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Tall, gorgeous, and only wobbling slightly, Melody Harper stood alone in the middle of the lawn. She wasn’t making a scene at all, but she definitely presented one just by being there, and by wearing some kind of snakeskin mini dress and stilettos in the midst of all the florals and peachy tulle. Laurel found it impossible to look away. Her black hair was miles long, her legs even longer, and there was a yellowing bruise on one of her thighs. She was looking at something on her phone, scrolling so intently that she didn’t even notice Laurel approach, her long nails ticking across the screen. Melody always had great nails, even when she was falling apart. A vape pen was clutched in her other hand like a security blanket.

“Melody, honey,” Laurel said cautiously.

She looked up, just a little flash of the eyes to acknowledge him, and went back to her phone. “Is Howie here? I need to talk to him.”

Laurel put a hand on her arm. “He’s not. Why don’t—”

She shrugged him off, surprisingly strong, her shoulders all bones and tension. “Well, when will he be? This is important, Laurel, I need—”

“Is everything okay here?” It was Chip, and Laurel felt himself break out into a clammy, relieved sweat. He wasn’t in any shape to handle this on his own, not after Casey.

“Chip.” Melody did look up fully now, teeth worrying her lower lip. She’d eaten off all her lipstick, leaving just a thin ring of color around the edges of her mouth, but she was still pretty. Pretty in a striking, unruly way that seemed to make women like his mother automatically dislike her. “I’m sorry I’m late, I—I must have misplaced my invite. I need to see Howie.”

“He’s not here. Melody, you didn’t drive, did you?”

She dismissed the question with a flick of her hand. “I’m fine.”

“ Melody .” Denise was sashaying up, a dazzling smile on her face, and Laurel felt a wave of sickness at the sticky-sweet contempt in his mother’s voice. By all accounts, she’d grown up in some shitty little town in nowhere, Idaho, but she took to the role of Southern dowager bitch like she’d been born for it. He swept a hand over his face, thinking about how nice and cool it was in Belgium, how pretty the flocks of pigeons were when they took to the sky from the trees on his dad’s estate.

“Denise,” said Melody. She chewed her lip some more. “I was just telling Chip how sorry I am to be late. And I—I guess I didn’t get the memo about the dress code.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I just need to—”

“Sweetheart, you look sick,” Denise said, crossing her arms. “The heat must be getting to you. Why don’t you go home and lie down for a while?”

“I will, I just need to talk to Laurel and Chip—”

“I think you should go now .” Denise’s face, though still smiling, was a stone wall. “You really don’t look well.”

“Come on, Melody.” Laurel took her arm, feeling how clammy she was. “I’m wilting too. It would be a good idea to get inside.”

Melody flicked hair out of her face. “Yeah. Fine.”

“We’re taking my car,” Chip said. “Neither of y’all should be driving.”

“It’s fine, Chip, I got here okay.”

“Yeah,” Laurel chimed in, “I can—” he couldn’t; he wasn’t sure why he was backing Melody up. Maybe just because no one else did. He had a flashback to their freshman year of college, Chip almost as wild as the two of them. Stealing street signs, climbing trees, making burnt quesadillas as dawn streamed through the windows and then somehow managing to make it to a class at 9am. In the ensuing years, Chip had managed to turn it around, become a responsible adult, like one was supposed to. He’d even been married for a while, but they didn’t talk about that.

Chip held up his car keys. “I had one drink hours ago. Come on.”

“Laurel,” Denise said as they set off across the lawn, “call me, will you? We need to catch up.”

*

His mom’s best bourbon sloshed around in Laurel’s stomach as Chip took them down lazy country roads, azaleas and pines and oaks shimmering stagnant in the heat haze, moss hanging from the branches like a shroud. The tangled greenery gave way to fields once they got onto Highway 26, farmland and rice paddies and small towns, the occasional church sign or drive-through, the ubiquitous yellow scrabble letters of Waffle House. It was so flat out here, and it made Laurel at once uneasy and hopeful, that sensation that you could drive for miles and miles.

“Isn’t this great?” he asked, though it felt anything but. “The band’s back together.”

