, unlocking the metal hatch, “but I’ll be riding with you guys, making sure everything goes as planned.”

  It’s possible Joe is the best-looking man I’ve ever seen up close. And he’s coming with us? Like, the entire time? Well, well. I do a mental pat-down in search of my lip gloss. Maybe this is a chance to take some of Therapist Debbie’s advice and assert myself, step outside of eighteen-hour workdays and no social life. To put my phone on silent and do what I want for a change. Mixing work and pleasure is likely to be the only way it’s going to happen for me, and I’d risk the fallout for those biceps.

  Joe’s hair is dark, cut short on the sides but curly on top. He has a dimple in his cheek when he smiles, and his skin is sun-kissed and golden brown. When he reaches to place my suitcase into the open compartment, his shirt pulls taut across his back, muscles straining. My eyes follow the movement in a way I’m sure resembles our old dog Dusty watching hungrily outside the chicken coop.

  “Easy there, Duncan,” James says under his breath.

  “Shut up, Jim,” I quietly fire back.

  Straightening, Joe turns to us with an enthusiastic clap of his hands. Of note: he’s not wearing a wedding ring. “Okay, who’s ready to poke around with me?”

  * * *

  “Holy shit,” I say for the fourth time, eyes moving over every surface of the bus. I am sure this divine coach has never carried an object as grubby as my suitcase.

  “Amazing, right?” Joe runs a loving hand along the front passenger’s seat. May I one day have a man look at me the way Joe is looking at the soft leather of the captain’s chair.

  I walk slowly down the center aisle and my feet sink into thick carpet that is nicer than the condo’s. Strips of purple lights are inlaid into the ceiling; the cabinets and desk are solid wood with marble countertops. This tour bus is an odd combination of luxury villa and party limo.

  “There are two lounges.” Joe points as he walks. “Seating for nine up front, a wet bar, a full galley kitchen with microwave and espresso machine.” He moves toward the back, pointing out various amenities as he goes. “Bathroom with a full stand-up shower, flushing toilet. Room-specific temperature controls, so nobody has to fight over that.” Joe grins and the dimple in his left cheek makes a delightful reappearance.

  “Two forty-six-inch TVs,” he continues, “each with cable and Blu-ray players. Wi-Fi throughout.” He opens a door at the end of the hallway and points into what I assume is the rear lounge. U-shaped leather couches and a reclining captain’s chair offer seating for at least ten more people, and a giant TV hangs in the center. “Oh, let Mr. Tripp know that MLB Extra Innings and MLB.TV have both been enabled.”

  James glances at me, expression typically superior. “You can let him know when you’re going over the itinerary.”

  “You’re his right-hand man, Jim,” I counter. “I’ll let you deliver the good news.”

  Exhaling slowly, James tilts his head up to see his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Joe and I follow his lead and there’s a weird moment of silence when all our eyes meet in the reflection. I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing: we are going to be right on top of each other for days.

  Joe breaks the awkward quiet. “Anyway.” He claps his hands before reaching for a folder tucked into a corner on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got the itinerary right here…” He shuffles through his papers. “You’ve probably got your own, but I’ve printed one for each of you.”

  James nods and takes his, slipping it into his own folder. I fold mine quickly and tuck it in my purse.

  “The tour company booked all the hotels that you sent us in the request—I’ll double-check both of yours,” he adds, referencing my last-minute scramble to secure rooms for James and me. “When we arrive at each stop, I’ll take care of everything and bring out the keys. The Tripps can stay in here and relax away from the public eye.”

  “Probably a good idea to keep the Tripps out of the public eye as much as possible,” James says to me, and I elbow him—gently!—in his annoyingly taut stomach. Rule number one of Project Trouble in Paradise is Trouble, what trouble?

  Joe gives us a brief, puzzled look. “I’ll let you guys get settled. I imagine the Tripps will be here shortly, and someone will be coming by to take food orders. We should hit the road in about a half hour.”

  I watch Joe until he’s completely out of sight, then busy myself with peeking in each of the cupboards. When I feel the pressure of James’s attention, I turn and catch him looking with distaste at where I’ve shoved the printed itinerary haphazardly into my purse.

  “Is there something you’d like to complain about?”

  He blinks away. “Nope.”

  I eye his collection of color-coded folders; he’s even printed labels for each one: ITINERARY. NETFLIX. CRITICAL PRAISE. LOCAL CONTACTS. I am very clearly the Pigpen to his Schroeder. “We can’t all be as organized as Jim McCann. It’s one of the many reasons you’re so good at assisting Rusty.”

