Page 20

The word festooned came to mind as soon as they stepped into the ballroom, and it didn’t leave. Laurel knew that Halloween colors were black and orange, so he assumed that was the color that was everywhere, even though orange often looked pretty greenish to him. Landry Hall was covered in it, garlands draped along the molding and dripping down the walls, giant bouquets of sunflowers and daisies and corn cobs and autumn leaves wobbling on the tables, dwarfing the seafood towers Denise had demanded, which looked pretty gruesome after several hours of sitting out. There were pumpkins, too, clustered around the edges of the room and piled against the far wall, gauzy patches of fake spider web clinging to them. Laurel’s mom had never been afraid of doing too much, as evidenced by the interior of her house, so there were also a plethora of Halloween props: scarecrows in the corners and along the walls, bats hanging from the ceiling, a mummy holding a tray of programs, a witch propping up the cocktail menu, plastic skulls and rubber rats scattered along the tables.

“Oh my God, it’s absolutely tragic,” Casey muttered.

“It’s definitely a lot,” Melody agreed.

They had come in through the service entrance (Casey had remembered the key code) and up the backstairs into the ballroom, and they were lurking on the periphery of the room, next to one of the tables of appetizers. Laurel knew from the schedule that Casey had spent hours poring over that they had missed cocktail hour and the seated dinner, and now the party was supposed to be in full swing. But the dance floor was less than full, and the jazz band (at least it wasn’t a string quartet this time) didn’t seem to be inspiring people to get out and cut a rug. Laurel saw a few couples out shuffling around awkwardly. Jessica Fuller was some sort of sexy tiger, and her husband wore safari clothes and a pith helmet (problematic?). Wayon Bonard and his third wife were dressed as George and Martha Washington, if Martha Washington shopped at Frederick’s of Hollywood. Apparently they didn’t care about his little brother’s arrest, or didn’t find it embarrassing enough to skip the party. Birdie Callaway, costume unclear, was out there dancing by herself, a glass of punch in each hand, seeming to be the only one actually having any fun.

The rest of the guests were mostly seated, or milling around aimlessly with cocktails in their hands or taking selfies with the decorations. He recognized almost everyone: his lacrosse coach, his polo coach, many of his former teachers (Ms. Nelson and Mr. Petrowski hadn’t made the cut— I wonder why , Laurel thought sarcastically). Lavinia Bonard was at one of the tables, not in costume (was it beneath her?), holding court with a gaggle of church ladies and school board moms. Melody’s parents weren’t there, which was a small mercy. He knew from working on the guest list that they had been invited, but they were the kind of religious where Halloween bordered on sacrilege. The rest of the Callaways also weren’t in attendance, probably not wanting to face Lavinia Bonard after Lydia’s accusations had gone public. Jasper lay under one of the tables, sleepily chewing on part of a ham that he must have stolen off one of the carving boards. Denise’s friend Meredith, dressed as a ladybug, had brought her lhasa apso, Peaches, also dressed as a ladybug, and was crouched down, trying to get a photo of her posed on a stack of pumpkins.

Laurel didn’t see Denise at first, but then he did, as the sparse population on the dance floor milled around and shifted. She was dancing with Sarah Ann Copeland’s oldest son, Roland, her brown hair piled into Holly Golightly’s iconic bouffant hairdo, her tiara slightly askew.

His stomach dropped, and, despite all of his fantasies of confronting her, Laurel felt the sudden urge to turn and run back out the emergency exit and down the stairs. He fumbled blindly at one of the plates of appetizers, finding a meatball skewer and taking a big bite.

Melody put a hand on his arm, showing him her phone. “It’s already been five minutes. You’ve got ten left.”

Laurel swallowed, hardly tasting the food. Maybe they should actually just leave. They’d satisfied themselves that the party was worth missing and the decorations were terrible, and there was really no one there he wanted to spend time with. “Yeah. I think—I think I’m good.”

“I’m not.” Casey flicked contemptuously at a rubbery piece of shrimp dangling from one of the seafood towers. “I want to see the flower wall.”

“What, just to see how bad it is?” He had to admit, he liked Casey’s spiteful side.

“Exactly.” Casey peered across the room. “It should be just inside the front entrance, unless she changed the layout around, too.”

