The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren

 

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 McEngineering-pants.

“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 think. “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.

“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.”

He reaches for a penny in the Give a Penny, Take a Penny tray. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads.”

It lands on tails. Damn it. James grins at me. I toss him a ten-dollar bill for my food, but he tosses it back to me, waving the thick silver Comb+Honey expense card. So now I’m going out there, pissed off that I have to deal with the Tripps and pissed off that no one ever trusted me with a platinum card.

 

I step a foot out onto the oil-stained asphalt and absorb the sight of Melly and Rusty standing in front of the giant vinyl funhouse version of their blissed-out marriage.

“Hey, you two!” I call out, a pathetic singsong. My voice is shaking and reedy; my gut is a cauldron of bubbling anxiety. Ever since I applied for another job a few years ago and wasn’t hired—and had to eat crow when the potential employer called Melly for a reference—I feel like I’m often walking on eggshells with my boss.

She looks over at me, eyes wide, like she forgot she was out in public. I know her well enough to get that she doesn’t like my intrusion, but we’re all in this awkwardness together, and there’s no one to blame but Rusty. And, to be fair, probably Melly, too.

Her arms are folded across her chest, but she immediately drops them casually to her sides. And, Lord, why does she have to travel like this? Her tailored black pencil skirt and Louboutins are completely out of place in the scrubby parking lot. Salt of the earth, she is not.

Aside from their meltdown in the Jackson store all those years ago—and in their office the other night—I’ve really only ever seen them bicker, and they’re usually careful to do it away from witnesses. This current messiness makes me wonder if Melly is more hurt than she’s letting on—whether the affair with Stephanie has been a tipping point in their relationship and she’s not able to retreat to her bubbly persona as easily.

“Hey, Carey-girl,” Rusty says. It’s the first time he’s addressed me directly since all this happened.

“Hey. Everything okay out here?” I ask.

Melly glares at Rusty before giving me a smile that’s too tight at the edges, and fans her attention across the gas station parking lot, mentally clocking who might have seen them arguing. “Of course, hon!”

“Great!” I call back, matching her enthusiasm. “Just reminding y’all there are eyes everywhere!” I absolutely hate this new role. I feel like I’m wearing wet wool for skin. “Okay, I’m headed back on the bus!”

“We’ll be right there!” Melly smiles brightly.

I take the steps two at a time and make a beeline for the back, where I know Melly won’t come, because it’s where the sportsball games live. I’m terrified that she’s going to feel free to chew me out for interfering once we’re behind closed doors. Is it going to be like this every public-facing second of the tour? Probably.

Tonight we have a signing at a Barnes & Noble in Los Angeles. Then we’re up in Palo Alto. After that, it’s San Francisco, Sacramento, Portland, Seattle, Idaho. The events are always the same: We’re escorted to a greenroom, where there’s a rush to find an actual chair for Melly to sit on, not a stool or—God forbid—a director’s chair. There’s usually a friendly bookseller, some screaming fans outside, Rusty’s dad jokes onstage, and the Tripps answering the same questions at every stop.

How did you get your start?

When did you know you’d done something big?

What’s it like working with your spouse?

Do you ever argue?

What can we expect next?

They perform in front of cameras every day. As long as they stick to the script it’ll be fine … right?

 

The bus rocks gently as we move down the highway, the hum of the tires a welcome distraction from the speed of James’s gunfire typing. Every time I start to like him, he has to turn up the intensity somehow. Is he transcribing over there?

Melly has been on a call for about forty-five minutes. During that time I’ve managed to polish off my entire bag of Funyuns—a tragedy—and I try to focus on the design program in front of me. The project is an 1,100-square-foot home we’ll hopefully incorporate into a future season. It’s for a family of five—soon to be seven with a set of adopted twins on the way. Back in the old days, Melly’s designs favored a river rock aesthetic—with lots of plants, stones, and water features—but eventually she built her brand on the idea that even small spaces can be adapted to work for everyone.

At first it was “transitionable” furniture. That all started with a window display I’d put together mostly because I was bored in the long afternoons just after the holidays, when no one was redecorating their houses. In the display, along with a beautiful hand-crafted daybed, I put a small table Rusty had built and to which I’d added wheels so I could move it around throughout the day. The space could be a small dining area, a cozy sitting room, and, later, a small bedroom.

Melly got about ten new customers that day. Rusty loved it, too. I showed him some of my sketches, and he got to building. We’ve all seen a table that can be extended with a wooden leaf, but what about a circular table that holds two hidden crescent shaped leaves? When the main circle is rotated, the leaves fan into place, turning a four-person table into one that can accommodate eight in only seconds. Rusty sold about forty of those tables in just a couple months.

Together, we designed consoles that expanded using the aesthetic and structural aspects of my dad’s favorite Leather-man tools, kitchen islands that functioned like Swiss army knives and packed many purposes into the smallest footprint possible. The concept grew to include the buildings themselves: stairs that retracted when not in use, rooms built on platforms that offered hidden beds or storage underneath, walls that opened to reveal entire closets tucked into the space behind an ordinary flat-screen TV.

High-end style and design while utilizing limited space. It was popular even in the larger, more expensive homes in Jackson but when customers in some of the bigger cities heard about it, it became Comb+Honey’s, and Melly’s, signature.

My hands are bothering me more than usual, and I’m hoping I can nail down the logistics of turning an attic into an office with a half bath and lofted sleeping area before it becomes obvious I’m struggling with the Apple Pencil. I normally do this sort of thing alone, or with Melly, who already knows that my hands cramp when I overuse them, and it’s hard to hide with everyone—particularly James—right here.

