Page 47 of The Party Plot

“Denise?” he asked.

“No, it’s Melody. She—“ Laurel groaned as a vaguely suggestive gif about cowboys andridingpopped up on his phone, and then another one, and a third, and agit ‘er donereference. “Man, she must be bored.”

“Is she doing okay?” Casey’s voice was tight. “It must be hard being away from her. I—I assume I’m taking you home?”

“She’s good,” Laurel said. “I think I would never have heard the end of it if I hadn’t come. Our friend Chip is hanging out with her right now, so she’s not alone.”

“Chip.” Casey chuckled slightly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, just these douchey southern names always crack me up.” Casey shrugged. “Sorry to your friend. I’m sure he’s perfectly nice.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t love it. If you ask him, he’ll say his parents wanted him to have the most American-sounding name they could think of. They’re from Colombia. Actually,” Laurel’s frantic brain seized on the idea of names, jumped down the rabbit hole after it. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Your real one? I heard Jamie calling you CJ.”

Casey made a face.

“Come on. It can’t be worse than mine. My middle name is Gustaaf.”

“No it’s not.”

“Deadass.” Laurel crossed his heart.

Casey sighed. “It’s Charles Jefferson Walker. And I hate it, so don’t—“

“Oh, come on. That’s not bad at all. Very presidential.” But it didn’t fit him, not really. Laurel couldn’t imagine whispering it in bed, or writing it on a birthday present, or giving Charles Jefferson Walker a goodnight kiss.

Casey shot him a withering look, but it didn’t do anything to silence him. Laurel was invested now, and the intimate little capsule of the car seemed like the perfect place to unpeel all of Casey’s layers. It was cozy in here, inches away from each other, the rain pounding on the roof overhead, the noise of the storm and the inky darkness of the night making it seem like they were the only two people in existence.

“Tell me something else about you,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rain, which was only getting stronger. A tornado siren was going off somewhere nearby, eerie and insistent. “All I know is that you like flowers. And that your grandma had birds.”

“And I know that you’re good at singing. And have basically no gag reflex,” Casey said, with a hint of a smile.

Laurel felt heat flooding his face, but he persisted. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Hm.” Casey tapped his fingers against the wheel. “There are too many. I like teal. And mint green. And burnt orange. What about you?”

“Out of the ones I can see? Blue, I guess.”

“Bo-ring,” Casey intoned, but he was smiling.

Laurel smiled back. “I wish I knew what burnt orange looked like.”

“Huh.” Casey frowned. “I don’t know how to describe it. I guess it’s a warm color. It makes me think of campfires and Fall.”

“What about the other two?”

“Teal makes me think of the beach. And mint green makes me think of, like, retro furniture and rotary phones.”

Laurel leaned back in the seat. “I still have no idea what any of them look like. But I love hearing you talk about them.”

Casey snorted. “Well, I did my best. Actually, I feel kind of bad. It must suck not to be able to see all the colors.”

“It’s okay. You can’t miss what you’ve never had, right?”

Casey was silent for a moment, staring out at the path the wipers made across the windshield. A sign flashed by in their periphery, almost too overgrown with vines to be seen. They were approaching the limits of some city, or town, a cluster of lights dotting the night up ahead. Casey slowed as a collection of shabby buildings came into view, battered by the rain. Streetlights washed across the asphalt, showing that it was already slick with about an inch of standing water.

“I always hated these crappy little towns,” Casey said, as the countryside bled into suburbia, more lights appearing, housing developments and churches and the familiar signs of Walmart and Chick-fil-A floating overhead in the darkness like UFOs. “I feel like I’ve been in a thousand of them.” He flicked on his blinker, following signs for the highway. “Last chance, by the way. Let me know if you don’t want to head north.” Was Laurel mistaken, or was there something a little wistful in his voice? “We could go anywhere. Wherever you want.”

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