“No, you’re right.” Some of the foolhardy sense of chaos that had gripped him on the lawn was returning, and Laurel squared his shoulders. “We should take a selfie with it, for posterity. I just wonder if we can get over there without getting trapped in a conversation with any—”

The screech of microphone feedback cut him off. Laurel winced, and Jasper, from under the table, let out a short, howling bark in protest. Denise was climbing up the steps to the stage, and Laurel’s stomach sank as he heard her clear her throat into the microphone. He recognized that sound from years of parties past. It meant she was about to make an announcement, and even though she didn’t know he was there, couldn’t possibly be about to bring him up to sing, he could feel sweat prickling at his hairline and acid rising in his throat.

The band had stopped playing, the hum of conversation in the room growing quiet.

“Hello, everyone!” Denise’s voice rang out across the ballroom. It was her beauty-queen voice, breathy and girlish, her accent thicker than usual. Laurel realized he had inched closer to Casey, as if he could hide behind him. The last time he’d seen his mother face-to-face had been in this same ballroom, and all of a sudden, Laurel felt unfathomably tired.

“It is my absolute pleasure to welcome y’all to the first-annual Bonard Halloween Ball.” Denise was smiling out over the crowd, but she didn’t seem to have noticed the three of them. Of course not. This was her moment, after all, and there was no room for anyone else. “And gosh, what a ball it’s turned out to be! When I tell y’all I did not think I would be standing here, well.” She let out a laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “As many of you know, we faced quite a few trials and tribulations pulling this event together. But the night is finally here, and it’s everything I dreamed of!”

A few polite claps from the captive audience. “Jesus, is she accepting an Oscar?” Casey muttered under his breath. Laurel squeezed his hand gratefully.

“Now, I’ve prepared a little surprise in honor of all you fabulous people here,” Denise continued. “A long time ago, I was blessed enough to win Miss Idaho. Yes.” She nodded, hand still on her heart, as if to absorb everyone’s admiration. “And believe it or not, my talent was singing. So the band and I have thrown together a little number…”

The familiar tune of Moon River started up, and Laurel couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Man, she was really going for it. Had he been this embarrassing at karaoke? He sure hoped not.

Melody pointedly checked her phone as Denise launched into her best Audrey Hepburn impression. Laurel chewed on another cardboard-tasting meatball. Denise sounded good, but the song wasn’t exactly a banger, and people were starting to get restless. Casey mimed taking a nap. Laurel was contemplating whether his mom had any critical thinking skills, and if she had ever bothered to read the actual book, because he was pretty sure Holly Golightly wasn’t supposed to be an aspirational character, and—

“Melody! Melody Harper, is that you?” someone exclaimed from across the room.

Birdie Callaway was bustling toward them, dance floor forgotten. Laurel felt sweat pooling on his lower back as several of the other guests looked their way, whispering. He groaned. It had only been a matter of time. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, Laurel’s chestplate shining under the lights and Melody covered in gold beading and glittery silk.

“Oh, and Laurel!” Birdie exclaimed, pulling him into a hug before he could do anything to stop it. Her cheeks were shiny, dark plums, and she bore a lingering aroma of sherry. Pulling back to look at him, she smiled sweetly, lipstick on her teeth. “My goodness, look at you. So handsome. And is that Casey? Well, well. Hail Caesar! What a magnificent trio y’all make. Oh, to be young and beautiful!” She put a hand on her heart.

“Thanks so much, Birdie,” Laurel said, trying to extricate himself. “We actually—”

“And Melody, Queen of the Nile herself!” Birdie fixed her wobbly gaze on Melody, grabbing her hand. “Sweetheart, you’re a vision. And—and you look so healthy. And, gosh, you know, I really do owe you an apology. It’s—difficult, you know. To believe certain things until they happen to someone close to you. But I should have believed you all along.”

“Oh, Birdie.” Melody looked like she might cry, and she was squeezing Birdie’s hand just as hard as Birdie was squeezing hers, and for a moment, Laurel forgot about Denise, who was still singing, but louder now, as if to cover up the chatter that had started to rise.

But only for a moment.

“Excuse me.” Denise tapped the microphone with one nail. “Is there something—“ Her mouth snapped shut like a steel trap. She had seen them now, and she was glaring directly at Laurel. The buzz and crackle of the microphone stretched out across the room.

