The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren
It’s 1:11 a.m.
I’m not going to look at the clock for five minutes.
I’m not going to look at the clock for five minutes.
I’m not going to—
1:13 a.m.
Goddammit.
We were supposed to meet here over an hour ago, and Melissa and Robyn still haven’t appeared. It feels like we’ve been waiting for a year. Ignoring Carey’s occasional glares in my direction, I shift on the long leather couch in Melissa and Rusty’s office and let my head hang over the aesthetically pleasing but completely uncomfortable low armrest. From this angle, the open staircase in the corner looks like it’s on the ceiling, and the idea of that—of creating something so counterintuitive and wild—sends a hot burst of adrenaline into my blood.
I look at the clock again. 1:15 a.m.
I groan, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Okay,” I finally admit. “You were right.”
Carey is quiet in response. Knowing she’s worked for the Tripps since long before I came around, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s ever heard those three words together before.
“I’m torn between wanting to get this conversation over with,” Carey finally says from the other side of the room, “and wanting to postpone it forever.”
“Our Netflix meeting is at—”
“Nine,” she interrupts, and I hear the edge of irritation return to her voice. “Trust me, James, it would be impossible to forget.”
It may seem strange that tonight is probably the first time Carey and I have been alone in a room together since I took this job, but it isn’t, really. The Tripps aren’t usually in the same place at the same time unless they’re filming. Which means that Carey and I are rarely in the same place at the same time, either.
I look over at her again. It’s not like there’s a lot more to do while we’re waiting for Melissa to arrive and for the most awkward conversation of the century to begin. My brain was too chaotic earlier to really take her in.
Carey is taller than I think I realized, with dark blond hair that, right now, is messily piled on her head. Her eyes are green, blue, something like that. My guess is she’s aware that people aren’t looking at her in this job because she usually dresses casually, but she must have dressed down even more sometime between cleaning up the warehouse and coming in to the office. She’s wearing gray sweats, untied sneakers, and a sweatshirt with the words NAMA-STAY IN BED. She’s also a fidgeter. We might not have spent a lot of time together, but it’s one of the first things I noticed. Her hands are always moving or clenched into fists. I’m not sure if it’s some kind of nervous tic, or what exactly, but she sits on them a lot or keeps them hidden under the table. And I could be wrong, but I don’t think she likes being touched. She shrinks against a wall when I pass too close or takes a step back if we both reach for something at the same time. I don’t take it personally—we all have our stuff—and do my best to respect that and not do anything that might make her uncomfortable.
She also has some of the oddest sayings. At the end of our first meeting together she stood up and said she had to hit the bushes. It was only later that I realized she meant she had to use the restroom, and I still don’t understand why she didn’t just say that.
Right now she’s messing with one of the bookcases, frowning at the way it won’t rotate the full one-eighty to display the books on the other side of the shelf. It’s a classic Tripp design—made to best utilize whatever limited space is available. Carey checks a few of the bearings and finds a stuck pin, fiddles with it for a moment before it resets, and then lets out a quiet, satisfied “There” when the shelf glides easily again.
“Exactly how long have you worked for Melissa?” I ask her. She bends to inspect another shelf, a small furrow of her forehead the only indication that she’s heard me.
“About ten years.”
I feel my eyes go wide. “How old are you?”
She hesitates. “Twenty-six.”
Wow. Wow. Wow.
I study her again. She’s fresh-faced and so innocently unsophisticated she seems more like a new intern and not the person in charge of nearly every logistical detail of the Tripps’ schedule.
Is this the only job she’s ever had? I’m the new guy and am still piecing everyone together, but I’ve been here long enough to know that Melissa and Carey’s relationship is not healthy. Ten years together, though, would certainly explain how Carey anticipates all of Melissa’s needs before even Melissa is aware of them, and how Melissa can’t or won’t do anything without Carey at her side.
“Have you always been her assistant?”
“No, I started as a cashier in their first store,” she says. “I’ve done pretty much every job there. When things took off, I just stayed with them.” She glances over and seems suddenly aware of my attention. I blink away. She moves to the opposite side of the bookcase. “What did you do before you came here?”
I’m saved from having to answer this when the doorknob turns, and both Carey and I turn to see Rusty walk in ahead of Melissa and Robyn—a willowy, nervous bird of a woman.
“Jim, Carey!” he bellows in greeting. His smile is as loose from inebriation as Melissa’s is tight from irritation.
