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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.”
Melissa’s head turns. It turns so slowly, and on such a level axis, that I have to blink to stave off the mental image of Melissa Tripp’s head rotating an entire 360 degrees, spinning faster and faster and eventually dislodging from her neck and flying away, out of this room.
When I open my eyes, I’m relieved to find her simply staring at her husband. But I can’t read her expression or her silence. My limited experience with the Tripps is that silence generally means 1) Melissa is not in the room, or 2) Melissa is asleep. This is, frankly, terrifying.
Rusty played football in high school. He’s about six foot four and has that sort of dimpled smile, clean shave, and soft floppy hair that makes him seem eternally boyish and therefore harmless. Grown doughier with age, the diet of the wealthy, and a love of American beer, Rusty’s face has only become more affable, not less. Right now, he looks happy and placid, like he’s not the center of a storm that’s about to land directly in his company’s headquarters. I’ve gathered that reading the room isn’t his forte.
Carey looks at me. I look back at her. We both brace ourselves.
“Say that again,” Melissa says to Carey, but she doesn’t take her eyes off her husband.
Carey’s expression tenses, and she searches my face for help—I have none—before reluctantly turning back to Melissa. “Um. That we saw Rusty with Stephanie?”
Melissa nods. “Yep. That.”
Do we … leave the room? Is this when we step out and let them hash out whatever they need to? We don’t really have to be here for this, right? Does Melissa need more proof? From the way her blank expression is slowly transitioning to one of homicidal rage, I’m guessing our word was pretty good.
Rusty bows his head and lets out the longest breath imaginable. Finally, he looks across the room at Robyn. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Melissa’s sharp laugh could cut through stone. “Oh, really?”
“Rusty,” Robyn coos as if to a child, “you don’t mean that, honey.”
“I do. I need a break from all of this madness.”
Melissa tilts her head back and lets out a laugh so maniacal that it could be coming from a sewer drain or a hyena standing on a pile of dead baby lions. “You want to take a break two days before our marital advice book launches?”
And with this reaction—sarcasm, not rage—I am suddenly very confused. I didn’t want to be here before, but right now if I could bolt from this room and leave only a James-shaped cutout in the drywall, I would do it. I want to be anywhere but here. Send me to my aunt Tammy and uncle Jake’s house in Poughkeepsie, and I’ll listen to them bicker for hours. Send me back to the childhood days of soccer and my utter inability to coordinate running and kicking at the same time. Even send me back to the Worst First Date in the History of Time, with Bekah Newmann, where the Indian food didn’t agree with me and I didn’t quite make it to her bathroom in time.
Anywhere but here. I’m too new to this job, too unclear on what’s really going on behind the facade of a happy marriage, and too eager to stop being a quasi-assistant and start doing the job I was promised: engineering unique, creative pieces for the Tripps’ upcoming second season of Home Sweet Home.
I stand. “Carey and I can check in with you all tomor—”
“Sit. Down.” Melissa’s shrill voice is terrifying when she’s mad, and she aims a pointed finger at the floor. “No one on this team is leaving until we figure this out.”
This … team? Granted, given the duration of her tenure with the Tripps, I can see how Carey is a critical part of Melissa’s day-to-day life—which may include being privy to certain marital dramas. But Robyn lives in New York and I … well, everyone knows I’m the new guy and essentially useless here.
“You fucked Stephanie?” Melissa explodes. “Stephanie?”
Rusty sticks his chin out, like he’s being brave by admitting it. “I tried to get you to leave the party!”
“You—?” She stares at him, speechless. “Are you stupid, Russell, or did you have a stroke?”
Inwardly, I groan. Ugh, Melly.
“We were hosting a party.” She enunciates every word, as if she’s teaching him English. “The job always comes first.”