Melody let out a weak, “Woooo.”

Chip said nothing, radiating silent disapproval. Of the three of them, he was the only one who hadn’t grown up in town. Maybe that was why he wasn’t stuck in perpetual arrested development. Laurel and Melody’s brand of chaos was becoming less cute now that they were all in their early thirties, he thought, with a sinking sensation.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been threatening all day had finally rolled in like a thunderstorm, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. A road sign for Bonard, SC (“The Sleeping Beauty Beneath the Oaks”) flashed by, and he heard Chip’s blinker go on as he started merging toward the exit.

“Chip, we need to stop at the arch.” Melody was tapping at the back of the driver’s seat. “I have a sharpie in my purse, I’m gonna go fucking deface it.”

“Melody, it’s broad daylight,” Laurel groaned. Not that he hadn’t maybe discreetly pissed on the Bonard arch once or twice upon a drunken night, but this was different. People would see.

“Who gives a shit. No one here likes me anyway.”

Bonard, SC, was a tooth-achingly picturesque town of manicured lawns and tree-lined avenues and gleaming neocolonial facades. Smaller and lesser-known than its cousin, Summerville (the birthplace of sweet tea!), it was a bright little sugary-sweet pastry with a rotten filling. Centuries of dark history lurked under the creamy exterior, and it was named after Howie Bonard’s family: local politicians, civil war generals, good old boys and girls who probably kept one of Robert E. Lee’s fingernails somewhere in their ancestral mansion like the relic of a saint.

Laurel didn’t know how she could stand to live here, with his name stamped all over everything. It must feel like Howie Bonard was looking over her shoulder at every moment, sticking his fingers into her life and muddling it up at a whim.

“I’m taking you both straight to Melody’s,” Chip said.

“We should go out tonight,” Melody said, putting a hand on his arm, but Laurel was fading, his vision going gray and fizzly at the edges. A lyric from an old Crosby, Stills, and Nash song fluttered through his head: It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore . Who had been super into them? Someone from his fraternity, years ago. His thoughts were spinning like a record on a turntable, and he barely remembered getting up the steps to Melody’s townhouse and into the merciful embrace of the AC before his cheek was resting against the plush velvet of her sofa. In his head he saw the dusty moss hanging from the trees, the balloons infesting his mother’s lawn, and Casey’s slim, white-clad figure against the sunlight, and then he passed out.

*

He woke to the sound of purring. Melody’s cat, a beautiful, soot-black animal with sapphires for eyes, was sitting inches from his face, staring into his soul and letting out wave after wave of contented rumbles.

“Oh my God,” Laurel mumbled. His face felt glued to the couch, and his mouth was sticky and tasted like artificial sweetener and something worse.

The cat, apparently content that it had unlocked the inner workings of his psyche, blinked at him once before yawning fish-breath into his face and jumping to the floor with a pleased little meep .

Laurel sat up, rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. It was dusk, muted light coming in through the shades. He could see Melody outside, through the sliding-glass door to her balcony, still in the dress from that morning, her shoulder blades sticking out sharply, a cloud of vapor around her head.

Melody’s apartment was tastefully decorated in what he assumed were beachy colors. It was clean, too, the fast food from last night put away, every surface scrubbed and vacuumed and lint-rolled within an inch of its life. She’d said once that she was a nervous cleaner, and Laurel knew that she would often start the morning with a mimosa or two—or five—and scour away all the chaos of the night previous.

It was sad to picture Melody waking early in the morning, stumbling around, muttering to herself as she scooped the litter box and stuffed takeout containers into the trash. Laurel swallowed. His nose was stuffed up, and the back of his throat still tasted vaguely like chemicals.

God, what was he doing here? He couldn’t fix anything for Melody and he couldn’t make his mom happy. He’d lived most of his adult life as an itinerant wastrel, so no one would be surprised if he just flitted off again. Laurel reached for his phone, meaning to start researching flights, but instead, his thumb landed on the Instagram icon and he was scrolling through pictures of the dog wedding, trying to see if Casey Bright had been tagged.

He had, and his Instagram wasn’t private, and suddenly Laurel was down the rabbit hole.

