The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren
It doesn’t happen often, but I do have occasional moments of brilliance. Like taking first place in the seventh grade spelling bee. The final word was rhythm. I turned bright red, but spelled it correctly not because I’d been studying for days like I told my mom, but because I’d been babysitting for a neighbor the night before and read their 1972 edition of The Joy of Sex cover to cover. Twice.
Another would be not giving Rusty and Melly the Wi-Fi password in Laramie until the last possible second. Their usual cabin—where Melly collected river rock for wall pieces—doesn’t have Internet or cell service at all. I knew that as soon as we turned down that wooded drive and Melly saw she had zero signal, she’d assume we’d have no Wi-Fi here, either.
See? Brilliant.
But my plan could only work for so long. Eventually I had to relent so we could plug in and collectively stress over the premiere of Home Sweet Home together.
On the night of the premiere, the tension in the house feels like a low electrical hum. I’m on my way to make sure Melly and Rusty are both mentally prepared for tonight but am instead lured to the kitchen by the smell of garlic and onion sautéing in butter, of something chocolate baking in the oven. I find an aproned James at the stove, a kitchen towel over his shoulder and a wooden spoon in his hand.
The sight catches me beneath my heart, near my lungs, sending me into a tight, breathless spiral of imagining this moment in a different context, somewhere far away from this cabin. I stare at the broad line of his shoulders, the way his T-shirt stretches across his back and tapers down to a trim waist, a fantastic ass—
Wait. I lean against the counter, and he glances over at me, raises a questioning brow.
“Are you actually wearing a T-shirt, James McCann?”
“Always so obsessed with my clothes.” He grins and turns back to his cooking.
“There’s definitely a joke in there about being more obsessed with you out of them.” Uneasily, I look around the kitchen and out into the living room. “Where are the prisoners?”
He reaches for a pair of tongs. “They were driving me nuts, so I told them to find something to do.”
I gape at him. “And they listened?”
“I think they can only be obstinate for the sake of being obstinate for so long before even they have to find some way to fill their time.”
“Do I ask or want plausible deniability here … ?”
James smiles down at the stove, sliding some chopped tomatoes from a cutting board into the pan. He adds some browned ground turkey to the mix. It smells incredible. “They’re outside. Rusty found some woodworking stuff in one of the sheds and needed help dragging it out. I told him I could help or I could make dinner—wisely, he chose dinner. And since he didn’t dare ask you—”
“No,” I say. “You mean—?”
Amused, he lifts his chin toward the window, and I follow his gaze. Rusty and Melly are arguing over the top of a dirty old table saw they must have brought outside, a serpent of extension cords coiled on the ground at their feet. Melly is in one of her velvet sweat suits, her bright blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head. Instead of heels, she’s in a rare pair of sneakers and looks almost comically small next to her giant of a husband.
“Should we be concerned?” I ask, watching as Melly throws something across the table. “Aren’t there like, power tools and rusty nails out there? Aren’t you worried someone might use an ax?”
He considers this before pulling down plates from the cupboard. “Worst-case scenario: Someone dies. Easiest to explain is that they were maimed during a tragic woodworking accident that cut short some quality couple time. As far as I’m concerned, either of those options can only improve their image at this point. At least there aren’t any witnesses here to tweet it.”
With Melly and Rusty occupied, I do what I’ve wanted to since walking into the kitchen. Pushing off the counter, I step up behind him, resting my cheek between his shoulders and wrapping my arms around his waist. He makes a low, vibrating sound of contentment, and places his hand over mine to keep me there.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he says, and I nod against him, breathing him in and letting myself enjoy every second. I’ve never really let myself want someone this way. Never let them know the parts of me that I spend so much time hating or trying to hide. It’s nice to just be me. Everything lately feels so hard, but being with James isn’t.
When he laughs, I feel it move through him in a deep rumble. “They look like a couple of actors in a really weird silent movie.”
I hook my chin over his shoulder to look outside again. It’s really just an excuse to get closer. He’s right. We can see them shouting but can’t hear anything they say. It’s oddly relieving.
Rusty has a set of safety goggles sitting atop his head. Melly is holding a giant hammer, waving it in the air. I’m not sure if I’m more worried she’ll hurt herself or him with it, but I find I have very little energy to go out there and intervene.
With a click of the stove, James shuts off a burner and lifts a pot from the back, full of noodles, transferring it to a colander in the sink. My grip around his waist is clearly making it harder for him to maneuver around the kitchen, but I don’t want to let go until I have to.
“Dinner’s ready.” With one hand keeping me close, he smiles at me over his shoulder. “Should we tell them they’re allowed to come back inside?”