  Under the heat of his answering glare, I open another cupboard and let out a cry of delight when I find a canister full of Jolly Ranchers.

  “Listen,” I say. “I may not carry a folder of crisp papers, but I have a system and it hasn’t failed me yet.” My brand of organization would probably drive him nuts. I write everything down in a series of notebooks—usually whichever one I can find—and take them with me. It’s not techy, and my handwriting isn’t pretty, but it works. James is so organized that he probably has a spreadsheet to keep track of his spreadsheets.

  We both straighten at the sound of the Tripps approaching the bus. Dread is a bucket of ice water poured over the top of my head. I feel it seep down into my shoes. James meets my eyes, and I see the parts of each of us that hoped they’d pull out last minute die sad, painful deaths in unison. This is definitely going to be awkward and miserable, and I remain unconvinced they can keep up the lovebird act in public.

  “I really wish you’d cut your hair like that again,” Melly says, and I can only assume she means the clean-cut style Rusty has on the enormous bus wrap. His current hair is a weird, shaggy style that makes him look like he constantly just rolled out of bed. Dye it black, and he could cosplay as Burly Joan Jett.

  “The stylists thought a longer look would appeal to the younger demographic,” Rusty says. “You know, like hipster.”

  “The stylists were wrong.”

  Side by side, James and I kneel on one of the couches, trying to make out the Tripps through the tiny perforations in the vinyl-coated windows. Our shoulders touch, but neither of us shifts away. It surprises me that I feel more of a sense of comfort and relief at his proximity than aversion; for all our differences in temperament and style, I’m probably lucky to have an ally here.

  But then, too loud, he says, “I see they’re off to a rollicking start.”

  I slap a handful of Jolly Ranchers into his palm. “Whenever you feel the temptation to speak, put one of those in your mouth.”

  Outside, Joe jogs up to join them.

  “I see our stars are here.” He claps his hands, so sweetly enthusiastic. I’m already sad to see his bubble burst.

  “Yes! We’re very excited,” Melly says. A moment of silence stretches between the three of them, and I know her well enough to look down just as she subtly leans her frighteningly sharp heel on Rusty’s toe.

  “VERY EXCITED!” he shouts.

  “Yikes,” James whispers next to me, and then dutifully pops a Jolly Rancher into his mouth.

  My stomach clenches. “We just… need to work on her delivery.” I stand as they approach. “It’ll be fine.”

  Melly is the first on the bus; her sharp blue eyes do a RoboCop scan of the interior, and I swear even the bus holds its breath waiting for the verdict.

  “So much marble,” she says with a saccharine smile, and then blinks to me. “Carey, I need to go over the Belmont sketches.” She brushes past me and drops her bright orange Birkin on the couch before slipping into the booth that surrounds the table. She makes a show of trying to get comfortable before she looks up at Joe. “Can we get a better chair in here?”

  I don’t think I’m going out on a limb assuming that nobody wants to tell her no.

  Joe takes one for the team. “I’m not sure if we can get something before we’re set to leave”—he checks his watch again—“but I can certainly try!”

  “Great.” Melly pulls out her laptop, and only quasi under her breath says, “For what I’m paying for this tour, I’d like something that’s not going to leave me hobbling by the time we get to LA.”

  So we’re not even pretending to be nice today. Good to know.

  As Joe passes him on his hunt for a chair, Rusty offers a look of commiseration that I’m sure is the dude equivalent of I know, right? But then Rusty steps into the back lounge and his misery is, as ever, short-lived: “Baseball all day?” he calls out, gleeful. “All right, my man!”

  Melly takes a deep breath and bends her head to rub her temples. I can, oddly, relate.

  * * *

  We stop at a gas station in Salt Lake City for bathroom breaks, fuel, and junk food. A country song filters from the speakers overhead, and I find James in the Maverik coffee aisle, typing furiously into his phone. Stepping up beside him with arms full of Funyuns, Peanut M&M’s, and Red Vines, I bump his shoulder with mine.

  “Still glad we told Melly?” I ask, snapping a bite of a Red Vine.

  Instead of responding, he slumps. “They just rode Expedition Everest.”

  I’m definitely missing an important piece of this conversation. “Who did?”

  James turns the screen toward me and I see a pretty brunette grinning into the camera and standing just behind two scrappy boys wearing mouse ears. They look exhausted and sweaty and euphoric.

  She’s got the same luminous brown eyes and narrow nose, but it’s the smile that gives it away. The McCann children apparently have great teeth. “Your sister?” I guess.

  Nodding, he slips his phone back into his pocket and reaches for a Styrofoam cup from the display.