Casey’s Instagram was sun-soaked and pristine, as carefully curated as the man himself. Here he was at multiple events, posing, his hair slicked back and his expression friendly, unreadable. There he was on the boardwalk at Folly Beach, in pressed linen, the sky behind him scalloped with clouds. Casey at the Atlanta symphony orchestra—did he like music? He must like to travel, at least, because he showed up in New York City, Marseille, Venice, Ibiza. (Nothing from Vegas. Had it not fit the aesthetic?) Casey on a yacht. Casey’s long legs in a beach chair. A photo tagged in downtown Charleston showed his tan, well-manicured, ( skillful , Laurel’s brain whispered), fingers draped around a martini glass, some kind of frozen cocktail with a whimsical garnish. Brunch with the girls , the caption read. What girls? And what brunch, either? Casey didn’t drink much, at least not from what Laurel knew.

No family. No pets. A lot of friends, but none recurring. So, a lot of people that he posed with, maybe, and no one close.

God, where have you been all my life? Laurel remembered groaning into the pillow. He’d been in a particularly compromising position, the silk of his own tie rough around his wrists.

Shh, Casey had said, kissing his spine. You talk too much . And he’d twisted his fingers in a way that had made Laurel forget words even existed.

There was the hiss of the porch door opening, and Laurel nearly threw his phone across the room, face hot.

“You’re awake,” Melody said.

“Yeah. Melody, I don’t think I can go out tonight, I—”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to either.” She’d taken off her makeup at some point, and she looked achingly young. The same face that had been in teen magazines and Deliah’s ads, but harder, now, behind the eyes. “Will you come outside with me?”

He didn’t want to leave the hermetically-sealed capsule of air conditioning inside the condo, but Laurel acquiesced, getting up. His phone was still in his hand, and he stuffed it into his pocket, skin feeling itchy.

Melody’s housing development backed up to marshland, light from the setting sun glimmering on patches of water, choked with grass. It was a pretty location, and Laurel knew she had bought the condo with her own money, whatever she’d managed to keep from her days as a child model. (Whatever her parents hadn’t managed to sponge off of her.) A band of syrupy color lingered on the horizon like the dregs at the bottom of an Aperol spritz. Laurel tapped his fist against the balcony railing while Melody vaped, the day’s events tumbling through his head. He’d flirted too much with Casey, probably made an idiot of himself, and he tried to remember if Casey had seemed charmed, or at least amused. But the whole day was a blur of heat and desperation, and he couldn’t get a handle on it. Laurel ran his tongue over his teeth. The smell of Casey’s cologne haunted his sinuses, something cottony and crisp.

He’d brushed Casey’s arm, reaching into the cabinet. Had he imagined the way Casey had caught his breath, the subtle movement of his throat? Had he—

“You haven’t heard a single thing I said, have you?”

“Shit.” Laurel rubbed the back of his neck, his hand coming away sweaty. Melody had real problems, and here he was waxing melodramatic over some guy he’d met in a casino bar. “Melody, I’m sorry. I’m not at my best right now.”

“It’s alright.” She slumped, resting her chin on her folded arms, hair falling around her like a tent. “I know you’re tired of listening to it. The shit with Howie.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurel said, with a sad kind of inertia. “I just don’t know what can be done.” He didn’t understand why Melody didn’t just leave .

But then, Bonard was a hard place to escape. Laurel himself was evidence of that.

“What? You were the one who told me to come to the party and confront him.”

He looked at her blankly, searching his mind for any recollection of what she was talking about.

“You said it would be my big chance,” Melody explained. “To drag everything out in the open? Get back in everyone’s good graces? You really don’t remember any of this?”

Laurel chewed his lip. Maybe he hadn’t been as with it last night as he’d thought. That was the thing about coke: it made you feel so smart , until you were confronted later with the evidence of your own buffoonery. “I’m not so sure anything I said last night was a great idea, in retrospect.”

“He deserves to see some kind of consequences.” Melody looked at him, her face stubborn.