It’s then that I notice the typing has stopped, and I glance up to find him watching me.

“You think we’re almost there?” he asks, and if he happened to notice anything out of the ordinary in my movements, he doesn’t let on. His blue-light-blocking glasses have slipped down his nose. The lens color makes the entire area around his eyes look like he’s suffering from jaundice. I snicker as I reach for my backpack.

“It’s a fourteen-hour drive,” I remind him. “It’s been five.”

Closing his laptop, he stands to stretch and the groan he lets out is both sexy and terrible.

I grin up at him. “I thought engineers were really good with numbers …”

His dirty look is cut short by a shout from the back of the bus: “Jimbo! C’mere!”

“Sweet Jesus.” James drops back into his chair.

Not to be ignored, Rusty calls him again. “Jimbalaya!”

I slide my messy stack of notes into my bag. “He’s not going to stop until you acknowledge him.”

“Jim Boy!” Rusty shouts, even more insistent. “Come back here!”

Melly covers her free ear and takes her phone into the bathroom, closing the door with a very pointed click. James gives me a pleading look, as if anything I can do will save him from keeping Rusty entertained for the next nine hours.

“Can’t you help him?” he asks, offering his closed laptop as evidence. “I’m trying to finish something.”

“He probably has a super-important engineering question, and I’m busy here doing assistant-y things. Besides, you’re the one he’s calling for, Jimbo.”

“More likely he wants me to cut a hole in the bottom of the bus like he saw in Speed and ride the panel back to the gas station for a bag of Doritos.” His grumpy expression deepens when he glances at my iPad, still on the table. “That doesn’t look very assistant-y.” He bends to get a closer look. “Are you … playing Minecraft?”

Instinct makes me click the side button so he can’t see my design program. “Yep.”

“Jimmy Dean!”

“Go on, Engineer Boy,” I tell him. “I’m sure whatever he needs you for is way above my training.”

Resigned, James stands with a groan and passes Melissa as she emerges from the bathroom.

“Is James having some sort of issue I should be aware of?” she asks once he’s gone, slipping into the booth across from me at the small table. Her body is so tiny, honed from years with a trainer and a steady diet of cotton balls and water. I’m just kidding—she also stores my tears in a jar. It keeps her hair blond and her crow’s-feet at bay.

Rusty’s cheer carries above the baseball game when James finally steps into the little back room.

“Just your husband,” I say.

“Well then, we have the same issue.” Melly wakes up her computer, and I’m sure she’s immediately on all the retail sites, reading reviews of the book, checking its ranking. I’m torn between keeping this quiet moment of peace and wanting to say something about this trip and how it will be so much easier for all of us if they can just set aside what’s going on until they get back to the privacy of their own home.

I think of what Debbie would tell me: Make the decision to assert yourself and follow through. Decide what you want and be honest in your communication. Don’t sugarcoat, don’t apologize, and listen to the response. Stay calm. Use I whenever possible. Practice in your head if you have to.

I think of what I want to say, but when I look at her face—tight, controlled, no-nonsense—the words dry up in my throat.

“Show me what you’ve got,” she says, and points to my iPad.

I slide it across the table and she inspects my work.

“This is really good,” she says, scrolling through the different computer-generated images. “I’m not sure about that desk.”

I glance at the screen. The space allotted is minimal. “How would you change it?”

She purses her lips as she considers. “It’s just not working as is. I want it to be more, more …”

Silence stretches between us, and I come to her rescue.

“I could make it vertical?” I suggest, clicking through and zooming in on the area. “Two-tiered instead of a single flat surface? Nobody would expect a two-storied workspace like that.”

“Yes,” she says with a firm nod. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Inside, I’m beaming. Melissa isn’t exactly sparing with her compliments, but you have to earn them. She’s never apologetic about that, and it’s something I’ve always admired. But outwardly, I just nod once, keeping my smile in check. Melly doesn’t like gloating at compliments, either.

“Finish that up and send it to me,” she says, sliding it back. “Ted asked for a couple of early schematics they can use in promo shots. I’d like to send them to him before we get back.” She stops and looks down at my hands. “Unless you need a break.”

I have to be honest when it matters. “Maybe a small one.”

With her eyes back on her computer, she asks, “When’s your next appointment?”

“A few weeks.”

She nods. “It’s on my calendar?”

I’m about to answer when a voice rises up from the back of the bus—the unmistakable drawl of Russell Tripp after a couple of beers. “There something going on there with you and Carey-girl?”

I keep my head down, noisily shuffling through my bag like I haven’t heard a thing.

“Uh, absolutely not,” James says with zero hesitation.

Heeeey. I mean, I’m not interested in James, either, but he didn’t have to sound so horrified. I frown down at my Dolly shirt and brush away a few lingering Funyun crumbs.

When I look back up at my iPad, I feel Melissa watching me shrewdly and make the mistake of meeting her gaze. With a roll of her eyes she goes back to her screen. “As if you and I have time for a personal life, anyway.”

Something about the flippant way she dismisses the possibility rubs me the wrong way.

You and I?

It’s true; I don’t have time for a personal life. But that’s because I’m sacrificing everything for the brand. I handle her schedules, her kids’ occasional promotional appearances. I answer her emails and deal with Robyn, Ted, and the Tripps’ editor. On top of all that, I do most of the designs. I spend more time on Melly’s life than on my own.

I glance down to my bag and all the work I just put together for her. I don’t have time for a personal life, but because of everything I do for her, Melissa Tripp certainly should.