The Honey - Don't List
“Is there anyone in this house who isn’t out to ruin me?”
We all turn to look at Melly when she shrieks this. With wild, furious eyes, she stares at each of us in turn before tilting her head back and letting out a scream so feral and enraged it sounds like it tears up her throat.
“Melly,” Carey says with trembling incredulity, “did we dare forget for two minutes that everything is about you?”
“Rusty’s asking for a divorce,” Melly yells back at her. “You’re quitting just like he’s been trying to get you to do since you started fucking and—what? I’m the only one who cares about the business anymore?”
Rusty wipes a slow hand down his face and looks at me. “I need the keys, Jimbo.”
“Not happening, Russ.”
He shrugs and turns to leave the room. There’s movement in my peripheral vision, but Carey must comprehend what’s happening before I do because she’s moving with lightning speed to try to stop Melissa’s glass just as it leaves her hand to go hurtling toward Rusty and the roaring fireplace. Rusty ducks in shock, and the heavy crystal tumbler jets past him, barely missing his temple and crashing with a frighteningly shrill blast against the stone hearth.
We gape in the echoing silence, stunned by the violence of it. The glass would have knocked him unconscious, at best, but as close as Melissa is to him? It could just as easily have killed him. For a few tense moments, Rusty just stares at her.
And in those seconds, I watch his heart finally break.
An odd whoosh, like a gust of wind, passes through the room. Carey and I look at each other, some shared instinct making us suspicious. With a start, Rusty stumbles back and we all look down at his muttered “Holy shit”—the carpet at his feet is on fire, flames licking at the hem of his jeans.
“Rusty!” I yell, shoving him.
Cursing in shock, he falls back onto the silver bar cart, which topples over. Rusty scrambles quickly away as crystal decanters of alcohol crash to the floor. After an eerie beat of silence, the fire turns from a small trail of flames into a blinding explosion bursting from the fireplace.
Without thinking, I tackle Carey, rolling us to the side. A huge crash booms, and then we hear the rising hiss of the fire coming to life behind us, fed by a river of strong spirits and a room full of wood and fabric. A chair is on fire … on fire … flames grow instantly, licking higher beside us. I drag Carey over to the wall, clutching her as we take it in, trying to piece together what the hell we’re supposed to do now.
Melissa is screaming, and Rusty is throwing ice and yelling, and I realize that Melissa’s glass was full of booze, for once in her goddamn life it had to be only booze, but I can’t think about any of it because the rug is burning now, the couch, the fire is tearing through the room almost like it’s been waiting to climb out of the fireplace and take over this house for decades.
The room is a square, and we are on the far side, away from the exit, where we could dart into the hallway toward the entryway or the kitchen. Carey and I scramble along the walls, crouch-walking to stay low. The entire time she is whispering “Oh my God. Oh my God” in this high, terrified voice and I want to tell her that everything is going to be fine, that I’m sorry, that we’ll fix this and make it better for her but the only thing we need to do right now is not die. In the middle of the room, the flames are giddily swallowing every bit of furniture and fabric, and just to the side, near the windows, Rusty and Melissa are still ineffectually trying to put the fire out with the ice bucket, with bottles of soda. It’s a delusion; this fire is too big.
I yell at them to go call 911 and get the hell out of there.
Reaching the door to the hallway, Carey and I stand and make a run toward the kitchen. Rusty is already there, shouting the address into the phone, and then he drops the receiver. It slams against the wall and hangs there, swinging limply. He meets my eyes; his are wide and terrified. Without saying a word, Rusty sprints out the back door, saving himself.
“Melly!” Carey shouts, pulling her shirt up over her mouth before turning back toward the living room. Even in crisis, even after everything that happened back there, she’s still taking care of Melissa.
I follow, calling for her, but the house is filling with smoke and soon all I can hear is Carey shouting Melly’s name. Through the fog, I see their two figures come together, and behind them, the fire seems to barrel closer in a wave. Without thinking, I run back to the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher and returning to spray with minimal efficacy at the wall of fire closing in on the foyer and climbing the log walls. But it’s enough to give us time to break free from the heavy fog. Carey grabs Melissa and pulls the front door open, letting in a burst of cold fresh air that is immediately swallowed by the smoke. Ducking, I follow them out into the clear, darkening sky.