“James,” I correct in response, almost like a script I have no choice but to follow. Of the great many things that seem to bring Russell Tripp joy in this world, near the top has to be calling me any variation of Jim. Even better is calling Carey and me “Jim Carrey,” like it’s the world’s cleverest joke.
He laughs, slapping my shoulder as he passes. “You know I’m kidding, Jimbo!”
Lowering himself into a chair across from me, he winks. Rusty Tripp is hard to despise, despite his best efforts—swinging testicles and all—and given his jovial mood, it’s clear he has no idea that we saw him … or what’s about to go down.
Melissa glides across the room like a vampire, slipping her heels off and tucking them into a cubby in a sleek black bench near the window. She gives a pointed look to Rusty’s feet, propped on the delicate suede ottoman. Without the benefit of the added height, Melissa is minuscule and suddenly looks very, very tired. But one glance at the fiery glint in her eyes and I know that anyone who suggests this is—
“You look exhausted, Mel.” Robyn frowns in concern.
Rusty, Carey, and I—in unison—suck in our breath and hold it.
If I’ve learned one thing in the last two months, it’s that Melissa Tripp does not like being called Mel; nor does she appreciate any suggestion that she is tired, sad, worried, no longer in her twenties, or in any other way human.
“I am fine, Robyn,” she hisses, and gracefully sits down in the chair beside Rusty. I’m aware if a camera were near she would reach over and casually link her fingers with his. As it is, with only the five of us in the chilly, dark room, she hasn’t even looked at his face yet.
“So what’s up, guys?” Rusty asks, glancing from me to Carey as she takes a seat on the couch at my side. Per usual, Robyn paces in the background, tapping at her phone.
Carey looks at me. I look at her. When we requested this quick conversation, we were both expecting Melissa to come alone. It is infinitely more awkward with Rusty here, and almost impossible to imagine having this conversation with Robyn’s nervous energy further cloying the space.
“We really just wanted a word with Melly,” Carey explains carefully.
Melissa’s eyes narrow, but despite her being close to forty-five, not a single line creases her face. “Both of you?” she asks.
I clear my throat. I don’t usually talk to Melissa. “It’s personal.”
“Are you two fucking?” She’s glaring at Carey when she guns this question at us, so she misses the way I nearly swallow my tongue.
“No.” Carey’s jaw clenches as she and Melissa engage in a silent stare-down, and I internally urge her to not break eye contact, not break eye contact, not bre—
Carey looks down at the rug.
“Then just spit it out,” Melissa says, and waves a tired hand as if to suggest that we’re the reason she’s still up, and she’s ready to be done with all of this, at last. “We have no secrets.”
Carey looks at me again. I look at her.
She lifts her eyebrows. It was your fault we saw it. You say it.
I give a quick shake of my head. No, you’ve been here longer, you say it.
She juts her chin forward. This was your idea.
She wouldn’t think twice before killing me.
Her eyes narrow, so mine narrow, too.
Pushing out a breath, Carey finally says, “We have an entire season of Home Sweet Home in the can. The announcement about the new show is happening next week, on your book tour for New Life, Old Love …” She pauses. “Your, um, book about successful relationships. The hope is for this announcement to go well, and the book to hit the New York Times bestseller list.”
Melissa lets out a low growl that makes my balls climb up into my body. “Thank you for the concise summary of all the stressors fueling my insomnia. Did you request a meeting in the middle of the night to go over the totally obvious?”
“No, I requested a meeting because earlier,” Carey says, taking a deep, fortifying breath, “James and I, well, we found Rusty and Stephanie … together … in the editing studio.”
Melissa’s head turns. It turns so slowly, and on such a level axis, that I have to blink to stave off the mental image of Melissa Tripp’s head rotating an entire 360 degrees, spinning faster and faster and eventually dislodging from her neck and flying away, out of this room.
When I open my eyes, I’m relieved to find her simply staring at her husband. But I can’t read her expression or her silence. My limited experience with the Tripps is that silence generally means 1) Melissa is not in the room, or 2) Melissa is asleep. This is, frankly, terrifying.
Rusty played football in high school. He’s about six foot four and has that sort of dimpled smile, clean shave, and soft floppy hair that makes him seem eternally boyish and therefore harmless. Grown doughier with age, the diet of the wealthy, and a love of American beer, Rusty’s face has only become more affable, not less. Right now, he looks happy and placid, like he’s not the center of a storm that’s about to land directly in his company’s headquarters. I’ve gathered that reading the room isn’t his forte.
