Page 54 of The Party Plot

Melody rolled her eyes. “It’s really not that hard. And it’s surprisingly cathartic to crack a pumpkin open with a meat cleaver. But I get it, you two need your alone time.” She winked. “Give me a call if you ever want a third wheel, though. Casey, Laurel’s never let me meet anyone he’s dated, and I’ve been saving up embarrassing stories foryears.”

18.

Without the Halloween ball hanging over their heads, the slow, sunny start of autumn was full of possibilities. Neither of them had any obligations, so for the next few weeks, they spent almost every day together. Miraculously, Laurel hadn’t gotten tired of him yet; in fact, it seemed like the opposite was true. Laurel couldn’t seem to get enough of him, and Casey felt the same.

Laurel hadn’t been kidding about showing Casey his favorite places. There was a secluded stretch of beach near the condo, perfect for picnicking, and they spent several afternoons there, feet crusted with sand and skin greasy with sunscreen, Laurel’s chest and shoulders getting adorably more freckled. Casey brought pimento cheese and Ritz crackers while Laurel, seemingly unable to not be extravagant, brought prosciutto and brie and premade sushi rolls, and hand-fed Casey pieces of each. One morning, they chartered a boat and toured the tangled skein of tributaries that wove through the coastal marshes, sunlight sparkling on the water like pirate’s gold, the air smelling of saltwater and greenery, pelicans and herons watching as the boat glided past. Casey taught Laurel the names of plants, and his favorite facts about Spanish moss, how it wasn’t moss at all and how it provided a habitat for several types of bats, snakes, and spiders. They spent a weekend in Charleston, walked cobbled streets in the buttery yellow light of late afternoon and sat drinking coffee and people-watching: the wealthy elites who actually lived downtown, the frumpy, overheated tour groups, and the wobbly, roving herds of girls out for bachelorette parties. Laurel’s running commentary was bright and good-natured; Casey’s was significantly more judgy.

On other days, it was enough just to stay inside, Laurel’s head in Casey’s lap and Casey’s fingers tracing lazily through his hair. Laurel made Casey watch all of the musicals and other classic movies of his childhood, and even though Casey found them hopelessly cheesy and would never understand why the characters felt the need to burst into song, he enjoyed seeing the way Laurel’s face lit up and the way he mouthed the lyrics almost unconsciously, buoyed along on the current of some overwhelming emotion. In return, Casey made him watch the ‘80s action movies Grandma Terri had loved and the fantasy and science fiction movies that had been his and Jamie’s bread and butter. All except forThe Neverending Story,that was.Laurel liked horses too much for Casey to ever show him that one.

Melody had tagged along for one movie night, and so had Chip, who was nowhere near as douchey as his name suggested. Casey still wasn’t totally sure how to act around them, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Chip and Melody were friendly, but Casey wondered if they actually liked him. He wanted them to, which was annoying. He didn’t often concern himself with other people’s opinions of him, not unless he could get something out of it. But now, he was less worried about what he could get out of it, and more scared of fucking it up.

Laurel’s friends weren’t the only thing Casey worried about. Eventually, he would have to figure out what he was doing with his life. Get a job, at least. Sometimes he worried that he wouldn’t be able to. He watched Laurel sleep and ran the pad of his thumb over the freckles on his shoulder and wondered how they could possibly work out, how they would navigate finances and living together and all that other nebulous, intimidating couple-y stuff. He worried about finding the right place to settle down. Laurel had a love-hate relationship with Bonard, but his friends were here, and meanwhile, Casey wanted to get out of the South entirely. He worried that the novelty would wear off, that they had too little in common, that he wouldn’t be able to give Laurel the life he was used to.

Mostly, he worried about Denise.

She wouldn’t leave Laurel alone, calling and texting at the worst times. Whenever Laurel pulled out his phone and saw her name on the screen, his shoulders slumped and his eyes got flat, a look of defeat crossing his face. Casey hated to see him that way, especially now, when they were about to do something Laurel had been begging him to try for days.

“Come on, put that away. I already didn’t want to do this, and I’m definitely not bringing Denise along for the ride.” He grabbed for the phone, then cursed as he saw the string of novel-length texts on Laurel’s screen. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Laurel sighed. “She’s written a whole-ass manifesto.”

Despite himself, Casey was curious. “Well, what does it say?”

“Oh my God. The usual.” Laurel’s hair was wind-tousled, his cheeks pink from the sea breeze. He offered Casey a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “After everything she’s done for me, I can’t even bother to answer a call, blah blah blah, people are talking, at least address the rumors, blah blah, I’m selfish, immature, irresponsible, acting out for attention, I have no regard for how my actions impact other people, blah.” His thumb played over the screen. “Oh, here’s a new one. I sabotaged the Halloween Ball by stealingher party planner. It’s a personal insult that I’ve chosen to associate with you. Don’t even think of trying to come to the party.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at the sky. “Should I just tell her we’re fucking? I should just tell her, right?”

“Not right now,” Casey said, bemused. “Not if you don’t want to ruin your whole day.”

Laurel made a face. “I guess you’re right.”

