The Honey - Don't List

James holds up his hands, immediately clarifying, “I don’t mean the affair. I mean the terrible marriage.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “You’ve read the most recent book, I take it?”

I groan. “About a thousand times to hunt for typos, yes.”

“It’s actually pretty good, right?” He sips his wine, and the way his throat looks when he swallows is very distracting. “If they actually followed their own advice, they’d have an amazing relationship.”

“I’m hoping for your sake he’s not planning a sleepover.”

James starts to laugh, and then his smile falters. “God no.” He pauses, sipping his wine again and watching me. “I don’t share my bed with just anyone, you know.”

The air between us vibrates, warm and charged.

I finally manage a lame “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

He continues to study me the way he always does, but for once the weight of his focus makes me feel awkward and overwhelmed, and I turn back to my plate. “Just a few days more and the show airs.”

“I feel like I’ve been working for the Tripps for a decade. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Right? And how have I done it for so long?” I agree, glancing over to their table.

From here, their fondness looks real enough. She’s talking and he’s listening in that way he has, like she’s his sun and moon and the only woman in the world. They look like the couple you see on TV. It almost makes me wonder if they have a chance. Would counseling help?

“Do you think there’s a way they could ever make it work?” I ask.

He lifts a brow.

“They used to love each other so much.”

“I think …” He trails off. “I think sometimes we see what we want to see.” There’s an edge of sadness in his voice that catches my attention.

“This sounds … personal.” I lean in, way more interested in hearing about James than I am in talking about the Tripps over candlelight.

“My parents divorced when I was fifteen,” he says. “They sat us down one day and said that just because they didn’t love each other anymore, it didn’t mean they didn’t love us. I was totally blindsided. They’d never stopped being friendly and warm to each other, so I had no idea they were even talking about divorce. It was like being hit by a truck. They said Dad had already rented an apartment but he’d still come by. Nothing would change.”

I reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry.”

For a beat, the conversation at the table near us—Melly and Rusty’s—goes quiet. I don’t have to look over to know that Melly is watching us. And apparently neither does James. He carefully pulls his hand out of mine.

“Not to spoil the story,” he says, “but everything changed. I remember asking Jenn if she had seen it coming, and she seemed surprised that I hadn’t. I told her they seemed so nice and gentle with each other. She said they fought almost every night after we went to bed.”

“You were a fifteen-year-old boy,” I say. “I bet if I asked my brother what color my eyes are, he’d have a fifty percent chance of getting it right.” Blinking, I add with a grin, “And we have the same color eyes.”

James laughs at this.

“But I get what you mean,” I continue. “I remember when I first told my mom something was going on with my hand, and she was shocked like it was the first she was hearing of it. My handwriting was getting worse, and she’d say it looked the same as it always had. I’d be doing this,” I say, and hold up my arm in front of me, “my entire hand visibly shaking, and she’d say I needed more protein in my diet or more sleep. My dad was having some health issues, too, so she had a lot going on, but it wasn’t until my doctors sat her down and told her it was real and not going away that she really got it.”

“When did you first notice it?”

“I was nineteen. I’d always been able to draw, but around then my hand would get tired and crampy really soon after I’d start a sketch. I didn’t think much of it until I had to do something that required both hands—like helping Rusty put together a table or pin some upholstery to a chair—and that’s when I realized it wasn’t just fatigue from drawing all the time; there was something wrong. I started hiding my hands because they would spasm or clench up, waiting until I was alone to do anything that required small movements. Melly’s the one who noticed and insisted I see someone.”

James listens intently. “Melissa did?”

I nod. “I was pretty good at hiding it, but she noticed that I wasn’t eating in front of her.” At his confused expression I explain, “I drop pencils all the time—and that’s with regular Botox treatments. Imagine me holding a fork, at my worst.”