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CD: Oh, like way earlier. This was just after the Wyoming Tribune did an article on Comb+Honey—the original design store in Jackson. The window displays got a lot of local attention, and the general aesthetic was getting really popular in town. Rusty’s original woodworking pieces were selling like crazy. After the Trib article, there was a feature in the lifestyle section of the LA Times, and that caught the attention of HGTV. So, in 2014 Melly and Rusty were cast on New Spaces, with Stephanie and Dan. In hindsight, I think that’s when Rusty got bored, and Melly’s ambition got the best of her. The cracks started showing again. At least to me.
It’s 1:11 a.m.
I’m not going to look at the clock for five minutes.
I’m not going to look at the clock for five minutes.
I’m not going to—
1:13 a.m.
Goddammit.
We were supposed to meet here over an hour ago, and Melissa and Robyn still haven’t appeared. It feels like we’ve been waiting for a year. Ignoring Carey’s occasional glares in my direction, I shift on the long leather couch in Melissa and Rusty’s office and let my head hang over the aesthetically pleasing but completely uncomfortable low armrest. From this angle, the open staircase in the corner looks like it’s on the ceiling, and the idea of that—of creating something so counterintuitive and wild—sends a hot burst of adrenaline into my blood.
I look at the clock again. 1:15 a.m.
I groan, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Okay,” I finally admit. “You were right.”
Carey is quiet in response. Knowing she’s worked for the Tripps since long before I came around, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s ever heard those three words together before.
“I’m torn between wanting to get this conversation over with,” Carey finally says from the other side of the room, “and wanting to postpone it forever.”
“Our Netflix meeting is at—”
“Nine,” she interrupts, and I hear the edge of irritation return to her voice. “Trust me, James, it would be impossible to forget.”
It may seem strange that tonight is probably the first time Carey and I have been alone in a room together since I took this job, but it isn’t, really. The Tripps aren’t usually in the same place at the same time unless they’re filming. Which means that Carey and I are rarely in the same place at the same time, either.
I look over at her again. It’s not like there’s a lot more to do while we’re waiting for Melissa to arrive and for the most awkward conversation of the century to begin. My brain was too chaotic earlier to really take her in.
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.
