Start Reading #2
It was Mac who helped with all the paperwork so that Barney didn’t get involved with any of the non-romantic stuff, just like it was Mac’s avatar on her screen, his virtual mouth opening and closing as if it were really him saying the words I’m so sorry, Honey.
He should have gone old school for a message like that.
Death is old school. Death deserves a real face on your screen, but perhaps it was appropriate because Barney would have done the same.
What’s the difference, Honey? It’s my face. It’s my voice. It’s my words. It’s me!
It made sense that Mac told her Barney was dead.
He’s been there from the beginning. She met Mac on the same night she met Barney.
Mac pointed at Honey. You, yes you, you need to meet my friend.
She was flattered when she should have been insulted.
Pointing in her face like that, so rude, so sexist, but the kind of girl who balked at that kind of treatment would not have been the kind of girl for Barney.
Mac even came on their honeymoon.
“He did not come on our honeymoon,” Barney would protest. “He was just passing through Paris that one night, and you enjoyed that dinner.” She did enjoy the dinner.
A handsome man on either side of her in a bistro, leaning in to light her breadstick.
She was pretending to smoke her breadstick because it seemed Parisian, and she was so excited, and they went along with the game, and they both wanted to go to bed with her, although only Barney did, but if he’d asked if Mac could join them that night, she would have said yes because she was so enthralled by Barney, hypnotized by him, she said yes to everything he asked, and she was intoxicated by that sensation of submission, along with the sensation of power, because he was a puppet on her string too.
She only had to move a certain way—lean down, look up, bend her head—to make him respond.
She’ll never be so in her body again. Perhaps it’s just the nature of a honeymoon. She feels the clawed fingers of grief coming for her.
She says to the driver, “I just think you should follow your instincts. That’s all. It’s not really any of my business.”
“Oh, but I totally appreciate the advice of an older woman!” says the driver.
It’s funny to hear herself described as an “older woman.” As if she has wisdom to offer anyone.
Honey tips back her head against the car seat. Feels the sun on her face.
“I might just close my eyes if that’s OK.” She puts on her sunglasses.
“Absolutely,” says the young woman. “And help yourself to the water and mints if you like.”
“I will,” says Honey. “Sorry. I’ve got a big day ahead of me.” Stop apologizing. She is no longer a people pleaser.
“It’s just a little coding error,” Barney used to tell her, his hand on her face.
Another tech joke. “I will debug you of that, my darling. No more apologizing.” She didn’t get to debug him of any faults because he said his former wives had already pointed out all his faults and he’d rectified them.
I’m bug-free, baby, he said. You got the latest version.
State of the art. Naked and wet out of the shower, playing air guitar, putting his whole body into it, pelvis tipped, head back, one arm windmilling.
So silly so sexy so easy to love. He won first place in an air guitar competition in college, before he dropped out. He was proud of his air guitar skills.
The driver says, “I just have to say, if you’ve got a big day ahead of you, you should know you look amazing.”
Honey smiles without opening her eyes. She knows she looks amazing. “Thank you.”
She’s wearing a cocktail dress with a crystal-embellished neckline and draped sleeves.
A messy chignon. Barney’s favorite hairstyle for her.
It takes a lot of time to look like you just got out of bed.
He won’t get to pull out the pins tonight.
Smudgy rock-star eye makeup. Right on the edge of too much.
You want to give the idea of a hangover without looking like you truly are hungover. It’s an art. A lost art.
“Are you a model? You actually seem . . . maybe a little familiar?”
Honey opens her eyes and stares at the purple starlit sky above her.
“No,” she says after a moment. “I’m not a model. Not tall enough.”
“Well, but you’re . . . stunning. Sorry! No more talking. I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“That’s OK,” says Honey. It seems they are talking.
“Do you mind me asking what application you use for your makeup?”
“I do it myself,” says Honey. “I used to be a makeup artist.”
“Oh right,” says the girl. “I guess it takes a really long time?”
“Yes,” says Honey. “But I like it. It’s like you with the driving. I like the control.”
“I get it,” says the girl. She turns her head, and Honey looks at her contouring.
It’s fine. Perfectly fine. But there is something flat about AI makeup.
