Carey is taller than I think I realized, with dark blond hair that, right now, is messily piled on her head. Her eyes are green, blue, something like that. My guess is she’s aware that people aren’t looking at her in this job because she usually dresses casually, but she must have dressed down even more sometime between cleaning up the warehouse and coming in to the office. She’s wearing gray sweats, untied sneakers, and a sweatshirt with the words NAMA-STAY IN BED. She’s also a fidgeter. We might not have spent a lot of time together, but it’s one of the first things I noticed. Her hands are always moving or clenched into fists. I’m not sure if it’s some kind of nervous tic, or what exactly, but she sits on them a lot or keeps them hidden under the table. And I could be wrong, but I don’t think she likes being touched. She shrinks against a wall when I pass too close or takes a step back if we both reach for something at the same time. I don’t take it personally—we all have our stuff—and do my best to respect that and not do anything that might make her uncomfortable.
She also has some of the oddest sayings. At the end of our first meeting together she stood up and said she had to hit the bushes. It was only later that I realized she meant she had to use the restroom, and I still don’t understand why she didn’t just say that.
Right now she’s messing with one of the bookcases, frowning at the way it won’t rotate the full one-eighty to display the books on the other side of the shelf. It’s a classic Tripp design—made to best utilize whatever limited space is available. Carey checks a few of the bearings and finds a stuck pin, fiddles with it for a moment before it resets, and then lets out a quiet, satisfied “There” when the shelf glides easily again.
“Exactly how long have you worked for Melissa?” I ask her. She bends to inspect another shelf, a small furrow of her forehead the only indication that she’s heard me.
“About ten years.”
I feel my eyes go wide. “How old are you?”
She hesitates. “Twenty-six.”
Wow. Wow. Wow.
I study her again. She’s fresh-faced and so innocently unsophisticated she seems more like a new intern and not the person in charge of nearly every logistical detail of the Tripps’ schedule.
Is this the only job she’s ever had? I’m the new guy and am still piecing everyone together, but I’ve been here long enough to know that Melissa and Carey’s relationship is not healthy. Ten years together, though, would certainly explain how Carey anticipates all of Melissa’s needs before even Melissa is aware of them, and how Melissa can’t or won’t do anything without Carey at her side.
“Have you always been her assistant?”
“No, I started as a cashier in their first store,” she says. “I’ve done pretty much every job there. When things took off, I just stayed with them.” She glances over and seems suddenly aware of my attention. I blink away. She moves to the opposite side of the bookcase. “What did you do before you came here?”
I’m saved from having to answer this when the doorknob turns, and both Carey and I turn to see Rusty walk in ahead of Melissa and Robyn—a willowy, nervous bird of a woman.
“Jim, Carey!” he bellows in greeting. His smile is as loose from inebriation as Melissa’s is tight from irritation.
“James,” I correct in response, almost like a script I have no choice but to follow. Of the great many things that seem to bring Russell Tripp joy in this world, near the top has to be calling me any variation of Jim. Even better is calling Carey and me “Jim Carrey,” like it’s the world’s cleverest joke.
He laughs, slapping my shoulder as he passes. “You know I’m kidding, Jimbo!”
Lowering himself into a chair across from me, he winks. Rusty Tripp is hard to despise, despite his best efforts—swinging testicles and all—and given his jovial mood, it’s clear he has no idea that we saw him … or what’s about to go down.
Melissa glides across the room like a vampire, slipping her heels off and tucking them into a cubby in a sleek black bench near the window. She gives a pointed look to Rusty’s feet, propped on the delicate suede ottoman. Without the benefit of the added height, Melissa is minuscule and suddenly looks very, very tired. But one glance at the fiery glint in her eyes and I know that anyone who suggests this is—
“You look exhausted, Mel.” Robyn frowns in concern.
Rusty, Carey, and I—in unison—suck in our breath and hold it.
If I’ve learned one thing in the last two months, it’s that Melissa Tripp does not like being called Mel; nor does she appreciate any suggestion that she is tired, sad, worried, no longer in her twenties, or in any other way human.
“I am fine, Robyn,” she hisses, and gracefully sits down in the chair beside Rusty. I’m aware if a camera were near she would reach over and casually link her fingers with his. As it is, with only the five of us in the chilly, dark room, she hasn’t even looked at his face yet.
“So what’s up, guys?” Rusty asks, glancing from me to Carey as she takes a seat on the couch at my side. Per usual, Robyn paces in the background, tapping at her phone.
Carey looks at me. I look at her. When we requested this quick conversation, we were both expecting Melissa to come alone. It is infinitely more awkward with Rusty here, and almost impossible to imagine having this conversation with Robyn’s nervous energy further cloying the space.
“We really just wanted a word with Melly,” Carey explains carefully.
Melissa’s eyes narrow, but despite her being close to forty-five, not a single line creases her face. “Both of you?” she asks.
I clear my throat. I don’t usually talk to Melissa. “It’s personal.”
“Are you two fucking?” She’s glaring at Carey when she guns this question at us, so she misses the way I nearly swallow my tongue.
“No.” Carey’s jaw clenches as she and Melissa engage in a silent stare-down, and I internally urge her to not break eye contact, not break eye contact, not bre—
Carey looks down at the rug.
“Then just spit it out,” Melissa says, and waves a tired hand as if to suggest that we’re the reason she’s still up, and she’s ready to be done with all of this, at last. “We have no secrets.”
Carey looks at me again. I look at her.
She lifts her eyebrows. It was your fault we saw it. You say it.
I give a quick shake of my head. No, you’ve been here longer, you say it.
She juts her chin forward. This was your idea.
She wouldn’t think twice before killing me.
Her eyes narrow, so mine narrow, too.
Pushing out a breath, Carey finally says, “We have an entire season of Home Sweet Home in the can. The announcement about the new show is happening next week, on your book tour for New Life, Old Love …” She pauses. “Your, um, book about successful relationships. The hope is for this announcement to go well, and the book to hit the New York Times bestseller list.”
Melissa lets out a low growl that makes my balls climb up into my body. “Thank you for the concise summary of all the stressors fueling my insomnia. Did you request a meeting in the middle of the night to go over the totally obvious?”
“No, I requested a meeting because earlier,” Carey says, taking a deep, fortifying breath, “James and I, well, we found Rusty and Stephanie … together … in the editing studio.”