The Hone-Don't List the sweetest new romcom from the bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners - Christina Lauren Page 0,11
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.
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.”
“You didn’t used to say that,” he says quietly.
“Am I understanding you correctly? I wouldn’t leave when you wanted to, so you thought you’d just take Stephanie for a ride in the editing room instead?”
He sniffs, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“She doesn’t even have believable implants, you imbecile,” Melissa growls, and I shift my attention to Carey, who is sinking lower into her seat, like she’d be happy if it swallowed her entirely.
This is not going down the way I expected. It’s not that I completely bought into the perfect Tripp image—no marriage is all sunshine—but I would never have guessed at this. No sobbing heartbreak, no wailing demand why, no apologies; only an indifferent man and a shrewd business-woman.
“You can’t keep your dick in your pants? Fine. But to screw her at our own wrap party, where anyone could have found you? Where two of our employees did find you?” Melissa shakes her head. “You are so sloppy.” She levels this as if it’s the most damning of criticisms. I suppose in the world of Melissa Tripp, it is. “I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with you! Do you know how hard we’ve worked to get where we are?”
“I know exactly how hard we’ve worked,” Rusty counters. “I’m telling you, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
His wife, her expression icy, asks, “Do what, exactly?”
“The book tour. The damn books. Hell, maybe the show.”
Robyn throws up two shaking hands, immediately placating. “Okay. Whoa. Let’s take a breath. Deep inhale through the nose, out through the—”
A vein appears on Melissa’s otherwise smooth forehead. “Fuck you and your breathing, Robyn, are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I purposefully let my vision blur.
Robyn’s voice wavers. “I’m going to call Ted.”
Ted Cox, producer of Home Sweet Home, is not going to appreciate this call from Robyn at—I glance again at the clock—1:30 a.m.
Robyn puts the phone on speaker so we can all hear it ring. Melissa stands and paces the room, looking very much like she would like to pick up one of the football trophies Rusty insists on keeping and throw it at his head.
An incredibly groggy Ted comes on the phone. “Ted Cox.”
I close my eyes, wincing against the disgust I feel toward anyone who answers their phone with their own name.
“Ted,” Robyn says, “it’s Robyn Matsuka. Listen, I have Melissa and Rusty here in a bit of a crisis. I think we need a little pep talk to get us back on track.”
“We don’t need a fucking pep talk, Ted,” Melissa cries out. “We need someone to throttle this idiot.” She turns on Rusty, eyes wild. “I don’t care who you screw, how much beer you drink, or how many fucking times a day you check your stupid fantasy football team lineup. What pisses me off, Russell, is you got messy. You think the press would ignore a story like this?”
“Sorry,” Ted sleepily cuts in. “What’s going on?”
Melissa ignores him. “Who paid off the reporter that got wind of TJ trashing a hotel room in Vegas?” She waits for Russell to answer this, and the only sound is Ted, across the line, groaning at what he now realizes he’s been dragged into. When the kids get weaponized, the conversation is going nowhere good.
“You did,” Rusty concedes, finally.
“That’s right,” Melissa says, on a roll now. “And who made sure to bury the story of Kelsey getting her stomach pumped after her first frat party?” She doesn’t even wait for him to answer this time. “That’s right. Me. Because both times, you were watching TV, or playing with your tools, and didn’t bother to answer the calls. Do you think if word gets out that you’re sleeping around—that our perfect marriage is a mess—that reporters will hesitate to dig those stories up and throw our kids’ lives into the mix? Can you imagine the glee the media will have breaking the story that, not only