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.
She tilts her head, bites her lip, and the gesture sends a shock of heat through me.
My view of her is blocked by Joe as he sits next to me, startling me back into focus.
“Tired of sports?” I ask. For the day and a half we’ve been on the road, with Melissa up front, Joe has spent most of his time in the back; as likable as Rusty generally is, I’m sure the prospect of all-day beers and sports on TV has quickly lost some of its appeal.
Joe looks nervously over to where Melissa has dozed off, and then to Carey, who still doesn’t seem to register that we’re looking at her.
“They’re different than they seem on TV,” he says confidentially.
Mild dread feels like a tiny weight in my abdomen, sinking. Of course I know what he means, but—as much as I hate the role I’ve been given, I should probably chase down his meaning a little. “How so?”
Joe shifts, hesitating. “Nothing specific. They’re just not as … happy as I imagined.”
I close my book and set it on the couch. “It’s the travel,” I explain, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the seat, going for