The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren

 

It’s a surprise to all of us, I’m sure, when I step over to Rusty and lift him from his barstool and shove him from behind until we are out on the sidewalk squinting in the bright Wyoming sunset. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adapt to the change in light, and it takes my brain a bit longer to realize what I’ve managed to do: lift a man who easily has fifty pounds on me, bodily escort him from a bar, and pickpocket his keys without him even knowing. I’m not typically a very physically forceful person, but panic makes us do weird things, I guess.

Carey trips after us, eyes wide and breath coming out in these short, squeaky bursts. She gapes at Rusty. “What the hell was that? Do you realize people in there were getting all of that on video?”

If he could produce a yawn right now it wouldn’t render his expression more disinterested. “I’m over it,” he says simply.

“Rusty,” Carey says, with as much calm as she can muster, “you don’t get to just be over it. You do get that, right?”

His gaze swims as he looks from her to me and then back again. “Why aren’t you two together? But not just together, like together,” he slurs. “Did Melly tell you not to?”

Carey looks at me in abject horror, and I groan, officially done with this conversation. “Come on, Russ, you can’t ask us shit like that. We’re your employees.”

“Well, if that’s the only problem, then you’re both fired.” He turns to James, but a hiccup interrupts his laugh. “I’ll be damned if my wife is going to keep you from getting laid, too.” He pauses, scoffing at our stiff silence. “Oh, please. I see the way you two look at each other.”

Carey visibly shudders. “Rusty, oh my God please don’t talk about this.”

With a deep breath, I walk over to the car at the curb, open the door, and shove Rusty into the back seat. I meet Carey’s eyes and tilt my head for her to get in. “Let’s go.”

 

It’s a quiet drive back to the cabin, but I’m sure none of our thoughts are quiet. We’re in Laramie, and most people here seem to want to mind their own business, but this could still be bad. I try to remember how many camera phones I saw aimed at Rusty; there had to be at least three. And a couple of people in the booths toward the back were more than likely able to hear him ranting—they could easily have posted his diatribe to Twitter, Reddit, anywhere.

Although I’m glad that the truth about Carey’s skills will get out there, I’m not sure this is the way it should have happened.

“We should call Robyn,” Carey says quietly.

Rusty makes a drunken sound of protest, but Carey turns and glares at him so effectively that he immediately lowers his voice to under-his-breath muttering.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Call her.”

Carey holds the phone to her ear, curling low so she can hear the call over Rusty’s back-seat babble. “Hi, Robyn?” she says. “Yeah, it’s Carey. Look. I need you to do a social media check. We just picked up Rusty from a bar where he was—”

“Telling the truth!” Rusty shouts, and Carey shoos at him.

“—going on a bit of a rant,” she says delicately. “There were some folks there who got video, and I’m sure at least one person in the bar got on—Yeah. Yes.” She stares straight ahead, glum. “We were there. He snuck out of the house after hearing about the numbers.”

“Because my wife is a bitch,” he spits.

“You’re not exactly a great catch yourself, asshole,” Carey says, and I stare at her for a beat before turning my eyes back to the road. Warpath Carey is a novel delight.

“Okay,” she says, returning to the call. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Her voice gets heated. “Yeah, no. I get that you’ve sent us on this impossible mission—believe me, I’m aware what has been asked of us, Robyn—but I’m not owning this one. Melly and Rusty are making their own mess right now.”

She ends the call without saying goodbye, and I give her a few seconds of deep breathing before asking, “So, what’d she say?”

I glance over at her, catching the tightness in her jaw, the tendons rising in her neck. “She said there are some tweets, but she is going to contact the user to get them taken down. She said she’s coming out here tonight.”

In the back, Rusty groans irritably. I’m not Robyn’s biggest fan, either, but I’m glad she’s coming to take care of this. Let someone else babysit.

“She started to tell me she was disappointed in us,” Carey says, “but I’m sorry, I’m not having that.” Her hand shakes as she lifts it to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she lowers it, slipping it under her thigh. “I’m not fucking having this anymore.”

 

Any hope we have that Robyn quickly contained the Twitter problem, or that Melissa had logged off and decided to enjoy the rest of her night unplugged, is shattered when we pull down the long gravelly driveway and see Melissa taking the front steps two at a time. She marches over, already pointing and yelling at Rusty before he can even get the door open.

“What were you thinking?” she screams.

Without a word, he walks right past her and into the house. She follows, calling his name, and—with some trepidation—Carey and I step in behind them.

To no one’s surprise, Rusty is already heading to the bar cart to make himself a cocktail.

