The Honey - Don't List

“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.