A chill went down his spine, and he felt his stomach shrivel up, but there was nowhere to go, because now Denise was down on the ballroom floor, cutting her way through the crowd.

“Laurel.” His mother’s voice, whip-sharp and cold. Her hand was on his arm, nails digging in. The band seemed to have stopped playing, but he wasn’t entirely sure, because his ears felt full of cotton, even the hammer of his pulse sounding muffled. For a moment, he was small again. She was dragging him out of the cupboard he’d hid in on his birthday. She was parading him around at church, the collar of his shirt stiff and starchy at his neck. She was telling him to sing, hissing in his ear, don’t you dare ruin this for me .

“Mom,” he said, mouth dry.

“How dare you. I told you you weren’t welcome. And why did you bring him ?” She narrowed her eyes, looking at Casey.

“He’s here as my date.” It was a relief to say it.

A murmur rippled across the room, and Birdie clapped her hands, saying, “Oh, bless you both!” Laurel felt the weight of many eyes, and he forced himself to breathe, bracing himself for Denise’s reaction.

But it hardly seemed to register for her. “Don’t joke, Laurel, it’s not funny. I don’t know what’s gotten into you or why you’re determined to sabotage my party, but you need to leave. All of you.” Denise crossed her arms, looking at him, then at Melody. “Have you been drinking?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Have you?” It was weird how calm he felt, or maybe numb was a better word, a buzzing sound in his head, his fingertips tingling. Laurel was vaguely aware of the rustle of Casey’s toga as he moved closer, putting a hand on Laurel’s back. A solid, grounding spot of warmth in the chaos. “We really are dating,” he added, leaning into him.

“No you’re not. You’re just acting out again. Trying to embarrass me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve being treated this way. Casey, I really thought you were better than this. And Laurel, we are done . No more handouts, no more beach house, no more inviting you to stay just so you and your little friends can go out on the town and make fools of yourselves every night.” Denise sighed theatrically, smoothing her hair.

“Fine,” Laurel said. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure.” He’d miss the beach house. Or at least the kitchen. But most of his money came from his dad.

“My God, the things I have to put up with!” Denise started to make herself cry, one perfect, mascara-stained tear trickling down her face. “I just don’t understand how you can be so ungrateful.”

“Hon, it’s okay.” Meredith had emerged from the crowd, rubbing Denise’s shoulder. She shot Laurel a dirty look. He could only imagine what stories Denise had told her.

Laurel didn’t say anything. A small part of him was squirming, wanting to go to his mom, to hug her and apologize and start the whole cycle of guilt all over. But Casey’s hand on his back reminded him that he didn’t have to, not this time.

“It’s not!” Denise shrieked. “I want them out ! Both of you, before I call security. And she can’t be here, either,” she added, pointing at Melody. “I have a very exclusive guest list, and there are people on it who would not like to be in the same room as her, let alone be harassed —”

“No one’s harassing anyone except you,” Casey said, his voice flat.

“Don’t you dare speak to me,” Denise hissed. “Don’t say a damn word.” She pulled out her phone, stabbing at the screen with one finger. “Security will be here in a moment, so unless you want to get dragged out, I suggest you all—”

“Son of a bitch,” someone said, loud enough to echo across the room.

“Oh, for fucksake,” Melody groaned. “I should have known.” Birdie rubbed her arm sympathetically.

Howie Bonard had evidently just gotten back from the bathroom, judging from how he was wiping his nose, his eyeballs jittery, jaw working to chew some invisible wad of gum. He was dressed as late-stage Elvis, in a rhinestone-studded suit, and he’d used some kind of black spray dye on his hair that was beginning to ooze down his temples in runnels of sweat. He looked insane, like he was melting from the inside out. As Laurel watched, he clenched his fists, face contorting into a mask of rage.

“You dumb little whore.” Howie was stalking across the room, people ducking out of his way. The party had already ground to a halt, but now even the hum of background conversation faded away. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. “What, did you show up to gloat? I was in a jail cell for ten fucking hours yesterday, you bitch.”

“Laurel. Let’s go.” Melody tugged at his arm, her eyes ringed in white. She was scared, and so, Laurel realized, was he. This must be the side of Howie Bonard that only she had seen, all the slimy, superficial charm burnt away.