“Russ,” Melissa says, attempting calm. “Did you really go to a bar and start telling everyone that Carey does all my work?”

He burps into his fist, then gives a rumbling “Yup.”

Melissa picks up a glass from a side table and takes a long drink. If I didn’t know better, I would think there was booze in there from the way she inhales, trying to draw strength from the liquid. She sets it down carefully. “Why—why would you do that?”

“Because it’s true.”

Melissa’s face turns a bright, terrifying red. “It is not true.”

Rusty bursts out laughing.

I can feel my mouth pulling back in the Yiiiikes face, and beside me, Carey shifts awkwardly, waiting for Melissa to blow. I think Rusty is going to continue to give these short, off-the-cuff answers, but instead of pouring the scotch he’s holding into a tumbler, he recorks the bottle and sets it down again. “Isn’t it time we stop lying to each other?” he asks with sudden, calm clarity.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“For the past—how long now? Five years? Carey does all the design work, and everyone else gets credit.” He takes a step closer to Melissa. “We go on TV and talk about all of our ideas, but they aren’t even ours anymore.”

“Russell, that isn’t true,” Melissa says, glancing at me, voice thin and tight. I wonder how this conversation would be going down if I weren’t here. Would Melissa admit to what he’s saying? Is her denial a show for me?

“Sure it is,” Rusty says. “I used to build things based on my own designs—they were basic, but they were solid. And then she came along and I was building things based on her designs.” He pauses, staring at his wife like he’s waiting for her to say something. But she just stands there, red-faced, shaking. “Never yours, Melly. It wasn’t even like you pretended to be doing them. Why didn’t we ever talk about this?” He reaches up, rubs his forehead like he’s coming out of a fugue.

Melissa looks so angry she can’t speak.

“I didn’t mind,” he admits, “because at least I was still building. Maybe we were stealing her ideas, but at least I was having fun.”

Wow. I glance over at Carey and see that her discomfort over this conversation has started to shift into fury. She extends and curls her trembling fingers in front of her, and then wraps one hand around the other fist. I move closer to her and brush the back of her hand with mine, offering. She takes it, squeezing tightly; her tremors shake her hand in my grip.

“But now,” Rusty says, gesturing to Carey, “she’s still doing it all, and we’re just pretending. We’re not even sleeping in the same room. I flirted with Stephanie for months, and you had no idea because you were so damn busy with the show and the endorsements and writing a book on marriage, of all things.” He laughs. “I let things go too far, but I just wanted you to notice me.”

I want to point out that this seems like a very strange time for him to be drawing the line on all of this, but I think it’s probably better for me to keep my mouth firmly shut.

Melissa shifts on her feet, looking at me and then back to her husband. “We’re in a rough spot, but that doesn’t mean we’re over, Russ. Every marriage—”

Rusty cuts her off with a deafening bellow: “Have you been listening to me, Melly? It’s too late. I. Want. A. Fucking. Divorce.”

I don’t have a good handle on Melissa or her reactions, but I think it surprises everyone when she lets out a simple, quiet “No.”

“Honey,” Rusty says, in the most sugary, condescending voice possible, “it ain’t up to you.”

“Enough,” Carey says with tight, quiet rage. She looks at Melissa, at Rusty, and then shouts, “Can you even hear yourselves? How is this my job?” She looks at me, eyes on fire. “How are they okay having this kind of conversation in front of us?”

I give her a helpless shrug. “No idea.”

“Carey, honey—” Melissa begins, but Carey cuts her off.

“What happened to the down-to-earth couple I met?” she asks. “What happened to the two people who worked hard for a living, personally greeted everyone who came into their store, and took pride in their business?” She looks at them, but they only stare back; I’m sure neither of them has ever heard Carey speak this forcefully and they aren’t quite sure how to handle her. If I hadn’t had sex with the woman, I might be surprised, too, by this display of fire, but instead I’m just standing here holding her hand and feeling proud as hell.

“Rusty, you’re wrong,” Carey says. “Melly used to do her own work.” He starts to protest, but she shushes him. “She did. She decorated. It’s not the same, but she did. She loved putting together a room with your pieces, and you know it. Don’t trivialize that.”

Melissa starts to say something victorious, but Carey interrupts her again. “No, wait. I’m not done.” Carey turns to her. “Yes, you used to decorate, but you never designed, and you know it. You know I came in and designed the daybed and the coffee table. You know I designed the collapsible stairs, and the desks, and the tables, and everything else that came after it. You know the entire Small Spaces book is my work. You know it’s always been me, and you were happy to let the world think it was you, that paying me a lot of money meant that your conscience could be clear, but it’s not true. You took advantage of my need for insurance, for a job. You took advantage of my insecurity about growing up poor and not going to college or being good enough. You know you’ve been doing this, Melly, and it’s terrible.”

