The Honey - Don't List

Together, we designed consoles that expanded using the aesthetic and structural aspects of my dad’s favorite Leather-man tools, kitchen islands that functioned like Swiss army knives and packed many purposes into the smallest footprint possible. The concept grew to include the buildings themselves: stairs that retracted when not in use, rooms built on platforms that offered hidden beds or storage underneath, walls that opened to reveal entire closets tucked into the space behind an ordinary flat-screen TV.

High-end style and design while utilizing limited space. It was popular even in the larger, more expensive homes in Jackson but when customers in some of the bigger cities heard about it, it became Comb+Honey’s, and Melly’s, signature.

My hands are bothering me more than usual, and I’m hoping I can nail down the logistics of turning an attic into an office with a half bath and lofted sleeping area before it becomes obvious I’m struggling with the Apple Pencil. I normally do this sort of thing alone, or with Melly, who already knows that my hands cramp when I overuse them, and it’s hard to hide with everyone—particularly James—right here.

It’s then that I notice the typing has stopped, and I glance up to find him watching me.

“You think we’re almost there?” he asks, and if he happened to notice anything out of the ordinary in my movements, he doesn’t let on. His blue-light-blocking glasses have slipped down his nose. The lens color makes the entire area around his eyes look like he’s suffering from jaundice. I snicker as I reach for my backpack.

“It’s a fourteen-hour drive,” I remind him. “It’s been five.”

Closing his laptop, he stands to stretch and the groan he lets out is both sexy and terrible.

I grin up at him. “I thought engineers were really good with numbers …”

His dirty look is cut short by a shout from the back of the bus: “Jimbo! C’mere!”

“Sweet Jesus.” James drops back into his chair.

Not to be ignored, Rusty calls him again. “Jimbalaya!”

I slide my messy stack of notes into my bag. “He’s not going to stop until you acknowledge him.”

“Jim Boy!” Rusty shouts, even more insistent. “Come back here!”

Melly covers her free ear and takes her phone into the bathroom, closing the door with a very pointed click. James gives me a pleading look, as if anything I can do will save him from keeping Rusty entertained for the next nine hours.

“Can’t you help him?” he asks, offering his closed laptop as evidence. “I’m trying to finish something.”

“He probably has a super-important engineering question, and I’m busy here doing assistant-y things. Besides, you’re the one he’s calling for, Jimbo.”

“More likely he wants me to cut a hole in the bottom of the bus like he saw in Speed and ride the panel back to the gas station for a bag of Doritos.” His grumpy expression deepens when he glances at my iPad, still on the table. “That doesn’t look very assistant-y.” He bends to get a closer look. “Are you … playing Minecraft?”

Instinct makes me click the side button so he can’t see my design program. “Yep.”

“Jimmy Dean!”

“Go on, Engineer Boy,” I tell him. “I’m sure whatever he needs you for is way above my training.”

Resigned, James stands with a groan and passes Melissa as she emerges from the bathroom.

“Is James having some sort of issue I should be aware of?” she asks once he’s gone, slipping into the booth across from me at the small table. Her body is so tiny, honed from years with a trainer and a steady diet of cotton balls and water. I’m just kidding—she also stores my tears in a jar. It keeps her hair blond and her crow’s-feet at bay.

Rusty’s cheer carries above the baseball game when James finally steps into the little back room.

“Just your husband,” I say.

“Well then, we have the same issue.” Melly wakes up her computer, and I’m sure she’s immediately on all the retail sites, reading reviews of the book, checking its ranking. I’m torn between keeping this quiet moment of peace and wanting to say something about this trip and how it will be so much easier for all of us if they can just set aside what’s going on until they get back to the privacy of their own home.

I think of what Debbie would tell me: Make the decision to assert yourself and follow through. Decide what you want and be honest in your communication. Don’t sugarcoat, don’t apologize, and listen to the response. Stay calm. Use I whenever possible. Practice in your head if you have to.

I think of what I want to say, but when I look at her face—tight, controlled, no-nonsense—the words dry up in my throat.

“Show me what you’ve got,” she says, and points to my iPad.

I slide it across the table and she inspects my work.