The Honey - Don't List
My pulse is a stampede. “Carey, Ted is calling me.”
“Ted Cox?”
The producer for Home Sweet Home. Why on earth is he calling me?
“Yeah. I should probably take this?” Did we fuck something up? Have Melissa and Rusty run naked and screaming into the street while Carey and I were negotiating our personal shit on the phone? “I’ll meet you back at the hotel in a bit.”
We disconnect, and I switch over to Ted’s call. My voice sounds high and tight. “Ted. Hi.”
“James. How are things going?” He must be in a crowded room because a few nearby voices come through nearly as clearly as his.
I go for vague, but honest: “About as well as could be expected.”
Ted lets out a quiet laugh that I barely catch over the hum of background noise. “The response to the announcement was astounding.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “I really need to make sure we stay on track here, James.”
Pacing, I hold back the words I really want to let out—Sounds like a conversation you should be having with Melissa and Rusty—and give him a noncommittal hum instead. He barrels on, “There’s some buzz that things aren’t great between the Tripps—a Blind Gossip post, a handful of vague tweets from bigger names—and so I think this tour needs to be more of a lovefest than it’s been so far.”
I … don’t even know how to respond to that. Is this guy for real? Keeping them from tearing into each other in public is challenge enough, and now he wants us to encourage them to canoodle?
“Let’s get a few moments of them being tender,” he continues, “maybe holding hands, or embracing where they think no one can see them.”
I want to laugh trying to imagine what he’s describing. My eyes are squeezed shut, my palm to my forehead when I let out a tight “We can try.”
His answering silence tells me that this isn’t quite enough of an assurance. I hear a door open and close, and then the background noise disappears. “Listen, I realize this has been a frustrating gig for you,” Ted says.
“And for Carey.”
He ignores this. “I also realize you were hired to do more of the actual engineering on projects, and I am in a position to make you lead engineer and get you an executive producing credit on season two.”
A car blasts past me, startling me from my momentary stupor. He’s got my attention.
“We’d just need to make sure we get to season two,” he says when I’ve been quiet a beat too long.
“I understand what’s at stake here,” I tell him.
He waits for me to say more.
I want to tell him about Carey, about how she’s been creating designs for Melissa for years, about how she’s the real mastermind behind all of this, and in truth if Carey and I were given freedom to run with the platform, we could do what the Tripps have been letting the world think they’re doing for the last decade. They could continue to be the face—but we could do what we both love to do: the work behind the scenes.
“Carey and I will do everything in our power to get them to show some more tender moments at these events,” I tell him. “But I want the engineering role and producer promise in writing.”
He goes quiet, and then my phone buzzes against my ear. I peek at it and see a text message has arrived from Ted, with a photo attached.
“I just wrote it down on a napkin, okay?” he says. “ ‘James to be hired as lead engineer and EP on season two.’ ”
Even if he’s being cheeky, relief flushes heat through my veins, making me bold: “I also think if we can get more recognition for Carey—”
“Carey?” he repeats. “The one with the hands?”
The roaring in my ears feels like a semitruck passing too close.
The one with the hands.
The heat of confidence dissipates immediately, and I stumble past words for a few shocked seconds. “She has a movement disorder, yeah, but she’s brilliant. She’s actually the one—”
“We can look into getting her a producer credit, too.” He pauses, then adds thoughtfully, “Actually, it would look great for the crew lineup to have her listed as a producer. Being inclusive, and whatnot. Makes the whole operation look like a solid family business—she’s been Melly’s secretary for years.”
His words feel like a punch to my chest. “Right, but she’s more than Melly’s—”
“Look, James, I’ve got to get into a meeting, but are we good? I can trust you to handle this?”
His question hangs in the silence that follows. It sounds easy, but I know better. And it feels shitty to be getting this opportunity when Carey has taken more flak and sacrificed more than anyone. A producer credit isn’t enough—she deserves a lead designer credit.