Lavinia Bonard stood up from her chair, back ramrod-straight. “Howie, sit down,” she said quietly. “Don’t make a scene.”

“It’s not fair, mom!” he bellowed, gesturing to Melody. “She and her little sissy-ass friends have had it out for me for years. They’re behind all those bullshit charges, I know it.”

“We will settle it in court.” Lavinia Bonard’s teeth were gritted, one hand squeezing the life out of her napkin.

For a moment, Howie looked cowed, and Laurel thought maybe he would actually listen to his mother, and they could leave in peace. Wayon was making his way toward his brother, hands out to intercept him. But before he got there, Howie caught sight of Laurel’s expression, and something seemed to break loose in him.

“You. What the fuck are you smiling about?”

Had he been smiling? He guessed he had, and now he felt immensely stupid for that moment of amusement, because Howie was charging at him, and time seemed to slow down, the room all smearing together into a mess of garlands and novelty decorations and Howie Bonard’s fist and his crazed eyes, the pupils like scribbly circles of jet-black ink—

And he had the faintest impression of movement in front of him, a white sheet of fabric flashing across his vision, and then Casey was falling back into his arms and the table was giving way beneath their weight, canapés and meatball skewers and cocktail shrimp whizzing off in all directions. Laurel’s skull hit the marble floor, stars bursting behind his eyes. His ribs creaked; he was getting crushed. Casey was on top of him, and Howie was on top of Casey, and something crunched and there was a spray of wet warmth across Laurel’s face, and then he heard Howie grunt as Casey shoved him away, rolling to the side.

Laurel sat up, vision bleary. There was blood on his face, he realized, but it wasn’t his, and assorted seafood plastered to his dented chestplate, and he regained his senses just in time to see Casey on the ground on top of Bonard, his mouth and chin a mask of blood, a handful of Howie’s hair in one hand and his fist drawn back and—

Laurel was about to yell for him to stop, or to jump in, or something, but then the security guards were there, separating the two men, pulling both of them to their feet with their hands behind their backs.

People were shouting. A few of them had their phones up, recording the whole spectacle. Denise was sobbing. Jasper was baying. The Lhasa apso was letting off a staccato stream of yap-yap-yaps. Laurel rose to his feet, a little unsteady.

Lavinia and Wayon Bonard had already converged on Howie, trying to get the guards to let him go.

“He didn’t do anything. It was that guy in the toga, you saw it, he was going to—“

“Get them out , get them all out of here!” Denise wailed.

“Self-defense,” that was Casey, sounding a little stuffy but otherwise crisp and in control. “My nose is probably broken. And you’d better fucking believe I’m going to press charges.”

Laurel rushed to his side. “Babe. You okay? Jesus, what happened, did you jump in front of me? You didn’t need to. I could have—“

“I’m fine. I wanted to.” To the guard, he said, “I’m done. I’m not fighting. You can let me go. He’s the problem.” He nodded toward Howie Bonard, who definitely wasn’t helping his own case. He was thrashing around, teeth bared, scraping the bottom of his vocabulary to call Melody, Laurel, and Casey every slur he could think of.

“Yeah, ok.” The guard gave Howie a look, seeming to agree. “Be good.” He released Casey, who collapsed into Laurel’s arms, wobbling slightly. He was shaking. Laurel kissed his forehead, then pulled back to look at his face.

“It’s super bloody,” he said, examining his nose. “But it doesn’t look broken.”

“How do you know?”

“I played polo, remember? And lacrosse.”

“God.” Casey grinned, blood on his teeth. He looked fierce and beautiful and a little bit terrifying. “So fucking preppy.”

“Your toga’s wrecked, though. There’s blood all over it, and whatever that black crap was that Howie had in his hair.”

“I know.” Casey held up a hand, showing Laurel his palm. It was covered in what looked like shoe polish. “Guess we can’t repeat Halloween costumes next year.”

Dimly, Laurel heard Lavinia Bonard’s voice in the background, dripping with silky contempt. “Well Denise, this has certainly been an interesting evening—Howie. Howie, control yourself. Think of your brother’s campaign.”

“Lavinia, it wasn’t my fault. I swear they weren’t invited—“

Lavinia cut Denise off. “Oh, I know, dear. It’s just that I put in a good word for you with my party planner. I trusted you to have some discretion, what with Howie’s recent—difficulties. I understand, of course, with your background, you’re obviously not used to hosting large events. But I always make sure to have very strict security. It’s unfortunate that yours wasn’t up to par.”