  “Right, your sister in Florida. You were supposed to go with them. That was your vacation.” Ugh. I guess I could continue to give him shit about screwing up this week for both of us, but missing a trip to Disney World with his sister and nephews seems like sufficient punishment.

  “It’s fine.” He places his cup under the spigot labeled LIGHT SUMATRAN.

  “It’s not fine, but I get that it has to be. I’m sorry, James.”

  He glances at me, surprised. “Thanks.”

  “When did you last see them?”

  James reaches for another cup and places it under the Almond Joy latte spout. See? Getting Rusty’s coffee. Assistant.

  “I saw them at Christmas a year and a half ago.” He glowers at the coffee machine. “Rusty and his stupid dick.”

  My eyes widen. “It’s been that long?” I guess I assumed that everyone around my age was much better about the work-life balance.

  “Andrew was three, Carson was six. We had Christmas at my mom’s place—which, incidentally, is also the last time I’ve been home.” He drags a distractingly large, strong hand through his hair. “This trip, I promised my nephews we’d ride Everest until we puked.” He shoves the top onto Rusty’s sugary drink with a little more force than necessary, and it sloshes over the side.

  “That’s an admirable goal. I can see why you’re disappointed.”

  Drinks wiped off and tucked into a cardboard carrier, he takes a second to study the collection of food in my arms and meets my eyes, brows raised.

  I raise mine back. Yes?

  He scratches his chin. That’s quite a snack pile.

  I grin. And?

  James grins back and my heart thumps once, hard, at the weight of flirtation in his gaze. Unexpected, but welcome; this trip is already really boring.

  “I’m stressed,” I explain, looking away and breaking the tension. “When I’m stressed, I eat.” Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’s that or my vibrator, and that would just be awkward for everyone on the bus.

  James apparently comes by those teeth and also the muscles genetically and not from a personal ban on junk food—he reaches for a Red Vine and takes a bite. “About the trip or the—” He grimaces at the unintentional pun. “The Tripps?”

  I laugh into another bite. “Both, I guess. I’m not used to babysitting them like this,” I admit. “Usually I just help with logistics.”

  We stop at the line that leads to the register, standing behind two women in their midtwenties. The brunette absently scans the front magazine rack; her purple-haired friend scrolls through Instagram on her phone. I follow the first woman’s attention to the magazines, and my pulse accelerates as I am reminded there are four different weeklies with various images of the Tripps’ euphoric marriage emblazoned on the covers.

  “I swear to God these two are everywhere,” the brunette says, picking up a copy of Us Weekly. The cover features a photo of the Tripps on their farm, leaning casually against an iron gate. Melly’s head is thrown back in laughter. Her teeth are so white I’m sure they can be seen from space. Rusty smiles at her adoringly, happy that he can still make his wife laugh like that after all this time.

  “They’re just salt-of-the-earth types!” the brunette sings sarcastically to her friend. Her voice lowers as she flips to the next page of the feature, and on some instinct to duck or hide or otherwise eavesdrop more subtly, I step closer to James just as he presses against my side, too.

  “Seriously,” she continues, “I bet she’s never actually ridden a horse in her entire life, but look at him. Look how he looks at her. I’ve gotta find a man like that.”

  The purple-haired woman looks away from her phone and groans. “I don’t know. Whenever I see some celebrity couple on every magazine, my first thought is that they’re in damage control mode.” Even so, she leans in and starts to read over her friend’s shoulder.

  James and I exchange another look, and this time we’re both making the Eek face. On instinct, I lean forward to peek out the window and my breath cuts short. Out there, visible to anyone nearby, Rusty and Melly are clearly arguing.

  Melly points a finger at Rusty’s chest and leans forward, appearing to lay into him. Rusty has the gall to not even look at her; his attention is focused to the side, bored gaze fixed on the horizon. I remember the days when he’d hang on her every word. I remember, too, when Melly would roll with anything, always the optimist. Now it feels like she’d start an argument in an empty house.

  James and I exchange another look.

  “This is how shit goes viral,” I say under my breath.

  “I think this is when we intervene,” James replies.

  I jerk my chin toward the door. So go.

  He jerks his in return. No, you go.

  Instead of being annoyed, I’m oddly on the verge of laughter. Nervous laughter. Nauseated laughter. I have never had to do this before; my job has always allowed me to blend easily into the background. I imagine walking out there and trying to mediate whatever’s happening between them. I imagine Melly’s hard stare, Rusty’s avoidance of eye contact. It makes me feel like I have a worm farm in my stomach. “Don’t wanna.”