No personality. No artistry. She knows exactly how she would shadow and illuminate this girl’s features, but so what?
It would take at least an hour, and AI does it in minutes.
“Anyway! Sorry! Please rest!” The girl gives her cheek a little slap. “Quiet, Taylor!”
Honey says, “My mother’s name was Taylor.”
The girl beams. “After that old-timey singer, right?”
“That’s right,” says Honey. She takes off her sunglasses. “What were some examples of this guy’s controlling behavior?”
Taylor considers Honey’s question as she drives. “Well. Here’s an example. He told me that his preferred relationship style was monogamy.”
Honey waits, and when it is clear that Taylor has nothing more to add, she says, “Do you not like monogamy?”
“Oh, no, I love monogamy!” says Taylor. “It’s totally the best of all the relationship styles, but he never asked me what I liked!
For all he knew I preferred an open relationship, polyamory, ethical nonmonogamy, whatever!
It was just like: This is what I like, so this is what’s happening! So controlling!”
“I see,” says Honey. “Well that’s . . .” She is at a loss.
Her phone vibrates like a rattlesnake. She sees the name Luisa Long and ignores it.
Luisa Long messaged Honey ten minutes after Mac gave her the news of Barney’s death. When you feel ready, Honey, will you please give me a call to arrange a time to discuss the funeral, I’m so very sorry for your loss, we are all devastated.
When Honey eventually called, Luisa Long said she would be happy to take into account Honey’s wishes for the funeral, along with the wishes of all the other family members, of course.
Honey said she had no preferences. She understood this was not a funeral for an ordinary suburban husband.
She would stand and sit where she was told.
Luisa Long didn’t sound devastated, but surely she must be.
Back in the famous “garden shed” days when the “Genius Teens,” best friends in high school, started their fledgling business, Luisa Long was the little girl who lived next door to Barney.
She used to bring the boys snacks while they worked.
She tidied their shed. Eventually she took care of all their administration.
She made herself so useful she eventually became indispensable.
Honey was already married to Barney before she fully understood the degree to which Luisa Long managed every aspect of Barney’s and Mac’s lives. She’s rarely referred to as Luisa. Always her full name: Luisa Long. It’s just one of those names.
Luisa Long doesn’t like Honey. Barney always said not to take it personally because Luisa Long doesn’t like anyone.
She’s not a people person, although she is a person.
Honey had at first been convinced she was a bot, and Barney had laughed and said Luisa’s efficiency was certainly inhuman and that it was funny she should say that because they’d been modeling some new productivity-based technology—but then he’d been distracted by Honey’s cleavage.
He said Honey’s cleavage was one of the natural wonders of the world.
It is natural. Once she’d been feeding the baby and watching garbage on her tablet, and she’d seen footage of an aesthetic engineer analyzing photos of celebrities and been amazed to see her own face pop up on the screen.
The aesthetic engineer had reeled off all the “work” he could tell she’d had done.
He spoke with such confidence and authority about Honey Beckett’s “breast augmentation” that Honey had almost begun to doubt herself.
The whole segment felt more truthful than the truth.
She’d looked down at her baby, suckling on her purple-veined, swollen breast.
“I’m pretty sure I never augmented,” she said.
River spat out her nipple, turned his head to look at her, milk trickling all over rosy cheeks. He gave her a stern look. He never smiled when he was feeding. It was serious business.
“Sorry,” she’d said.
She’d left River at the beach house with the nanny.
He is no longer breastfeeding, but he’s only a toddler, too young for a funeral like this.
Barney’s mother had messaged Honey to ask if River could salute his daddy’s casket like John F.
Kennedy Jr. had done when the president was assassinated.
It would make an iconic image. Honey would just need to ensure River was dressed appropriately.
Honey ignored the message, the way her mother-in-law had ignored her for the last ten years.
Honey had told Luisa Long she would make her own way to the funeral, but Luisa Long had taken no notice; presumably she thought Honey was crazed with grief or had suffered temporary amnesia.
It was a throwback to the early days when Honey didn’t understand the machinations of her new world and kept saying she would “make her own way” somewhere, not realizing that cars, planes, helicopters, and superyachts would funnel her from destination to destination like a bubble-wrapped fragile gift.