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We have a late start this morning because we’re only going to Sacramento to sign some books for store stock before driving to spend the night in Medford, Oregon. The leisurely start to the day means I have time to shower, pack, and then figure out what to do with myself. Rusty is, as usual, sleeping until the very last minute before we leave. Thankfully I won’t sit around thinking about Carey or feeling useless: Melissa texts me a to-do list.
James could you take care of the following:
-Pick up some Alka-Seltzer for Russ
-He also needs a pack of plain white undershirts
-The bus could use a humidifier
The air is bright and sharp; the wind catches me off guard. I knew that San Francisco could be cold, but it’s still disorienting to feel the chill on my face with the iconic backdrop of a brilliant blue sky over the Golden Gate Bridge. A stress headache pulses at the edges of my temples.
It’s not a terrible thing if this fling with Carey turns into nothing. If I can just keep my head down and focus until the second season is rolling, I’ll have a great focal point on my résumé. Rather than citing my duration on the job, I’ll be able to say I worked on season five of New Spaces and the first season of Home Sweet Home. Rusty will give whatever recommendation I need him to give, I know. From here, I can move on to another position—an actual engineering role. While I don’t enjoy the cult of personality in the entertainment world, the pace and variety are so much better than the lifeless humdrum of my cubicle at the old job. If I could someday leverage the connections from Comb+Honey to get a job on a show that actually values science and engineering—something on the Discovery Channel—I would be thrilled.
Halfway up a steep hill, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
A clashing blend of relief and unease bubbles through me: it’s Carey.
I lift the phone to my ear, turning my back to the wind. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
For a breath, I want to laugh. Now she’s asking where I am? I look up, searching for a landmark or street sign. “Kearny Street?”
“I don’t know why I asked,” she says, laughing. “I have no idea where that is.”
A small ache presses into my chest as I register the dichotomy of this immediate, easy conversation and the complexity of our present relationship. “I don’t really, either,” I admit. “I’m just following Google Maps to get to a Walgreens.”
“Melly honey-do-listed you?” she asks, teasing.
“Yeah.”
For a moment, all I can hear is the wind whipping through my phone. I pull my hand away, peeking at the screen to make sure I haven’t lost her call.
Finally, she says, “James. I’m sorry I left.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. And it is. As much as I’d like to do it again, one and done is more straightforward.
“Melly came in.”
It takes me a beat to register her meaning. “Came in … to my room? This morning?”
“She had a key. I guess she thought it was Rusty’s room.”
I think back to check-in. Rusty’s name was on one room, mine was on the other, but I didn’t think it mattered who ended up where; I handed him one and took the second. But it did matter, because of course Melissa asked Joe for a copy of what was supposed to be Rusty’s key.
I groan. “That was my fault.”
Carey laughs. “Yeah, I’m gloating a little that you weren’t the perfect assistant for once.”
So she didn’t just bolt. I’m surprised by the power of my relief. I’d so quickly convinced myself that it was fine, that I didn’t need to pursue this, and then one word from her about it not being what I thought—she didn’t panic and flee—and I’m practically melting into the sidewalk. Maybe we can figure it out after all.
“Was she mad?” I ask, wincing.
Carey barks out an incredulous laugh. “What do you think?”
“I think she flipped out. Where are you right now?”
“I’m back in my room. Once I convinced her that I wasn’t lying there naked in Rusty’s bed—oh my God, what a horrible sentence—she calmed down. The fact that he wasn’t still in bed snoring next to me and that there was a tidy row of your work clothes in the closet helped. I should say she calmed down a little.”
I think she’s going to tell me what Melissa said once she knew Carey had been with me, not Rusty, but the line goes silent again.
Finally, I have to ask. “What did she think about … us?”
I hear her shift somehow and can imagine her sitting on her left hand, trying to get it to relax. “She wasn’t crazy about it.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t.” I hate having this conversation like this, through the phone, where I’m standing in the middle of a windy sidewalk and she’s alone in her hotel room, recovering after another tirade from Melissa. I want to be sitting next to her, talking. Even if we didn’t touch, I could read her face.
