Page 38 of The Party Plot

“Melody, come on,” Laurel said through gritted teeth. “I’ve got a car waiting. Let’s get you out of here.” He could see her trembling, and it made him want to break something, made him want to peel the grin off of Bonard’s face.

Bonard put an arm around Melody’s shoulders. “She doesn’t need to leave with you. She’s fine right where she is, aren’t you, Mellie?”

“I told you to let her go.” Laurel’s heartbeat was clanging in his head like a tin drum, and the edges of everything seemed to have gotten sharper, Howie Bonard’s face standing out in dramatic relief, the cords of tension starkly defined in Melody’s neck. He felt dizzy and sick, like there was something molten stuck in his throat, trying to get out. He wanted to run. He wanted to reach out and smash through the world as if it were the pane of a window. Laurel licked his lips, mouth dry.

“Why don’t you run along, Laurel?” Howie was still smiling.

Run along. Right, like he always did, leaving Melody by herself. Guilt lurched in his chest, and his eyes felt heavy, like he might cry. His voice cracked as he said, “Why don’t you stop fucking touching her.” He reached out to pull Bonard’s arm off of Melody, and Bonard shrugged him off.

Laurel grabbed for him again, and Bonard put a hand on his chest, shoving him backward. Laurel didn’t really know what happened after that. He had the vague impression of his head knocking back against one of the porch pillars, and then he had a handful of Howie Bonard’s jacket and his fist was raised and all he could see were those shining, overlong teeth, that stupid grin, and Melody was shouting and—

“Laurel! Laurel, Jesus. Calm down. What are you doing?” It was Casey, Casey’s warm hand on his shoulder, and Laurel sank against him before he could think better of it, stomach going soft, relief flooding through him. Melody was clutching Laurel’s arm. His fist was still clenched so tightly that the knuckles hurt, his muscles taut and shaking, but he no longer had a hold of Bonard, who had retreated back against the wall, a look of contempt on his face.

“You’d better learn to control yourself, boy,” he sneered.

“Is everything okay out here?” The front desk clerk at the hotel had come outside. It was Jessica Fuller, née Copeland, daughter of Sarah Ann and a peer of Laurel and Melody’s; she had been in the same graduating class. Laurel felt himself deflate like a crushed paper bag, unable to meet her eyes.

“Fine,” said Howie Bonard. He smoothed the front of his jacket. “They were just leaving.”

“Laurel, come on.” Melody tugged on his arm. Great, now she was the one comfortinghim, her voice soft and reasonable, because Laurel had lost it. Casey was no longer touching him, but Laurel could feel him at his back, feel the cold absence where his hand had been. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” Casey said, echoing Melody. “Come on.”

Laurel saw Howie Bonard notice Casey, eyes narrowing. The smile slid back across his face, and for just a second, Laurel really, really wished he had succeeded in knocking at least one of his teeth out. “Casey, was it? You’re planning that party for Denise? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear how cozy you’ve gotten with her son.”

*

Melody started crying as soon as they got into the car, big, whooping sobs that sounded like they hurt coming out. Her face was pressed into Laurel’s shirtfront, her whole body shuddering. Rain pounded on the roof, the windows, making Laurel feel like they were in a tin can. He murmured platitudes, hand anchored in her wet hair, at once suffocated by her nearness and feeling strangely isolated, watching his pathetic attempts at comfort with a kind of bemused contempt. One-handed, he fumbled for his phone. “Can you take us back to her place? I’ve got the address.”

“Sure.” Casey glanced over his shoulder at the two of them in the backseat. His expression was unreadable, but he was oddly pale. Or maybe it was just the rain on the windshield, washing him out. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” Laurel attempted a laugh. “I think so.”

“I never took you for a fighter.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” Shame flooded Laurel’s stomach as he thought about how stupid he must have looked. Casey would probably want nothing to do with him after all this.

But Casey sounded almost amused when he spoke again. “Did he really just call youboy? Like some Old South Foghorn Leghorn douchebag?”

“Sure did.” Laurel pushed a sodden lock of hair out of his face. “That whole family thinks they’re characters in a Tennesee Williams play.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” Melody groaned, in a waterlogged voice. “I’m sorry, Laurel, I shouldn’t have called—”

“Don’t. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t missed your first phone call—”

She shook her head. “Now I’ve just gotten you into trouble, and your mom will hear, and—”

He sighed. “I don’t really give a shit what my mom hears. I wasn’t letting you go home with him.”

Melody broke away from him to wipe at her face, makeup running down her cheeks. “He’s right about me,” she said, voice cracking. “He always has been. I’m worthless. I should just give up. I’m stupid and crazy and even my own fucking cat hates me and—and—” She began to tear furiously at the velcro straps on the supportive boot on her foot. “And this fucking thing doesn’t help, I—”

“Melody. Melody, come on, sweetie. You need that.”

“Just dump me on the side of the road somewhere, I’m serious. Let me out. I don’t deserve to be here, I—” foot free from the boot, she started scrabbling at the door handle. Laurel grabbed for her hand, panic rising in his chest. They were pulling out onto one of the many bridges that crisscrossed the town, and the little car shuddered on the slick, uneven pavement.

“Hey.” Casey, from the front seat. He still sounded completely calm. Laurel heard the snick of the door lock sliding to. “Melody, right? Stop fucking with my car, please.”

“I—” Melody swallowed, seeming to truly notice him for the first time. She ran a hand through her wet hair. “Casey Bright? What are you even doing here?”

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