“Lavinia, please. I’ll send them away, and then we can get all get back to—“

“Oh no, Denise. I think the party is most definitely over. I’ll pray for you, you know. And for your son.”

Laurel’s stomach lurched, and he felt the hair stand up on the nape of the neck. Lavinia Bonard’s offer of prayers was as harsh as a kick in the teeth, and he could feel her eyes boring into him. He didn’t turn to look.

Denise was still protesting somewhere in the background. Melody put a timid hand on his back. “Oh my God. Are you two okay?” She was trembling, arms tense, the beads on her costume rattling.

“I think so.” He gave Casey one last squeeze before letting him go. Birdie Callaway, who’d been hovering nearby with a handkerchief and a glass of liquid in her hands, immediately swooped in. Taking a hold of Casey’s chin, she began to clean him off without asking, like an overzealous mother cat.

“This might sting. I couldn’t find any water but I think this is someone’s gin and tonic.”

“Birdie.” Casey pushed her hand away. “Please. I don’t want gin and tonic germs all over my face.”

Laurel looked over Casey’s shoulder as Birdie continued to fuss over him. He was nearly blinded by camera flashes. Everyone had their phones out now. It had definitely turned into a night to remember, though not in the way Denise would have wanted. Howie was getting led out of the ballroom, his mom and brother on either side, the security guards at his back. Off to the side, Denise was sobbing to Meredith, face flushed, mascara streaks down her face. Meredith looked a little green. As Laurel watched, she stumbled off, apologizing.

“Sorry. It’s the blood. Or maybe something in the shrimp.”

He didn’t look away quickly enough, and Denise caught his eye. “And you’re just over here laughing about it!” she hissed.

Laurel shrugged. It kind of was funny, except for Casey’s nose. Meredith was now throwing up into a vase. Laurel saw Mary Devereux cover her mouth and gag in sympathy, then rush out of the room. Jasper and Peaches, meanwhile, had descended upon the table of spilled hors d’oeuvres and looked to be having the absolute best time of anyone there. There were black smudges of Howie’s hair dye all over the hundred-plus-year-old hardwoods, and a plastic skull from one of the toppled tables had rolled into the middle of the ballroom, stranded there on its own. Alas, poor Yorick , his brain suggested, and Laurel tried again not to giggle.

“Mom,” he said.

“My own son. I thought I raised you better.” Denise wiped her nose. “Is it really true?” she asked, lower lip wobbling. “Are you—? And with the party planner, of all people? Does your father know?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms. “And yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? You know I would have supported you. I mean, if you’d found someone suitable. I’m very progressive, Laurel. I’m insulted that you wouldn’t trust me with this information.”

Someone suitable . She just had to get one last dig in. “Mom.” He sighed. “You know, you just never gave me a reason to.”

He turned away before she could answer, putting a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “Hey. Let’s get you out of here.”

Casey smiled at him, then winced. “Ooh. Yeah. Adrenaline’s wearing off. I think I need to sit down for a second.”

Laurel glanced at Melody. “You coming?”

She smiled and reached out, wiping something off his cheek. “I’m ok. Birdie’s driver is taking me home, apparently.”

“Get home safe. I’d hug you, but I’d get blood and shrimp all over your dress.”

Denise was saying something else, something aimed at Casey this time, but Laurel didn’t listen, leading him out of the ballroom, through the vestibule and into the front entryway, where there were benches. A photo station had been set up, with a (he assumed) red carpet rolled out in front of a wall of sunflowers and daisies, crammed together petal-to-petal, their powdery pollen smell filling up the room.

“Huh,” Casey said, sitting down. He was cradling his head, and Laurel worried that he would be in more pain as the time passed. “I guess it’s not as hideous as I thought it would be.”

“We should get you to a doctor.”

Casey let out a sniffly laugh. “What, because I don’t hate the flower wall?”

“No, because you got punched in the face and bled everywhere. You might have a concussion.”

“Sure. Later.” Casey waved a hand in the air. “First we need to call the police. I was serious about pressing charges. He assaulted me and tried to assault you. And also,” he added slyly, “I think it would be hilarious if he got arrested twice in twenty-four hours.”