I groan into his shirt. “Do we have to?”
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, and turns in my arms. “They don’t know it, but that door is locked, so …”
I only mean to kiss him once, but the crazy thing about not being able to kiss when and where you want is that you never get used to it. Each kiss feels like something we’re stealing.
I’ve been naked with James, had sex half-clothed with James, but the feeling of his hands on my hips and his fingers grazing that tiny slice of skin at my waist sends electricity from my chest to my toes and everywhere in between. I don’t want this to end, I think. I feel like I don’t know what to do with my job or anything else in my life, but I know he’s the most sarcastic, funny, thoughtful man I’ve ever met, and I want him. I know that much.
He moves to kiss my cheek and my jaw, then sucks at the spot just below my ear. It sends another jolt of awareness up my spine and tingles along my scalp.
“As much as I want to keep doing this,” he says, the backs of his fingers sliding along my skin to my ribs and just below my breasts, “the show is going live in fifteen minutes. Once we get through this, we’ll get numbers from Ted and know if season two is a go. After that, we can head home, and I can take you to my bed without anyone walking in to say a single fucking thing.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I consider my options: a quickie in the kitchen pantry, or being thoroughly ravaged in James’s bed. “Okay. I’ll try to be patient.”
He grins, kissing me once more. “Is everything ready to go?”
It takes a moment for my brain to come completely back online, but I eventually get there. The show. “Yeah,” I say, taking a step away for a little breathing room. “I’ve got the router booted up and the big TV connected, and my phone is logged in to Skype so I can hear Ted and Robyn yell at me rather than just read it.”
I watch as he walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a green salad.
“Can I say how much I love that you made dinner and I hooked up the electronics?” I ask.
“Sometimes we have to play to our strengths.” He sets the bowl on the counter. “Do you want to call the kids and tell them dinner is ready or should I?”
I grin at him as I move to open the door. “Do you want the real answer or the nice one?”
But I never get that far. Rusty and Melly are already walking toward the house, sweaty and grumpy and elbowing each other off the path as they walk. My first instinct is to tell them to knock it off, but then Melly meets my eyes and I don’t have to say anything; she knows. It’s show time.
It turns out that James would make one hell of a stay-at-home spouse. I say that with only the utmost respect because 1) I would not, and 2) a single bite of the dinner he made and I’m ready to marry him.
By six o’clock the food is out, Melly hasn’t looked away from her phone since I gave her the Wi-Fi password, and the Netflix logo fills the screen.
With Rusty already two beers deep in the La-Z-Boy, and Melly sitting ramrod straight at the edge of the sofa, James and I hover toward the back of the room. A vibrating, anticipatory silence fills the space and then their new upbeat theme music bursts free, opening credits run, and glossy, bright images of Rusty and Melly flutter happily across the seventy-five-inch TV.
We all hold our breaths.
But the editing is brilliant. It’s so surreal to see this thing that we worked so hard for come to life. The premiere episode is with the Larsen family, and even knowing what was going on behind the scenes, I’m still genuinely impressed. The camera follows Melly and Erin Larsen into the Larsens’ former dining room, and over cups of tea Melly asks all the right questions and listens attentively to the answers. Erin grew up an army brat who never lived in the same place for more than a few years. Now an adult with children of her own, Erin knows they’ve outgrown the small two-bedroom house but doesn’t want to leave. From there, we watch Melly present a design plan (which I drew up), and Rusty and the crew begin putting it all together.
And then the renovations start. This is exactly what Melly and Rusty do best: Melly appears to hunt for one-of-a-kind antiques that can be repurposed for unique design in the home. Rusty appears to dive into the carpentry and cuts himself within the first five minutes. Suddenly, Melly is there with the Band-Aids and a long-suffering sigh that dissolves into laughter, and you can’t help but like them.
“I really loved the way you did the girls’ rooms,” James whispers.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “I’d have liked a little more time, but I’m really happy with the way it came out.” He lifts a brow, and I explain, “Most of the furniture was built custom to fit the space, so I had to sketch it all. Takes me a little longer some days.”
“I was thinking about that. What if I could come up with something to help? Something you’d wear, with a place for your fingers to slip through like a glove, and a mechanism for the pencil? That way you can focus on the movements themselves, rather than having to think so much about the grip.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his wallet, opens it, and lays it flat for me to see.
It’s a rough sketch of what he’s just described, with all sorts of equations and notes written to the side. “It would be more complicated than this,” he adds, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “I’d need to account for different weights—like whether it’s a stylus you’re using or a piece of charcoal, or whatever, and be able to make adjustments—but it’s doable.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence.