“Besides,” Casey put a hand on his lower back, massaging away some of the tension he felt there. “I’m glad you stole me. Even if I might fall off a horse.” Laurel was wearing the most captivatingly tight pair of riding pants, and Casey let his hand creep lower, giving his ass an affectionate little tap. He was rewarded by genuine laughter, and the clouds hanging over the moment seemed to lift.

“Oh my God. You won’t fall off. I’ll make sure Mr. Petrowski gives you the gentlest old mare. Come on.” Laurel took his hand, pulling him forward, toward the stables at the edge of the gravel parking lot.

During some conversation or other in the last few weeks, Casey had made the mistake of telling Laurel that he had never ridden a horse, and Laurel had latched onto the idea with single-minded focus. His former teacher, he’d explained, owned a stable that offered rides along the beach. It was completely safe for beginners and Casey would absolutely love it and become a horse convert for life and Laurel wouldn’t accept no for an answer.

And now it was actually happening. Casey’s stomach was tight with unease as Mr. Petrowski and Laurel exchanged enthusiastic greetings, but he shook hands and smiled, playing along. The drama teacher was a tall, birdlike man with a sparse head of hair and a full moustache, good-looking in a nerdy way and probably only about fifteen years their senior. Casey remembered meeting him in a coffee shop, what felt like years ago. Pumping him for information about Laurel, then getting roped into a carriage ride. How the tension between him and Laurel had been red-hot and oppressive, how every time he’d glanced across the cab at him, he’d thought involuntarily of the taste of his lips.

He glanced at Laurel now, with the knowledge that he could taste him anytime he wanted, and a warm, lazy fondness bloomed in his chest. Laurel’s face was full of childlike delight, the stress of Denise’s earlier messages seemingly forgotten. As they toured the stables, he greeted the horses by name, reaching through the bars at times to pet a snout or scratch a glossy flank, apparently unafraid of their giant, finger-snapping teeth. Casey kept his distance, brushing hay repeatedly off of his jacket (it was everywhere, suspended in sun beams and filtering down from the rafters).

It wasn’t that he didn’t like horses. They were just big, and seemed like nervous, flighty creatures, and Casey didn’t enjoy things that were unpredictable. He especially didn’t enjoy putting his entire physical person onto something big, flighty, and unpredictable, something that had a mind of its own and might decide to chomp on his leg or buck him off into the ocean.

Mr. Petrowski was rattling off a basic safety lesson about how to use the reins, but the words slipped through Casey’s mind like water through a sieve. He wondered if horses could sense fear, like dogs. The one that had been picked out for him seemed calm enough, if a little unimpressed. Which he probably deserved. She was silver-gray, and pretty, and gave him a bored side-eye as he attempted to climb up onto her back. His palms were sweaty, so much so that he couldn’t get a good grip on the knob-like thing at the front of the saddle (Mr. Petrowski had maybe called it apummel?), and he failed four times at pulling himself up before he was finally able to get his foot into the stirrup and swing his other leg over the horse, and then he was swaying, dizzy and off-balance and aware all of a sudden of being uncomfortablytall, the ground very far away.

Laurel was smiling up at him, apparently still willing to be in the same room—or stable, or whatever—as Casey after that embarrassing performance. He gave him a thumbs-up. “You did it! What do you think?”

“It’s really high up.”

“You’ll get your sea legs,” Mr. Petrowski said, patting the side of the horse. “Mae here will take good care of you. She’s the one we have all the little kids ride.”

Oh, great, that made him feel so much better. Laurel’s horse was chestnut-colored, and had some badass name like Ignatius or Incendio, and Casey was caught between envy and lust, watching the graceful athleticism of Laurel’s body as he climbed up onto its back, his every motion fluid and effortless. He was built for this, more confident in the saddle then he seemed on land. God, he was even cute in the stupid bowling-ball helmet with the chin strap, and the riding pants caressed every single long, muscular line in his thighs and calves. Casey felt a strange wistfulness, watching the relaxed ease of Laurel’s movements, the way he talked to the horse and made clicking sounds with his tongue, directing it to turn and head out of the stables. There was such a chasm of difference between the two of them, and seeing Laurel here, in his element, just rubbed it in.

It was a short walk down a grassy, sloping dune to get to the beach, and Mae seemed to know it by heart, which Casey was grateful for, because he really didn’t know what to do with the reins and was just letting them dangle helplessly from his hands. Laurel led the way, sure and easy. The tide was out, tracks of dried seafoam crisscrossing like lace across the sand. It was a mild day, not too hot, the sky overhead white and overcast and the water calm, stretching sleepily out to the horizon.

Laurel pulled back, waiting for Mae to catch up, and then the two horses were walking side-by-side, leaving deep, lunar hoof prints behind them in the sand. It felt even more unsteady than walking on gravel had, and Casey tensed up, trying not to shift around in the saddle too much. His lower back was tingling, muscles he never had to use twitching in his thighs.

“You doing okay?” Laurel asked. “You kind of have to lean into it. Let yourself move with the horse. It’s all in the hips, really.” His eyes were sparkling, his cheeks flushed, and he looked so joyful that it was impossible to be annoyed, even with the unsolicited advice.

“I’m perfectly good with my hips,” Casey deadpanned. “You know this.”

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