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She whistles. “Wowza.”
Yeah, wowza. There’s also the fact that my plan only works if Rusty and Melissa can keep it together. Wanting to change the subject, I ask, “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you still work for them?”
Her answer is immediate. “Melly needs me.”
I believe that’s true, though from what I’ve seen Melissa also doesn’t treat Carey particularly well, so it seems awfully generous of Carey to prioritize Melissa’s needs over her own.
But surely she wants my pity even less than I wanted hers. “You don’t think she would manage, after a while?”
Carey turns her eyes up to me, and given the freedom to look directly at her, I’m struck by the awareness that not only is she a warm-blooded woman, she’s disarmingly pretty. More than pretty—she’s beautiful. Her skin is flawless, cheeks always flushed. I like her mouth, the way it curls up on one side before the other when she’s amused. The strong angle of her jaw, the hint of dimples in both of her cheeks.
Danger, James. I look away, trying not to stare. It’s part of Carey’s job to blend into the background, but now that I’ve seen her—really seen her—something heated turns over in me that I’m not sure I can turn back.
“What else would I do?” she asks. “I feel like I’ve given everything to the Tripps. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’ve helped them build all of this.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have.”
“I don’t really want to start over.”
I want to say You’re only twenty-six, but she takes a deep inhale over her Styrofoam cup, seeming to refocus and possibly even relish the smell of what can’t possibly be good coffee. The moment has passed.
“At least they weren’t terrible last night,” she says, a subtle subject change.
It’s true. Melissa and Rusty weren’t terrible at the meet-and-greet. They charmed the crowd, joked with each other, and generally left me with the hope that this might not be the worst week of my life.
“That was my first book signing, so I don’t have anything to compare it to, but … they were great. Maybe we’ve been worried about nothing,” I say, trying optimism on for size.
“Yeah …” Carey starts, and then offers a thoughtful pause.
“But?”
“They were great last night, but that could have just been the adrenaline of a first event. I’ve never traveled with them across the country mere days after adultery in their twenty-five-year marriage. We’re in open water here. Anything can happen.”
This is the opposite of what I wanted her to say. “Did you have any idea their marriage was so bad?” I ask. “I certainly didn’t.”
She drains the cup and takes a couple of steps to refill it, lifting it as if offering me one. I decline with a small shake of my head. “I knew things weren’t perfect,” she admits. “But whose marriage is?” She adds in some nauseating powdered creamer and three packets of sugar. “Believe it or not, they used to be really cute together. I actually miss seeing them like that.”
I groan. “Do you ever just wish everyone would do what they’re supposed to do?”
“Heck yeah.”
“Think about what they’ve built, how lucky they are. Rusty needs to keep it in his pants. Melissa needs to calm down a little. I could help do some of the engineering work and …” I hesitate, awkwardly. “You’d hopefully have fewer messes to clean up.”
“Of course.” Carey gives me a knowing little wink and drains this second cup of coffee. “But think of all the fun you’d be missing if you were just an engineer! I mean, with all you know about LA hotels, you should have booked the rooms!”
We help Joe get everything reloaded onto the bus while the Tripps sign autographs for a crowd that has gathered outside the Ritz. I’m constantly vigilant, waiting for the Tripps to explode at each other any minute, but they’re both wearing steady, easy smiles.
Likewise, the seven-hour drive to Palo Alto is mostly uneventful: Carey is on her iPad again. Rusty stays pretty much in the back. The two of them used to talk more, but I’ve noticed a distinct strain on whatever father-daughter vibe they had going on. The sounds of ESPN float through the closed lounge partition door, and Melissa parks herself next to the driver, where her motion sickness is the mildest and she can wait for the Dramamine to kick in. I get the distinct impression that that is usually Joe’s seat, so he’s awkwardly hanging out near the back.
“Joe,” I say, and he looks up from where he’s shuffling a bunch of papers around. I motion to the couch across from me.
I watch as he passes Carey, and notice him noticing her. A weird beat of satisfaction hits me when she’s so focused on whatever she’s doing that she doesn’t even look up. She’s using the iPad stylus with her right hand—and I know she’s left-handed. Even so, her fingers move in small, precise strokes. I’m pretty sure she isn’t playing Minecraft; not even my nephews give it that much focus. It looks like she’s drawing.
