Page 46 of The Party Plot

“Yeah, but they don’t always come out. If the weather’s bad, or something spooks them, they’ll wait until I leave. But I’ve got a trail cam set up, so I can watch them.” Jamie stepped back, hands on his hips. “They might not come out tonight. They can always tell when a storm is coming.”

A light breeze had sprung up, tickling the back of Laurel’s neck, and he looked reflectively up at the sky. Piles of dark, dramatic clouds indicated that Tropical Storm Cindy was on its way, but he wasn’t sure how many hours out it was. He hadn’t really spared a thought for the weather, getting down here. Now he realized how stagnant the air felt, the humidity pressing down on them. Laurel wondered if they’d be able to outrun the storm, or if they would have to find somewhere to shelter. Either way, he wasn’t sure he minded, as long as Casey was with him.

He slid his hand into Casey’s, squeezing gently. Casey squeezed back.

They waited in silence as darkness settled over the swamp, the air thick and syrupy, full of the sounds of crickets and frogs. Casey’s thumb was making small circles on his palm, and every cell in Laurel’s body leaned into the touch like a cat being petted. He was so lost in the sensation, soothed by Casey’s nearness and the cozy little pocket of the night, that he almost started to nod off—he hadn’t really slept well the previous night—but then Casey’s fingers tightened around his, startling him.

“What—”

“Shh,” Casey whispered. “Look.”

A furry, amorphous shape was shuffling out of the trees, its eyes flashing neon in the beam of Jamie’s flashlight. As Laurel watched, the shape resolved itself into an absolute unit of a raccoon, ears back, nose snuffling eagerly along the ground. Another one followed, and then a third and a fourth, slowly approaching the troughs of food with hesitant, bobbing movements. He almost let out a delighted peal of laughter, because they were just soround, their bodies fluffy marshmallows, their snouts outstretched, glossy fur rippling, nostrils working earnestly as they sniffed out the food. Laurel had a primal, almost visceral need to give them a big squeeze and bury his face in their fur, and his fingers twitched.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to Casey. “I love them so much.”

“They’re pretty great. There’s usually more of them. I think they’re hiding from the storm.” Casey pressed a kiss to his temple, and Laurel’s breath caught in his throat at how easy and natural it had been.

There was an altercation as two of the raccoons reached the hot dogs at the same time, colliding like two fluffy mack trucks in a brief show of growling and teeth, but then all seemed to be forgiven as they each found their respective handfuls of food. Laurel watched as they skittered back and forth between the food and the water, dunking their spoils to wash them off, then shoving soggy grapes and hotdogs and cat food pellets into their mouths in a chorus of chomping and wet smacking noises. They were surprisinglyloud, the sounds of their chewing and snuffling and chittering overpowering the noise of the insects and the whisper of the wind. Every so often, one would raise its nose and sniff in the direction of the three humans, eyes bright and intelligent. In general, though, they seemed more preoccupied with eating than they were worried about being watched.

It felt like a gift, something Laurel would hold close to his heart, and he knew that years from now, whatever happened, he would remember this moment. The steady pressure of Casey’s hand in his and the hushed sounds of the night, the mossy, verdant smell of the swamp and the way the raccoons’ noses flexed, the white gleam of their wicked teeth and the clutching fingers on their creepy little hands. The simple happiness of watching these wild creatures exist, of feeling like a wild creature himself, out under the stormy sky with the air sticking to his skin and mud between his toes, unfettered, no one asking anything of him except to be there.

Eventually it began to sprinkle, and there was a purplish flash of lighting overhead. A corresponding rumble of thunder sounded from far away. The raccoons, seeming to sense the change in the weather, shoveled down a last few handfuls of food before retreating back into the trees, the round shapes of their bodies growing less and less distinct until they finally faded into the shadows and out of sight.

Part of Laurel wanted to stay there. Casey’s hand had slipped out of his and was now around his waist, and he was leaning against Casey’s shoulder, cheek pressed to the rough cotton of his sweatshirt. He could hear his heartbeat, the slow rhythm of his breaths.

“Okey dokey, folks, the raccoon buffet is officially closed!” Jamie bellowed, clapping his hands, and Laurel startled, nearly losing his balance. “Everybody out. Time to go.”

“Jesus, J,” Casey said, rolling his eyes. He massaged Laurel’s shoulder, adding, “Sorry. Subtlety isn’t one of his strengths.”

“You two need to get on the road,” Jamie told them, crossing his arms. “I don’t have enough space for three people in the houseboat. Laurel, it was lovely to meet you. I still don’t know you very well, but it seems like you and CJ have a special connection, and I’m rooting for you. But I will not be hosting your passionate reunion, so you have to get going. No offense.”

“We’ll go, we’ll go.” Casey sighed. He looked at Laurel, and Laurel felt a little shiver of—nerves, or anticipation, at the thought of being alone with him. What would they talk about? Did they need to talk at all? They still hardly knew each other, and suddenly his heart was pounding, all the easy familiarity of the previous moments replaced by a creeping sense of awkwardness.

“You want me to drive?”

Laurel swallowed. “Please? I’m exhausted.”

“Be safe,” Jamie said. “Storm’s almost here.”

“Yeah.” Casey gave Jamie a hug, clapping him on the back. It was incongruous and also sweet, seeing him be affectionate with someone. “You too. You’ll be okay out here?”

“Oh, sure.” Jamie shrugged. “I’ve got a generator and tons of food.”

“Jamie.” Laurel chewed his lip, wanting to say something but not sure of the right words.He needs someone to wake him up, Jamie had written, when Laurel had messaged him on Instagram. But really, Laurel had been the one sleepwalking. He felt wide awake now, despite his fatigue, nerves tingling, pulse beating a tattoo in his throat. Maybe it was the ozone in the air, or the gathering pressure of the storm, but he felt morealivethan he had in a long time, aware of the blood rushing through his veins, his tongue swiping across his teeth. “Thank you,” he said finally.

15.

There was a pregnant silence in the car, punctuated only by the sound of the rain, which was pouring down, clattering against the windshield like pebbles. Laurel studied Casey as he steered them along pitch-black country roads, the only light the gleam of the dashboard and the occasional strip of reflective tape on a mailbox or a shot-up deer crossing sign. The odd shyness that had come over him at the swap hadn’t dissipated, and Laurel felt jittery and desperate, literally wringing his hands, trying to think of something to say.

The buzz of his phone saved him.

Melody:any luck?

Laurel wrote back,yeah, with him now.

Melody sent back a string of hearts and sparkles and eyeball emojis and lipstick kisses.

Laurel leaned back in the seat, sighing. Casey glanced at him.

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