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“This doesn’t seem so bad,” I say. “A little depressing, but he looks okay. Maybe he just needed to blow off some steam. Rusty’s a happy drunk. He hugs everyone, promises to help them redo their roofs, then is down for the count.”
James seems to consider this. “Okay, new plan. We’ll let him get shitfaced, steal the keys, and then roll him back to the car. I’m worried he’d be more trouble if we try to get him to leave.”
James takes my hand and tugs me toward the bar.
“This looks exactly like the kind of place my dad used to hang out,” I say, sliding onto a stool and waving to the bartender. I motion to a giant mounted fish hanging above shelves of colored liquor bottles. “I think we had that fish in our basement.”
James gives the fish an appraising look as he sits down next to me but still doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead he tugs it into his lap, toying absently with my fingers. “My dad was more of a beer-on-the-patio guy. I know,” he says, waving away my laughter. “He also wears socks with his sandals, so you should know what the future holds.”
The future?
James clears his throat as the bartender stops in front of us, and we each order a drink, thanking him when he steps away.
The silence is heavy for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to let it go, he speaks. “Actually, no.” He spins on his barstool to face me. “There are enough people dicking us around. I don’t want to do that. I think you were right before: we should talk about what it will be like back home.”
“Okay …” I say, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I don’t want this to end.”
I suck in a breath. The music playing seems to pulse and fade with my racing heartbeat.
“I don’t want it to, either.” I swear I have never smiled this much in my entire life. Is this what love feels like? Like your chest is a hot air balloon, and you have to just hold on and go where it takes you?
“Good.” A grin spreads across his face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
The bartender sets our drinks down on the coasters in front of us.
“But I know who you are.” We both whip around at the sound of a woman’s raised voice near the back of the bar. “I literally just watched you on TV. You’re married to the designer. The blond one!”
Rusty drops onto a stool, a tumbler of clear liquid and ice cubes in one hand and a pool cue in the other.
“The designer.” Rusty snorts. “Let me tell you a little story. Melissa Tripp couldn’t design her own pizza, let alone an entire house.”
Oh shit.
“Oh shit,” James says aloud, launching out of his seat to intervene. With a sigh, I toss back my drink before reluctantly getting up to follow. I do not get paid enough for this.
“What? I love her stuff!” the woman responds. “You were on that other show, too. The one with Miss America.”
“Stephanie?” Rusty asks, and my stomach drops.
A crusty-bearded man on the barstool near Rusty joins the conversation with a leer. “Heard she was your girlfriend.”
Rusty nods. “I’ve had more sex with Stephanie Flores in the last six months than I’ve had with my wife in the last six years. He’ll tell you,” Rusty adds, pointing to James.
By now people have started paying attention. I catch a couple in a booth listening intently. I see someone else with their phone out.
“Why don’t we get you out of here?” I ask, voice low.
“It’s been a big day.” James lays a hand on Rusty’s back to encourage him to stand.
Rusty shrugs him away. “I can’t do it, Jimmy. I won’t. Did you read Robyn’s text? Another season? Another season of watching Carey do all the work and Melly take credit for it? Of playing the bumbling sidekick to the woman I married?” His eyes meet mine and his are watery, desperate. “They’re going to want another book, you know. Another tour, and another show, and the lie will never end.”
“Rusty—” James starts.
“I can’t even remember the last piece of furniture I built. The last reno Melly actually had something to do with. We had a store and a life, and I was happy with it. I’m done, James.” He looks around at the bar full of customers who have now gone completely silent to watch him in shock. Rusty tilts his tumbler to his lips and drains the drink before telling the room, “I’m done, y’all, and I’m sorry, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who the fuck knows.”
It’s a surprise to all of us, I’m sure, when I step over to Rusty and lift him from his barstool and shove him from behind until we are out on the sidewalk squinting in the bright Wyoming sunset. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adapt to the change in light, and it takes my brain a bit longer to realize what I’ve managed to do: lift a man who easily has fifty pounds on me, bodily escort him from a bar, and pickpocket his keys without him even knowing. I’m not typically a very physically forceful person, but panic makes us do weird things, I guess.
