The Honey - Don't List

“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.”