Page 17 of The Party Plot

Casey’s teeth were on edge the whole next day, anticipation needling at his spine. He was sure Laurel would show up. He seemed incapable of not being everywhere Casey was, and the whole speech in the carriage hadn’t deterred him as much as Casey had hoped; in fact, it had seemed to make him more excited and buoyant than ever. Casey shouldn’t have touched him. He shouldn’t have gotten into an enclosed space with him to begin with. The air had been too thick, Laurel’s imperfect smile too arresting, his lips too lush and sweet-looking.

It didn’t matter. Casey refused to let him get into his head. He was so focused onnotthinking about Laurel, in fact, that he lost several hours scrolling through dog costumes without registering a single one, and completely missed what Denise was saying about the entrance to Landry Hall—something involving a red carpet and a flower wall?

“We can get a step and repeat, right, Casey? I want plenty of pictures.”

“What? Oh, absolutely.” He doodled something on his tablet, trying to look like he was taking notes. He knew Denise would never ask to see them. She was convinced that Casey was hanging on her every word. So far he had written,signature cocktail. Jasper: top hat?And part of a grocery list. He needed more ramen packets. And maybe some of those blueberry muffins with the crumble topping. But no, scratch that. He wasn’t going to let Laurel make him stress-eat a bunch of sugar, either.

“And what about chandeliers? I mean, I know they already have some.” Denise scrunched up her face prettily. “But I don’t really like the ones there. Do you think it would be possible to put up replacements, just for the party? I really like the ones with a lot of beading, don’t you?”

Was she insane? “Gorgeous,” Casey said. “Totally.”Yeah. I’ll just pull ten to twelve chandeliers out of my ass.God, no wonder Laurel seemed to think he deserved Casey’s undivided attention. He was just as entitled as his mother. “And what’s our budget for that?” he asked innocently.

“Oh, whatever you think it needs to be is fine,” Denise said, waving a hand in the air. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t,Casey thought, drawing a series of dollar signs in his notes app.

Mercifully, Laurel never appeared. There was no sign of him the next day, either, or the next, and then it was Thursday, which was Casey’s one day to work from home. There wasn’t really any work to do besides replying to emails, making vague, rote promises that he had no plans to keep. He tried to relax, but even soothing five steps of his skincare routine and the familiar background noise of a CSI marathon on the TV (it had been on constantly at his grandma’s, along with the chattering of her birds and the belting voice of Shania Twain) didn’t calm him down. So he paced, and obsessed over every single one of his pores in the mirror, his T-zone feeling dense and sticky as if a dozen zits were building under the skin. Close-up, his face looked too much like his dad’s, especially with the dark roots of his hair starting to grow back in. Casey didn’t like seeing him there, knowing how much they had in common.

Denise hadn’t been worried. Laurel came and went, so maybe he had just lost interest. Or actually taken the hint. Or maybe he was on a days-long bender with that Melody girl. Maybe—

There was a knock on the door, as invasive as if someone were knocking on his actual skull. Casey flinched.

Through the fish-eye lens of the peephole, he saw Laurel, standing on his doorstep with his hands in his pockets and a stupid grin on his face. Of course. Casey should pretend he wasn’t here. The blinds were drawn, and Laurel didn’t know which of the cars outside the apartment complex was his. Did he?

“I know you’re there, Casey. I saw your car outside.”

Well, fuck.

“Come on, open up. We need to talk.”

Casey opened the door a crack, blocking the view into his apartment with his body. He didn’t want Laurel to know what his personal space looked like, much less let him in.

“I called Landry Hall again,” Laurel said. His voice was casual, but there was a jittery edge to his shoulders, and he was practically bouncing on the pads of his feet. Like a kid about to tell a secret, Casey thought. He thought about closing the door in his face.

Instead, he said nothing, watching him.

“It’s funny,” Laurel continued. “They still haven’t gotten the deposit for the ball. And you know, they were kind enough to get me in touch with the caterers and the florist, and the mixologist and the Halloween novelty store that you’re apparently getting props from, and wouldn’t you know it—none of them have seen a speck of money, either.”

Casey’s fingers went cold, and he felt dizzy for a second, spots of light dancing before his eyes. He gripped the edge of the door, stomach roiling. How fragile this whole thing had been. People will believe anything. Except when they don’t.

“Now admittedly, I am not a party planner. But it seems to me that you need to actuallypaythe people you’re enlisting to put together the event. Usually in advance.”

Casey cleared his throat. “Of course I’m going to—”

“And—” Laurel put up a hand, preventing Casey from saying anything. “I did some research on you. I’m guessing most of the nice, rich older ladies you work with don’t know how to do a reverse image search, but I do. Some of those red carpet photos from your Instagram also popped up on the social media of a certain Z-list celebrity in Calabasas. You’d cropped her out, but the source was the same. She’d cropped you out too. Understandably, since her pirate-themed 60th birthday bash fell apart after you skipped town with all of the money.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? It was covered in Page Six. I can see why you wanted to move across the country, Casey Bright. Or Cal Dennis, or whatever your name is.”

Casey guessed he should be horrified. Instead, he almost felt like he’d taken a shot of liquor, a soothing, liquid sense of relief seeping through his veins. He sighed. “It was a stupid theme for a birthday party, anyway. Pirates.”

“There’s not going to be a Halloween ball, is there?” Laurel asked.

Casey stepped away from the door. “You should probably come in.”

6.

Laurel sat down on the faded couch. Casey had the bizarre urge to offer him something to drink, but that was stupid. He would not cater to the person threatening to expose him. If that was even what Laurel was doing. Casey could practically see the thoughts ticking away in his brain as he took in the apartment: the used furniture, the bare walls, the embarrassing pile of empty Lean Cuisine boxes and Diet Coke cans in the recycling bin next to the sink. A characterless place, and an impermanent one. Casey had never intended for anyone else to be in here.

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