The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren
Back at the hotel in San Francisco, somewhere between Melissa seething “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for this family—no idea!” and Rusty’s growled “Our kids think every day is Saturday and every bill in your wallet is for them!” Carey and I give up on trying to get the Tripps to stop shouting at each other. They barely notice that we’re standing there, watching their nuclear meltdown from just inside the door of Melissa’s hotel room.
Which is another thing I discovered—the Tripps haven’t shared a bed in two years, at home or at hotels. Carey tries to book them adjoining rooms under the pretense that they like a lot of space. When connecting rooms aren’t available—and, conveniently, they often aren’t—the Tripps are happy not even being on the same floor.
“This is a clusterfuck,” I mutter, and feel the way Carey turns to look at me. “What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before,” she says in wonder.
“I do. Sometimes.”
Something crashes farther in the room, and it sounds like a remote control hitting a wall.
“Yeah,” she says, “but in your suit with your combed hair and glasses, it’s like hearing a toddler curse.”
“You know toddlers in suits and glasses?”
Carey cracks a smile and starts to respond, but our attention is yanked across the room when Melissa opens the drawer of the nightstand and hurls the Gideon’s Bible at Rusty, hitting him in the shoulder.
“Melly,” Carey says gently, “can I grab you some dinner?”
The air seems to cool as she turns to face Carey. Her chest is heaving, and her face is flushed from yelling.
“Can you get me dinner?” she asks, her face contorted in rage. “Dinner? Are you kidding me? You and Russell humiliate the fuck out of me in front of two hundred people and now you want to shut me up with food?”
I hold up a hand. “Sorry, I’ve got to jump in here. Carey didn’t have any part in—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, James.” Melissa spits out my name. “This is between the three of us. Carey has just tried to take credit for my fucking life’s work, so maybe you should just go back to your room, read a calculus book, and stay out of this.”
I look to Carey to see what she wants, and she gives me a little It’s okay nod and tilts her head toward the door.
I don’t want to abandon her, but I have no idea what protocol is in this type of situation. There’s no HR to guide me. We don’t even have Robyn’s clumsy presence here, worried about the legalities of Melissa speaking to an employee this way. Refusing to leave and continuing to defend Carey might just get me fired, and for the first time, the prospect of being fired doesn’t send even a mild pulse of relief through me, because it would mean I’d leave Carey to manage this alone.
She sees my hesitation and opens her mouth to speak, but I see her embarrassed blush. God, this is painful. “Okay,” I relent. “Call me later?”
I’m only halfway down the hall to my room when I hear the Tripps’ door open again. Turning, I see Carey come out, wiping her face, and jog in the opposite direction down the hall.
It’s already eleven, but there’s no way I’m sleeping after the madness of the book signing, the fight in the hotel room, and Carey’s tearful departure. I haven’t seen her since, and she’s not answering her phone. I’m guessing Melissa is doing one of her long, indignant soaks in the bathtub, but I’m pretty sure I know where I can find Rusty.
Indeed, he’s bellied up at the hotel bar, with a half-empty glass of beer in front of him and his face turned up to the television screen overhead.
“You a …” I look at the teams and need a beat to decipher what BOS means on the scoreboard. “A Red Sox fan?”
He shrugs and takes another pull of his beer. “I prefer football, but it’s July.”
I’m not sure how July relates to football because my closest relationship to sports was being dragged to my sister’s softball games. It’s easy enough to decide that if I haven’t cared about football for twenty-nine years I certainly don’t have to start tonight. With a raised brow, I silently ask if it’s okay for me to take the barstool next to his, and order a scotch and soda.
“How’s Carey-girl doing?” Rusty asks.
My stomach experiences a weird cramp. “Don’t know. She left your room after I did and took off in the other direction.” I thank the bartender when he puts my drink down in front of me. “She’s not answering her phone.”
Rusty shakes his head and stares down at the dwindling foam in his glass. “I told Melly to treat her better. It’s almost like she can’t help herself, she just takes all her stress out on me and Carey.”
I take this as a sign that he’s willing to be open. “Do I have permission to speak freely?”
He eyes me warily and then his shoulder ticks up in a casual shrug. “Sure.”
“You’re not exactly helping,” I say.
He pauses with his beer midair and pins me with a look. Rusty is usually the nicest guy you’ll meet. But right now, as he continues to watch me with an even intensity, I’m a little afraid.
Finally, the air leaves him in a resigned sigh, and he sets his beer back down in front of him.
“I guess that’s fair.”
I let myself exhale. “Then why do you leave it to Carey to handle?”
“I know I’m a flirt. I’ve always liked female attention, but now it’s like I can’t go to a bar without getting a phone number.” I almost tell him that the black card in his wallet might have a little something to do with that, but I let him continue instead. “Do you know what it’s like to have numbers slipped into your hand left and right, when your own wife won’t pay attention to you?”
“I’ve never been married, so …”
“We used to do so much together,” he says, “but the more famous we get, the less I actually see her.”
“Have you tried talking to Melissa about all this?”
He laughs into his beer. “You’ve been pretty sheltered from Melly’s temper so far, but imagine her reaction if I told her something like that. You saw how she reacted today.”
“Why does Carey stay?” I’ve asked her this myself, of course, but her answer was so odd and unsatisfying—Melly needs me.
Rusty’s answer is a world away from Carey’s: “A few reasons. For one, she needs the insurance, and even though Melly can be pretty terrible a lot of the time, she helps her with that and some of the appointments.”
I realize this isn’t the first time appointments and insurance have been mentioned, and it triggers my curiosity again. I should let it go. Carey would tell me if she thought it was any of my business.
“And?” I ask, prompting him to continue.
“And Melly would ruin her.”
I pull back, confused. “What does that mean?”
He turns his face to me, and I gather this isn’t his first beer of the night. He’s got a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes, but his gaze swims, watery and unfocused. Gin blossoms are beginning to bloom beneath the skin around his nose.
Rusty Tripp gives me a wry smile and finishes the detonation he started earlier tonight: “It’s all Carey, always has been. The design, the original brand, the window displays. Carey did all of that. She’s the one who came up with the small-spaces designs, and I’d build them. It’s still that way. Why do you think you can’t do any actual engineering? We can’t have someone else knowing how the sausage is made.” He hiccups and thumps his chest a couple of times. “Melly would be screwed if Carey ever left, and she hates her for it.”