Melissa stares at Carey, and the color slowly drains from her face.

Rusty leans his arm against the fireplace mantel and reaches for a poker to stab at the burning logs. Carey walks over, takes the poker from his drunk hand, and gently shoves him away from the fire. “Russ, go sit down.” She sounds so tired.

“You quitting?” he asks, obstinately leaning an elbow against the mantel.

Carey nods. “Yeah. I’m quitting.”

Rusty lets out a long, slow whistle. “Isn’t that something? All this work. We get a TV show, we get books.” He points at me. “He gets a big promotion, and you end up quitting.”

My stomach drops out, and a hush falls over the room. Slowly, Carey’s eyes move from Rusty—who looks only now like he’s said something wrong—and then over to me. “A promotion?”

In all honesty, I haven’t thought about the promotion in hours and was going to tell her as soon as we got back home. What had once been the most important part of my life—the trajectory of my career—has slid down the ladder of priorities. I open my mouth to tell Carey that I’ll explain it later, but Rusty speaks first.

“Ted told me,” Rusty says, grimacing in my direction. There’s guilt in his expression, but if I’m not mistaken, I catch a subtly evil gleam in his eye, too. Maybe if he can’t get his way, no one can. The good ol’ boy has a darkness.

“What are you talking about?” Carey asks.

“Jimmy here negotiated an executive producer credit and the title of lead engineer if we made it to season two.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Carey says to me quietly.

Russell reaches up, picking at his teeth. “I figured you knew. What with you two being so close.”

I open my mouth and close it. I don’t want to lie to Carey and tell her that it wasn’t a big deal, and telling her that I tried to bring it up earlier just feels like a cop-out. My mistake feels so obvious. “Shit—Carey. This isn’t how I want to have this conversation. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. When Ted called—”

“In San Francisco?” she says, floored. “The morning—?” Her eyes fill as she puts the timeline together. The morning after we had sex.

I nod again. “I was about to throw in the towel,” I tell her. “I wanted you to quit, too, but—”

Melissa cuts in. “Excuse me?”

Both Carey and I give her “Shut up, Melly” in unison.

“But you didn’t want to,” I remind Carey. “You weren’t sure you were ready. When Ted called, I had it in my head that you weren’t going to leave, that Melly wasn’t going to be cool with us being together, and so when Ted offered it, it was the way that I came to terms with staying to help you with them but getting something out of it, too. We made a deal and then when I got back to the hotel, you’d started to change your mind but I’d already made a commitment.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she says again, and the simplicity of that betrayal feels totally gutting. “You should have told me. I tell you everything and you—what? Did you think I wouldn’t understand? I would have been happy for you. It would have made sense why you did a one-eighty and told me to stay. If you’d have just let me in on it, I would have understood.”

This feels like a punch to the gut. She did tell me everything; I’ve become her person, her safe space, and I kept this from her. Why did I do that? She’s been quietly doing all the work for a decade, and after one grueling week, I get the promotion of a lifetime and she gets nothing.

“Is there anyone in this house who isn’t out to ruin me?”

We all turn to look at Melly when she shrieks this. With wild, furious eyes, she stares at each of us in turn before tilting her head back and letting out a scream so feral and enraged it sounds like it tears up her throat.

“Melly,” Carey says with trembling incredulity, “did we dare forget for two minutes that everything is about you?”

“Rusty’s asking for a divorce,” Melly yells back at her. “You’re quitting just like he’s been trying to get you to do since you started fucking and—what? I’m the only one who cares about the business anymore?”

Rusty wipes a slow hand down his face and looks at me. “I need the keys, Jimbo.”

“Not happening, Russ.”

He shrugs and turns to leave the room. There’s movement in my peripheral vision, but Carey must comprehend what’s happening before I do because she’s moving with lightning speed to try to stop Melissa’s glass just as it leaves her hand to go hurtling toward Rusty and the roaring fireplace. Rusty ducks in shock, and the heavy crystal tumbler jets past him, barely missing his temple and crashing with a frighteningly shrill blast against the stone hearth.

We gape in the echoing silence, stunned by the violence of it. The glass would have knocked him unconscious, at best, but as close as Melissa is to him? It could just as easily have killed him. For a few tense moments, Rusty just stares at her.