“Could something like that work?” he starts, and begins folding it back up. “We don’t—”
I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “Yes, the idea makes sense. I can see how it might work.” I bite the inside of my cheek to contain my smile, and feel the tight burn across the surface of my eyes, the rare sensation of tears forming. I wish we were anywhere but here, somewhere I could really thank him. “I—”
My phone vibrates on the table, and I have to restrain myself from throwing it through the TV. It’s from Robyn.
Check twitter
Home Sweet Home is trending at #6!
I open the app and swipe to the trending tab and we’re not at number six, we’re at number two.
“You’re trending,” I say, and turn to look at Melly where she’s now pacing the front of the room, her phone to her ear.
“We’re what?” she asks.
I turn my phone to show her and she rounds the couch. “Hashtag Home Sweet Home is at number two in the US!”
Melly drops into one of the chairs. “I can’t believe it.”
I scroll through both their accounts. Even the tweets that aren’t pure unadulterated love are resigned haters. “Look for yourself.”
@melissaEllenTripp @The_Rusty_Tripp The show is amazing! Congrats you two! #HomeSweetHome
@melissaEllenTripp melly you are so cute! I need to know where you got the jacket in episode 4! #HomeSweetHome
@melissaEllenTripp @The_Rusty_Tripp I cant with this show. DO ME NEXT #HomeSweetHome
I can’t believe these assholes own my Netflix queue AGAIN. When will I be free?? @melissaEllenTripp @The_Rusty_Tripp #HomeSweetHome
Melly scrolls through the tweets. “I was so worried they’d hate it.”
“How can you even say that?” I say. “You guys killed it. This is what you do! You listened to what they wanted and made sure that’s what they got. That was you. There are a hundred other decorating shows out there, but all of those?” I point to my phone. “Those guys are there for you.”
Melly gives me a teary smile and then looks over at her husband. “Did you hear that?” she asks him. “We did that.”
Rusty rubs a giant hand over his face and puts the footrest down on the recliner. “I need another beer,” he says, and walks into the kitchen.
Unfazed, Melly hands me my phone. “I need to call Ted,” she says. “Thank you, Carey.”
She walks away, phone already up to her ear again. Next to me, James leans forward. “That was really nice of you.”
“I didn’t say anything that isn’t true.” I shrug, absently checking my phone when it vibrates again. “Melly is great on camera and with the clients. It’s everywhere else that she’s a mess.”
We sit down on the love seat and let the next few episodes play, continuing to get updates from Robyn.
ET tweet!
Hypable is livetweeting!
EW has their first article up. They love
The FugGirls are watching and tweeting about Melissa’s hair!
FYI I agree with them. She does look like a Walmart Reese Witherspoon
Carey, make an appt to get that fixed
People, Just Jared, and Pop Sugar tweeted about the show!
By episode six, I’m full as a tick and already regret the three pieces of cake I wolfed down. Stress eating is not my friend. It’s also not escaped my notice that Rusty—back in the La-Z-Boy—is being very quiet, and James seems to be growing more restless with every episode.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks me, standing from the love seat.
“No, thanks,” I say, then look closer. “Hey, you okay? It’s going great. I have a good feeling.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course.”
“Okay.” I watch him disappear into the kitchen.
“We’re the top trend!” Melly shouts, dropping into James’s vacant seat. “Take that, Joanna Gaines.”
My phone, Melly’s phone, Rusty’s phone, and I’m assuming James’s phone by the way he rushes out of the kitchen, vibrate at once. Nobody dares to breathe.
The offer for a second season is in. It’s official, we’re a hit.
If I were an outsider looking in, I’d find the mixture of reactions hilarious. Melly jumps off the couch, screaming with joy. She bends to kiss her husband and immediately Skypes Robyn for details. James practically sags with exhausted relief before looking directly at me with an intensity that reads both I’m so relieved I could cry and I’m gonna sex you so hard later. Honestly, I love both translations. Rusty doesn’t even look at his phone and, with a sigh, flips down the footrest of the recliner again and stands.
“I’m gonna go for a walk,” he says.
“Okay. Just—” I pause because what do you say to a six-foot-four adult man? Be careful? “Stay close, okay? It’ll be dark soon.”
“Yes, Mom,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen again.
“I can’t believe we did it,” I say. “Holy shit.” I turn to James, surprised to find him already next to me.
“Yeah, holy shit,” he says, and then he’s kissing me, right here in the middle of the giant family room, with Melly just next door. He’s kissing me like he might never kiss me again. And then he stops.
“We need to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Do about what?” I ask, momentarily confused.