Carey looks at me. I look back at her. We both brace ourselves.
“Say that again,” Melissa says to Carey, but she doesn’t take her eyes off her husband.
Carey’s expression tenses, and she searches my face for help—I have none—before reluctantly turning back to Melissa. “Um. That we saw Rusty with Stephanie?”
Melissa nods. “Yep. That.”
Do we … leave the room? Is this when we step out and let them hash out whatever they need to? We don’t really have to be here for this, right? Does Melissa need more proof? From the way her blank expression is slowly transitioning to one of homicidal rage, I’m guessing our word was pretty good.
Rusty bows his head and lets out the longest breath imaginable. Finally, he looks across the room at Robyn. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Melissa’s sharp laugh could cut through stone. “Oh, really?”
“Rusty,” Robyn coos as if to a child, “you don’t mean that, honey.”
“I do. I need a break from all of this madness.”
Melissa tilts her head back and lets out a laugh so maniacal that it could be coming from a sewer drain or a hyena standing on a pile of dead baby lions. “You want to take a break two days before our marital advice book launches?”
And with this reaction—sarcasm, not rage—I am suddenly very confused. I didn’t want to be here before, but right now if I could bolt from this room and leave only a James-shaped cutout in the drywall, I would do it. I want to be anywhere but here. Send me to my aunt Tammy and uncle Jake’s house in Poughkeepsie, and I’ll listen to them bicker for hours. Send me back to the childhood days of soccer and my utter inability to coordinate running and kicking at the same time. Even send me back to the Worst First Date in the History of Time, with Bekah Newmann, where the Indian food didn’t agree with me and I didn’t quite make it to her bathroom in time.
Anywhere but here. I’m too new to this job, too unclear on what’s really going on behind the facade of a happy marriage, and too eager to stop being a quasi-assistant and start doing the job I was promised: engineering unique, creative pieces for the Tripps’ upcoming second season of Home Sweet Home.
I stand. “Carey and I can check in with you all tomor—”
“Sit. Down.” Melissa’s shrill voice is terrifying when she’s mad, and she aims a pointed finger at the floor. “No one on this team is leaving until we figure this out.”
This … team? Granted, given the duration of her tenure with the Tripps, I can see how Carey is a critical part of Melissa’s day-to-day life—which may include being privy to certain marital dramas. But Robyn lives in New York and I … well, everyone knows I’m the new guy and essentially useless here.
“You fucked Stephanie?” Melissa explodes. “Stephanie?”
Rusty sticks his chin out, like he’s being brave by admitting it. “I tried to get you to leave the party!”
“You—?” She stares at him, speechless. “Are you stupid, Russell, or did you have a stroke?”
Inwardly, I groan. Ugh, Melly.
“We were hosting a party.” She enunciates every word, as if she’s teaching him English. “The job always comes first.”
“You didn’t used to say that,” he says quietly.
“Am I understanding you correctly? I wouldn’t leave when you wanted to, so you thought you’d just take Stephanie for a ride in the editing room instead?”
He sniffs, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“She doesn’t even have believable implants, you imbecile,” Melissa growls, and I shift my attention to Carey, who is sinking lower into her seat, like she’d be happy if it swallowed her entirely.
This is not going down the way I expected. It’s not that I completely bought into the perfect Tripp image—no marriage is all sunshine—but I would never have guessed at this. No sobbing heartbreak, no wailing demand why, no apologies; only an indifferent man and a shrewd business-woman.
“You can’t keep your dick in your pants? Fine. But to screw her at our own wrap party, where anyone could have found you? Where two of our employees did find you?” Melissa shakes her head. “You are so sloppy.” She levels this as if it’s the most damning of criticisms. I suppose in the world of Melissa Tripp, it is. “I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with you! Do you know how hard we’ve worked to get where we are?”
“I know exactly how hard we’ve worked,” Rusty counters. “I’m telling you, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
His wife, her expression icy, asks, “Do what, exactly?”
“The book tour. The damn books. Hell, maybe the show.”
Robyn throws up two shaking hands, immediately placating. “Okay. Whoa. Let’s take a breath. Deep inhale through the nose, out through the—”
A vein appears on Melissa’s otherwise smooth forehead. “Fuck you and your breathing, Robyn, are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I purposefully let my vision blur.
Robyn’s voice wavers. “I’m going to call Ted.”
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 loss 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.”