“Oh my God,” Laurel said. “I love you.”

Casey looked up at him with a dazed little smile. “Oh. I love you, too. But I thought we were saving that for Venice.”

Laurel’s breath caught, a galaxy of stars bursting to life inside him, lighting him up, and he desperately wanted to kiss Casey then, but he was worried about bumping his nose, so he settled for stroking his cheek, instead, smoothing his hand over Casey’s face and down his neck, and tracing a thumb along his collarbone.

“I guess I couldn’t wait,” he murmured.

“Well, good,” Casey said. “I didn’t want to either.”

“Venice does sound nice, though,” Laurel sitting down next to him and taking his hand. Casey leaned against his shoulder, cautiously. “Or just, anywhere that’s not here. I feel like we might not exactly be welcome in town, after this all blows over.”

“Fine with me. Where will we go?”

Laurel shrugged, not really caring as long as Casey was with him. “Anywhere. Spain. England. Canada. Wherever you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Want to open a flower shop and have lots of hot working-class sex?”

Casey raised Laurel’s hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. “Sounds perfect.”

Epilogue: Four Months Later

It was the most romantic day of the year, and Casey was spending it with sore wrists, cramped fingers, and scratches all over his hands. He guessed it came with the territory, though; florists didn’t really get to enjoy Valentine’s Day, just like bartenders probably hated New Year’s Eve and retail workers dreaded Black Friday. It still felt a little strange to think of himself as a florist, and sometimes he wasn’t quite sure he deserved it. He was working out of their apartment for now, until a brick-and-mortar location opened up in the right neighborhood. The kitchen counter was covered in petals and leaves, and there were stray pieces of wire and tape scattered all over the floor. He would have to clean the house before Laurel came home, make himself presentable. Laurel had said they would celebrate for real tomorrow, and knowing him, he had probably planned something elaborate. Still, Casey was hoping for a little bit of romance on the actual holiday. He felt like he deserved it, after all the hours of arranging stems in vases and trimming leaves and handwriting sappy messages on cards and getting poked in the fingers.

Really, though, he couldn’t complain, despite the soreness in his hands. Rain was pattering down outside, the sky gray and overcast, and the little kitchenette was quiet and cozy. Peaceful. Laurel didn’t like the dreary weather, but Casey kind of did—although maybe it was just the novelty of it. Everything about Vancouver still had an air of novelty; they’d only been here three months, after Casey had finally gotten his passport. He liked the city so far. It was vibrant and busy, all sleek skyscrapers and glittering water, the North Shore Mountains at its back. There hadn’t been much time to explore, but they were slowly getting out on weekends, trying new restaurants and visiting cafes and museums. They had gone to Banff with Melody and Chip for Christmas, although none of them skied, and the snow had been magical, the soaring, icy peaks like nothing he had ever seen before.

It was nice to have Melody close. Chip had stayed in Charleston, where he had a successful practice and, apparently, a mysterious new older girlfriend who was an accomplished lawyer herself. Melody had finally gotten out of town, though. She’d sold her condo, and she and her cat had ended up just over the border, in Washington State. She was taking community college classes and doing a lot of yoga, and she’d gotten really into CBD tinctures and pottery. It sounded a little woo-woo, but it seemed to work for her. At the very least, it was better than being in Bonard. Even though Howie was currently in prison awaiting multiple trials, his family wasn’t, and they blamed Melody and apparently Casey for everything. After Casey had pressed charges, Howie had been drug tested, and the results had led to a search of his personal effects, including his car. Now he was facing charges for possession and assault on top of enticing a minor. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Casey thought, stabbing a rose stem into a vase with a pleased little smile. The scandal had cost Wayon Bonard his congressional campaign and deeply embarrassed the family, and Lavinia Bonard seemed to hold him personally responsible for it. (Which maybe he was, a little bit. No regrets.) Denise was also furious at Casey for turning her son against her, and furious at both of them for ruining her party. She had even texted Laurel blaming him for the food poisoning several people had gotten from eating warm, hours-old seafood. That had been the final push he’d needed to block her number.