And in those seconds, I watch his heart finally break.

An odd whoosh, like a gust of wind, passes through the room. Carey and I look at each other, some shared instinct making us suspicious. With a start, Rusty stumbles back and we all look down at his muttered “Holy shit”—the carpet at his feet is on fire, flames licking at the hem of his jeans.

“Rusty!” I yell, shoving him.

Cursing in shock, he falls back onto the silver bar cart, which topples over. Rusty scrambles quickly away as crystal decanters of alcohol crash to the floor. After an eerie beat of silence, the fire turns from a small trail of flames into a blinding explosion bursting from the fireplace.

Without thinking, I tackle Carey, rolling us to the side. A huge crash booms, and then we hear the rising hiss of the fire coming to life behind us, fed by a river of strong spirits and a room full of wood and fabric. A chair is on fire … on fire … flames grow instantly, licking higher beside us. I drag Carey over to the wall, clutching her as we take it in, trying to piece together what the hell we’re supposed to do now.

Melissa is screaming, and Rusty is throwing ice and yelling, and I realize that Melissa’s glass was full of booze, for once in her goddamn life it had to be only booze, but I can’t think about any of it because the rug is burning now, the couch, the fire is tearing through the room almost like it’s been waiting to climb out of the fireplace and take over this house for decades.

The room is a square, and we are on the far side, away from the exit, where we could dart into the hallway toward the entryway or the kitchen. Carey and I scramble along the walls, crouch-walking to stay low. The entire time she is whispering “Oh my God. Oh my God” in this high, terrified voice and I want to tell her that everything is going to be fine, that I’m sorry, that we’ll fix this and make it better for her but the only thing we need to do right now is not die. In the middle of the room, the flames are giddily swallowing every bit of furniture and fabric, and just to the side, near the windows, Rusty and Melissa are still ineffectually trying to put the fire out with the ice bucket, with bottles of soda. It’s a delusion; this fire is too big.

I yell at them to go call 911 and get the hell out of there.

Reaching the door to the hallway, Carey and I stand and make a run toward the kitchen. Rusty is already there, shouting the address into the phone, and then he drops the receiver. It slams against the wall and hangs there, swinging limply. He meets my eyes; his are wide and terrified. Without saying a word, Rusty sprints out the back door, saving himself.

“Melly!” Carey shouts, pulling her shirt up over her mouth before turning back toward the living room. Even in crisis, even after everything that happened back there, she’s still taking care of Melissa.

I follow, calling for her, but the house is filling with smoke and soon all I can hear is Carey shouting Melly’s name. Through the fog, I see their two figures come together, and behind them, the fire seems to barrel closer in a wave. Without thinking, I run back to the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher and returning to spray with minimal efficacy at the wall of fire closing in on the foyer and climbing the log walls. But it’s enough to give us time to break free from the heavy fog. Carey grabs Melissa and pulls the front door open, letting in a burst of cold fresh air that is immediately swallowed by the smoke. Ducking, I follow them out into the clear, darkening sky.

The lawn is wet and chilly; it’s such a stark contrast to the inferno inside that for a minute, it seems impossible that I haven’t imagined all of it: the fight, the crash of a glass, the explosion of flames. But we turn and look: the living room burns brightly, lighting up the house in a display of sparks and fire now greedily lapping at the connected garage, the huge covered porch, the second story. Against the backdrop of stars, the blaze is strangely beautiful.

The four of us stand, not touching, staring at the disaster of it. I imagine after escaping a fire, some people might huddle together, might hold each other for comfort. I feel the distance between the four of us in the cold air against my arms. We all feel like strangers to each other in the sharp, quiet tension.

When I look at Carey, she doesn’t look back at me, even though I know she can feel the heat of my attention. I love you, I think. I’m sorry. But I’m sure the only thing she’s thinking is: What happens next? The growing flames are reflected in her eyes, and when she looks over at the Tripps, they fill with tears.

Melissa nearly killed Rusty but instead, she set what has to be at least a ten-million-dollar house on fire. Their careers are ruined, their marriage is over, but the only person I care about is Carey. I don’t want her career to be over before it’s even started. It wasn’t just Melissa and Rusty who built this empire, it was Carey, too, and I know what it’s like to be attached to a scandal like this. She’s watching her life’s work vanish, the Comb+Honey reputation going up in flames, and—after tonight—probably feeling like there’s truly never been anyone in her corner. Regret is a tight, aching ball in my chest. I fucked up. We all fucked up so big, and I’m in love with her. The weight of guilt presses down so heavily that I find it hard to breathe.