The Honey - Don't List

Joe paces in the background, fighting what seems to be a strong urge to check his watch every minute that Melly does what Melly does best: chatting with people and smiling for photos. I’m grateful that Rusty put on a nice shirt, and I realize with a mixture of fondness and surprise that it must’ve occurred to James to remind his boss that he might be in front of a lot of fans asking him to pose for selfies.

James sidles up to me, and my pulse jumps. I like the smell of his laundry detergent on him. I remember how it lingered on his skin even when his clothes were on the floor.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

I look up, grateful for the distraction of fans so he and I can share one quiet minute. “Me too,” I tell him. “I made a decision about something …”

He frowns a little and then his expression clears, like he thinks he knows what I’m going to say. “Yeah?” His voice has dropped a few decibels and the volume turns it a little scratchy. “Then you go first.”

“I’m going to quit,” I say. His face doesn’t do what I expected it to; he doesn’t immediately smile. “I’m going to tell Melly tonight. I’ll give her until they wrap up the tour in Boise.”

James frowns. “Are you sure the timing is good?”

“What you said. On the phone?” I wait until he nods, barely. “You’re right about all of it. I realized today I don’t talk about it with Debbie—my therapist—because I know what she’ll say. Working here isn’t good for my hands. It’s not good for my mental health. I can find something else.”

He shifts on his feet, looking back over his shoulder at Melly and Rusty. “Melissa will be a mess without you.”

“I know, but this is insane, right?” I search his eyes for the conviction I heard in his voice earlier. “Like you said, what does my life look like in five years?”

James squints past me, into the distance. Something about his demeanor makes my stomach do a weird flip. I expected a grin, maybe a quick, covert hug. Hell, I’d take a thumbs up at this point. I didn’t expect him to look so … conflicted.

“I thought you’d be a bit more supportive and a bit less … I don’t know. Concerned.”

“No,” he says quickly, “I’m just thinking.” He meets my eyes again, and his are so deep and emotive, I want to pull him into the light and study them more carefully, the way he studied me last night. I feel like that connection has been severed, and I don’t know if it’s the fact that we aren’t alone, or if it’s something else.

“I know what I said,” he continues, “and I do think you should leave. But we both made a commitment to get them through this, and it won’t look good for either of our résumés if they fall apart on this tour. If they become a scandal, it’ll just be another Rooney, Lipton, and Squire for me, and an unending stretch of being an assistant to a scandal for you.”

My gut turns sour. I can see his point, and hate that my decisions seem to simultaneously be too late and too impulsive. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice thin. “When does it end?”

James seems to have a physical response to the desperation in my voice because something in his demeanor shifts, like it hurts him to ask this of me. “Just wait until the second season is a go, okay? Just a few more weeks, at most.”

I think ahead to what we have left: a drive to Oregon tonight and then finishing the trip to Portland tomorrow, where we have a big event. From Portland to Seattle for another event and a stretch of interviews, then Boise before heading back to Jackson. From there, the Tripps are supposed to gear up for a tour of the East Coast. If all goes well, I definitely won’t be around for that.

I look to where Melly fawns over a woman’s pink coat, and I know she’ll climb back on the bus and immediately comment about how ugly it was, and how could someone wear something like that in public? James wants me to hang in there for another couple of weeks—and I know he has my best interests in mind because he’s good like that—but I don’t even want to be around them for another hour.

But then Joe comes over, hands me his phone, and grimaces.

Looks like someone from the hotel caught a picture of Melly and Rusty fighting as they got into the elevator alone last night. Melly’s pointed index finger is spearing Rusty in the chest. Her face is so twisted in anger that she looks like she’s spitting. The photo on Twitter has only been up for an hour and already has over four thousand likes.