“The show.” He cups my face, smiling as he kisses me again. “Listen. I want you to have all the information before—”
His attention is suddenly snagged away, eyes searching the windows.
“James?”
“Wait—shh. Do you hear that?”
I turn my head where he’s looking and strain to make out exactly what that sound is. “I think it’s a car?”
It takes all of two seconds for both of us to realize what that means. We run to the kitchen and out the back door, feet pounding on the ground to the other side of the house. The car is gone, and so is Rusty.
Thirty minutes. It takes thirty minutes to find a cab, and another forty to get to the nearest bar. Neon signs cover most of the small windows, and a tiny marquee that simply reads HOTSY TOTSY hangs above the door.
It’s dark inside, but I’m glad. The cramped space smells like stale beer, dusty peanut shells, and cigarettes. I would not want to know what this place looks like when brightly lit. The bottoms of my shoes stick to the linoleum as we make our way across the room and spot Rusty surrounded by a few men playing pool.
“This doesn’t seem so bad,” I say. “A little depressing, but he looks okay. Maybe he just needed to blow off some steam. Rusty’s a happy drunk. He hugs everyone, promises to help them redo their roofs, then is down for the count.”
James seems to consider this. “Okay, new plan. We’ll let him get shitfaced, steal the keys, and then roll him back to the car. I’m worried he’d be more trouble if we try to get him to leave.”
James takes my hand and tugs me toward the bar.
“This looks exactly like the kind of place my dad used to hang out,” I say, sliding onto a stool and waving to the bartender. I motion to a giant mounted fish hanging above shelves of colored liquor bottles. “I think we had that fish in our basement.”
James gives the fish an appraising look as he sits down next to me but still doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead he tugs it into his lap, toying absently with my fingers. “My dad was more of a beer-on-the-patio guy. I know,” he says, waving away my laughter. “He also wears socks with his sandals, so you should know what the future holds.”
The future?
James clears his throat as the bartender stops in front of us, and we each order a drink, thanking him when he steps away.
The silence is heavy for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to let it go, he speaks. “Actually, no.” He spins on his barstool to face me. “There are enough people dicking us around. I don’t want to do that. I think you were right before: we should talk about what it will be like back home.”
“Okay …” I say, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I don’t want this to end.”
I suck in a breath. The music playing seems to pulse and fade with my racing heartbeat.
“I don’t want it to, either.” I swear I have never smiled this much in my entire life. Is this what love feels like? Like your chest is a hot air balloon, and you have to just hold on and go where it takes you?
“Good.” A grin spreads across his face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
The bartender sets our drinks down on the coasters in front of us.
“But I know who you are.” We both whip around at the sound of a woman’s raised voice near the back of the bar. “I literally just watched you on TV. You’re married to the designer. The blond one!”
Rusty drops onto a stool, a tumbler of clear liquid and ice cubes in one hand and a pool cue in the other.
“The designer.” Rusty snorts. “Let me tell you a little story. Melissa Tripp couldn’t design her own pizza, let alone an entire house.”
Oh shit.
“Oh shit,” James says aloud, launching out of his seat to intervene. With a sigh, I toss back my drink before reluctantly getting up to follow. I do not get paid enough for this.
“What? I love her stuff!” the woman responds. “You were on that other show, too. The one with Miss America.”
“Stephanie?” Rusty asks, and my stomach drops.
A crusty-bearded man on the barstool near Rusty joins the conversation with a leer. “Heard she was your girlfriend.”
Rusty nods. “I’ve had more sex with Stephanie Flores in the last six months than I’ve had with my wife in the last six years. He’ll tell you,” Rusty adds, pointing to James.
By now people have started paying attention. I catch a couple in a booth listening intently. I see someone else with their phone out.
“Why don’t we get you out of here?” I ask, voice low.
“It’s been a big day.” James lays a hand on Rusty’s back to encourage him to stand.
Rusty shrugs him away. “I can’t do it, Jimmy. I won’t. Did you read Robyn’s text? Another season? Another season of watching Carey do all the work and Melly take credit for it? Of playing the bumbling sidekick to the woman I married?” His eyes meet mine and his are watery, desperate. “They’re going to want another book, you know. Another tour, and another show, and the lie will never end.”
“Rusty—” James starts.
“I can’t even remember the last piece of furniture I built. The last reno Melly actually had something to do with. We had a store and a life, and I was happy with it. I’m done, James.” He looks around at the bar full of customers who have now gone completely silent to watch him in shock. Rusty tilts his tumbler to his lips and drains the drink before telling the room, “I’m done, y’all, and I’m sorry, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who the fuck knows.”
