The Honey - Don't List

Another question barrels past the rest: If we can’t keep this a secret, would Melly even be willing to share me?

That thought is enough to fully knock the shine off my afterglow. I roll onto my side and feel the crinkle of plastic beneath me. The other condom wrapper. I pick it up, look at it. He said we should talk, and he’s right, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’d rather stay in the bubble and do other things first.

Practically vibrating, I rush into the bathroom. A towel is laid out smoothly on the right corner of the counter. Neatly arranged on top are James’s toiletries: toothpaste, toothbrush, travel bottles of some salon brand shampoo and conditioner, deodorant, face wash, and a small tub of expensive-looking moisturizer. I think of my own toiletry case, packed so full it will barely zip, toothpaste closed with Saran wrap because I lost the cap, a random assortment of shampoo bottles I took from another hotel, everything still covered in a fine layer of the pressed powder I dropped the night before we left. James would probably break out in hives if he took two steps into my hotel room and saw the wet towel I left in the middle of my bed and that most of my clothes are still lying in my open suitcase.

I wash my hands and rush through the rest of a makeshift routine: splash my face, finger-brush my teeth, and help myself to a dab of his moisturizer. I shake out my hair, smoothing it down and then fluffing it back up again. I take one last look in the mirror—I like the way he looks on me.

The thought cycles back: we still have three cities to go. I imagine telling Melly about this. The prospect is terrifying. Better: I’m able to keep James a secret, get through the rest of the tour, and then we take it one day at a time back home. Just like normal people do, right? Working less, playing more. Actually getting to know him—

There’s a noise from the other room, a jiggle on the outside door handle.

I race to the bed, heart pounding. The lock clicks just as I lie back against the stack of pillows, hair fanned out around me and sheet arranged so my leg is bare, my breasts barely covered.

The view of the door is blocked by a little hall, and I grin as I hear the door sweep over the carpet and swiftly close again.

“So about those three hours until we have to be downstairs.” I pick up the remaining condoms and dangle them midair. “Whatever will we do to fill the time?”

“What. The fuck.”

I stop breathing altogether. Melly.

I jerk the sheet over my chest and throw the condoms like I’ve just been brandishing a handful of shit. “Oh my God! What—what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” She waves what I know without question is a honey-do list. “I was coming to talk to my husband! What the fuck are you doing here?”

I am so confused. Beyond confused, I am petrified. In a rush, I am up on my knees, one hand out in front of me while the other clutches the sheet to my chest. “Oh my God, Melly. You can’t think that I—that me and Rusty—! I would never!”

GROSS.

Melly tilts her head as she looks at me, really looks at me. She blinks slowly, her feathery lash extensions fluttering like she has all the time in the world. Outwardly, she seems suddenly calm. Her stillness is terrifying.

Oh God, can she smell fear?

“Would never what, exactly?” she says, too quiet, too serene. “Maybe you could clarify exactly which of your betrayals you are referring to, Carey. Never try to undermine me? Lie to me? Sleep with my husband?”

My heart is pounding in my chest. “Melly. I would never do any of those things. It’s not what you’re thinking.” I glance around the room, at my skirt that practically waves like a floozy from the floor where James threw it. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell Melly—I certainly didn’t want to tell her like this—and now I have to. “This isn’t Rusty’s room.”

“It is, Carey.” She holds up her key. “They didn’t have adjoining rooms, and Joe gave me the spare.”

“There must have been a mix-up when he handed them out.” I take a deep breath and let it out as evenly as possible. “This isn’t Rusty’s room, it’s James’s.”

Her forehead moves only infinitesimally these days—all the muscles kept in place with Botox and sheer will—but there’s definitely something displeased happening in her expression: the twitch of a perfectly waxed brow, the narrowing of her eyes.

I swallow; my throat is suddenly dry. With another quick glance, I nod to his shiny aluminum suitcase in the corner. “I spent the night with James.”