The change of scenery had been good for them both so far. Casey’s business was growing, and Laurel had picked up a part-time job as a vocal coach. He didn’t really need to work, since he still had a trust fund from his dad, but it kept him busy doing something he loved. Plus, it got him out of the house when Casey was working. They were still getting used to living together. Casey loved waking up tangled in Laurel’s arms, loved brushing his hair back from his forehead and kissing him awake, loved hearing him sing in the shower every morning. He didn’t necessarily love having Laurel breathe down his neck while he was putting together floral arrangements—though he had to admit, all of his questions about flower varieties were oddly charming. And sooner or later, one of them would have to learn how to cook. Living off of takeout was too bougie for Casey’s tastes, and he had gained fifteen pounds (fifteen pounds!) since getting together with Laurel. Apparently that was what happened when your boyfriend reminded you to eat dinner. And bought you cheesecake and chocolate truffles and gelato all the time. Laurel said the weight looked good on him. His therapist said that his need to have control over his weight and his skin stemmed from his wounded inner child. Which was also a little woo-woo, but maybe kind of true. He was working on it. Along with some other things.

Casey’s work phone was ringing, and he groaned internally, expecting another last-minute bouquet order. People really needed to get better at planning things in advance. Forcing pleasantness into his voice, he answered, “You’ve reached Sunny’s Flowers.” (Somehow Laurel had talked him into naming the business after his childhood horse.) “How can I help you today?”

“Hey, I’m calling because I need some advice about what to get my boyfriend for Valentine’s Day.”

Casey felt his face break into a grin. It was Laurel, and apparently he was up to something. “Hmm,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Well, if I were him, I would probably want a nice dinner and a blow job.”

“Oh, well that’s a given. But I wanted to do something special. He’s been working really hard lately, and I want to show him how proud I am. And this is our first Valentine’s Day together, so I want it to be unforgettable.”

Casey’s heart clenched, and he felt warmth bloom in his chest. It was so strange, and so lovely, to have someone be proud of him. He still wasn’t always sure how to respond when Laurel said something sweet and genuine, so he settled for humor, saying, “I don’t know. Your blow jobs are pretty unforgettable.”

Laurel laughed. “What about a trip? Do you think he’d like a trip somewhere?”

“A trip where? Laurel, what are you up to?” There was the sound of keys jingling at the front door, and then Laurel was coming into the apartment, his hair rain-soaked, his eyes bright, phone still to his ear.

“I don’t know,” he said, hanging up. “Maybe Belgium?”

Casey crossed his arms. “ That’s my present? Meeting your dad?”

“Not just that. We could go to Bruges. See a bunch of castles. Do a chocolate tour. Ride horses again…” Laurel shrugged, a hopeful smile on his face.

“Horses again? Whose Valentine’s Day present is this?”

“I did mention the chocolate tour, right? And there are waffles.”

Really, Casey couldn’t even pretend to be irritated. He would do anything, go anywhere, for this man. And anyway, staying at an estate in the Belgian countryside wouldn’t exactly be a chore. Neither would meeting his dad. They had already said hi over FaceTime, but they’d barely been able to understand each other. It would be good to see him in person, to get to know more about where Laurel had come from, and what had shaped the man he was. Casey was still learning about him, and he was greedy for every piece of knowledge he could get. And chocolate and waffles didn’t sound too bad, either.

“I think I’d like that,” Casey said honestly.

“Really?” Laurel was gazing at him, and Casey was surprised to see that his eyes were slightly wet.

“Really.” Crossing the room, he pulled him into an embrace, kissing a raindrop off the tip of his nose. It still felt surreal that he was allowed to do that, that Laurel was his. He thought about the hotel bar in Las Vegas, Laurel sliding into the seat next to him, unwelcome, annoyingly beautiful, his smile bright and slightly devious. “You know, less than a year ago, you were begging me to ruin your life.”

“I was not begging,” Laurel said against his shoulder. He pulled back, studying Casey’s face, and there was a hint of that same deviousness in his expression. “It was really more of a challenge.”

“Huh.” Casey raised an eyebrow. “Well, challenge accepted, I guess. Because now you’re stuck with me.”

“That’s okay. You’re not ruining it. You’re just making it better.”

“Oh my God.” Casey groaned, rolling his eyes, but secretly he was a little pleased.

“Sorry,” Laurel said, looking anything but. “Too sentimental?”

“Just sentimental enough.” He kissed his forehead, and then his nose again, just for good measure. Just because he could. “Now seriously, where are you taking me for dinner?”