The Honey - Don't List

She keeps her face forward, and I try to read her expression. Is she nervous? Angry? Or is this type of situation—where Melly blows her lid at Carey and everything moves on as usual the next day—totally normal? Unfortunately, I’m guessing it’s the latter. How completely toxic.

For better or for worse, my desire to keep from saying this aloud means I end up addressing the other elephant in the room: “It was fun hanging out in the pool last night.” I falter a little, adding, “Despite the circumstances.”

Carey turns in my direction, and warmth bleeds inside me at the way her eyes light up before her smile appears. “It was. Thanks for getting me out of a bad mood.”

Is that all it was? Gentle sarcasm is my instinct: “It’s my go-to move whenever a female coworker is having a rough day. Get them in the pool for some kissing, I guess?”

To my relief, Carey bursts out laughing. “Well, whatever it was, it worked.” She looks genuinely grateful. “I know it sucks, but I’m so glad you’re here on this crazy trip, Jimbo.”

My grin feels too big for the moment … where I’m pretty sure we’re tacitly agreeing last night was just a way to blow off some steam and nothing more. “I definitely wouldn’t want you to have to do this alone.”

The quiet returns, but my thoughts are rolling at a wild clip. The kiss didn’t feel like it was only about escaping a bad day. But maybe it did to Carey.

We stare out our respective windows, watching the city pass in fits and starts as we wind our way through traffic. There’s a small coffee shop, a little hole-in-the-wall bagel place, a bakery. At every one, I want to turn to Carey and suggest that we have time to grab a bite, go sit somewhere anonymous together and pretend we don’t have a job to do, don’t have to be the young unmarried people propping up one of the country’s most beloved marriages.

But I don’t. By the time we reach the Embarcadero, I’m amazed how gloomy the sky over the water looks; the city wears the foggy haze like a summertime cloak.

Boulevard is a San Francisco institution, and when we step inside, even I admit the style looks familiar. I watch Carey take it in—the rich wood décor, the whimsical vintage European prints, the warm, muted lighting. In Home Sweet Home parlance, the place has “a distinct point of view,” and as I follow Carey around the room, looking at the wine storage, the table settings, the open kitchen, the lamp-shades and art, I know without having to ask that Carey chose this location herself.

“It’s beautiful in here,” I say.

Carey turns to beam at me. “It’s amazing, right? I know minimalism is such a huge thing these days—with midcentury modern, clean lines, simplicity being the trend—but I sometimes wish we could go back to something like this: simple, but ornate.” She points overhead. “The ceiling is brick, but with the lighting, the entire space feels warmer. Cozier. We have a lake cabin we’re renovating in season two, and something like this would be amazing for it.”

I’m supposed to be looking at the ceiling, but I love watching her when she’s talking like this. It’s fascinating. She’s completely in her element right now, and I hope it’s a sign of her comfort with me that she’s sharing aloud.

I tip my head back and study the way the bricks are arranged in an arc that expands from the corners toward the center. From an engineering standpoint, securing such a heavy material to the ceiling would be fairly straightforward, but from an artisan standpoint, the possibilities for intricate construction are pretty cool.

Carey points to a framed print on the wall. “Like this: The frame is so intricate, but the print isn’t. Usually it’s the other way around, where the print is the vibrant focus, but here, the frame is the art. I like that.” She tilts her head again, studying it before writing something down in a small notebook.

Everything appears to be ready for the lunch—the menu is finalized, the private room has been arranged for our party. There really isn’t much for us to do. Or, more accurately, there isn’t much for me to do. I shuffle around uselessly while Carey confirms that Robyn and Ted have each been picked up at the airport, that the contact at Variety is still set to post the announcement at the right time, that we have a gluten-free option for one of the executives, a vegan option for another, and a wheelchair-accessible spot at the table for one of the journalists. Carey ticks things off in her notebook, and when she reaches the bottom, she blows her bangs out of her eyes and then looks up at me with a smile that is so easy and unburdened that I’m suddenly unable to remember why I’m not supposed to be fascinated by her. I know she doesn’t need me here to help, but in her expression I see that she likes that I’m with her right now, and it makes me feel godlike.