“He does, but—” but Howie Bonard was teflon. Their disastrous, on-again-off-again relationship had been truly over for six years, but Melody was still living the fallout, while Howie got to just go about his business. Suing him for emotional damages hadn’t done anything. Even a charge for possession a while back hadn’t made a difference; Bonard had gotten off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Laurel sighed. There was a nasty taste in his mouth. “Melody. Don’t you ever think about making a change? Moving away? Maybe focusing on your health a little bit?” Laurel’s stomach felt soft, his words hollow. He really wasn’t built for this sort of thing: confrontation, vendettas, the pursuit of justice.

She scoffed. “Where would I go? I didn’t finish college. I’ve never had a real job, and I’m too old now to model.”

Laurel pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like an asshole. He forgot, sometimes, how different their situations were. Melody came from one of the area’s oldest families, but they were broke, her parents refusing to move out of the decaying old mansion that they couldn’t afford to repair. Anything she had, she’d earned years ago. And she refused to borrow any money from him, despite the many times he’d offered.

“Besides, I’m totally fine. I know you don’t believe it, but I’m not as messy as you think. I pay my taxes on time. I just got a new IUD, before congress can fricking outlaw them. And I take good care of Luna. I brush her and clean her ears every morning.” (Luna, Laurel remembered, was the cat.) “I volunteer at the library and the humane society. My shit is together , Laurel.”

And yet you’re showing up wasted at garden parties, trying to get back at your ex. It wasn’t a nice thought, and Laurel didn’t like himself for having it. Besides, he had apparently goaded her into it. He took a deep breath, saying nothing. A mosquito buzzed in his ear, and he waved it away. They were going to get eaten alive out here if they didn’t go in soon.

“I shouldn’t have to leave. This is my home.”

“Melody, his family owns the damn town.”

“I’m not giving up.” She took another hit off the vape, her hand trembling slightly. Strawberry-scented vapor threaded up into the sky. “I deserve to be here too.”

Laurel put an arm around her, looking out over the marsh, the razor-sharp blades of grass glowing gold in the dying light. Melody leaned into him, her face against his shoulder. “I just need a chance,” she muttered into his shirt. “If people would just accept me again, maybe I could tell my side of the story. Show everyone how far I’ve come, how good I’m doing now.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Eventually, forcing lightness into his voice, he added, “And at least you have your shit together. I don’t.”

“Nobody expects you to,” Melody grumbled.

“Damn. Ouch.”

“I know, I’m a bitch.”

“Nah.” He pressed a kiss to her scalp, the ramrod-straight line of her center part. Melody was always on top of the latest trends. “Just more honest than anyone else around here.” Laurel sighed, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. “And I want your honest opinion, because I did something pretty stupid.”

Melody chuckled. Laurel’s heart felt a little less heavy, hearing it. “Oh God, what now?”

“A few months ago, when I was flying out of Vegas, I met this guy. Had what I would categorize as a particularly epic one-night stand. Um.” Laurel cleared his throat.

“I know. You told me about that—”

“Last night?” Laurel rubbed his temples, shaking his head. Never again, he vowed. His constitution was too weak to partake in illicit substances with Melody anymore. “God, I’m an embarrassment. A menace.”

“It’s fine,” Melody said, patting his arm. “You can tell me again. I don’t remember much, either.”

“Well, I thought I’d never see him again, but…”

“Uh-oh.” He could hear the smile in Melody’s voice. “Was he in Belgium?”

“No, he’s here. He—do you know my mom’s new party planner? Casey?”

Melody pulled away to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Casey Bright?”

“That’s the one.”

“That guy’s fake as fuck, Laurel.”

Laurel’s stomach went cold. “Why would you say that?”

Melody’s jaw tightened. “Because he is. He just showed up in town one day, and suddenly he’s everybody’s best friend. Apparently he worked for some Real Housewife in LA or something. I don’t trust him. He’s always got that phony smile on, but I can tell he’s laughing behind everyone’s back.”

“Huh. I sure didn’t get that impression.” In Vegas, Casey had seemed like the type of person to laugh directly in your face, his contempt simmering right on the surface. It had been almost refreshing.

“Trust me.”

“Melody—”

“I know, I know. I’m probably the worst judge of character there is. But something’s off about him. You should keep your distance.”