Page 3

“I might have a problem,” Casey said into the phone.

“Talk to me.” Jamie Riggins had a deep, soothing voice, the voice of a therapist or podcaster, although he was neither of those things. He was a hermit who lived on a houseboat, doing something expensive with cybersecurity, and Casey was probably the only human who heard him talk on a regular basis.

“I guess it’s really more of a situation.” Casey scraped a fingernail along the windowsill, peeling away a flake of paint. These old Southern houses always seemed to be in a state of perpetual decay, a symbiotic relationship with the marshy earth and the ivy and moss and bougainvillea that was at once trying to reclaim them and the only thing keeping them intact. He was upstairs, in a spare room that Denise had said he could use as an office, but there was nothing in here that made it his. Not that there was much that made anything, or any place, his. Casey traveled light, and the only things he really had any attachment to were his rotation of designer outfits, carefully curated by combing through the thrift stores in Beverly Hills. Rich people in Southern California, he’d learned, would throw away anything, even if it still had the tags on it.

Rich people in the actual South, on the other hand, seemed to keep every piece of chintzy crap they could get their hands on. The “office” was crammed with knick-knacks: porcelain figurines, statuettes, a stuffed impala head, a line of aggressively ugly Wedgewood China along the wall. He wondered where Denise had gotten all of it. Had it come with the house, or had she scoured estate sales for the perfect accessories to support her fantasy? When poor people did this, it was called hoarding. But he guessed it was different when you had an estate.

“Come on, man,” Jamie said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Are you in trouble?” Casey heard an edge of concern in Jamie’s voice. He didn’t exactly disapprove of what Casey did; they were both fairly pragmatic souls, which was one of the reasons why they got along so well. But Casey knew he worried from time to time.

“No, everything’s fine. It’s just—” Ooh, he didn’t want to say it. They had been best friends since age eleven, when Casey had moved in with his grandmother and finally started going to public school. He’d been a weird child, with gaps missing in his education and socialization, not really sure how to be a kid at all after so many years traveling around as an accessory to his dad’s various cons. Jamie was his opposite in many ways—skin color, height, introversion—but they’d both always known what it was like to be an outcast. The two of them had bonded in middle school Computer Club, making fan sites and illegally downloading entire discographies when the teacher wasn’t paying attention. Since his awkward preteen years, Casey had gotten much better at constructing palatable personas. Jamie was probably the only one who knew the real him.

Just the same, that didn’t mean Casey told him everything . Especially not the embarrassing shit. He picked at the windowsill more aggressively. Layer upon layer of paint, decades of it. He wondered if he would get lead poisoning.

“I’m going to hang up unless you get less vague.”

“Denise has a son,” Casey said in a rush.

“What, like a little kid?” The concern in Jamie’s voice turned to bemusement.

“No, an adult son. A grown man. Who—who I slept with.” Casey tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had thought it was a good idea to combine Venetian glass light fixtures with all the other chaos in this room. Jesus, pick a theme .

“Okay,” Jamie said slowly. “Good for you, I guess?” Casey couldn’t tell what he was thinking. They didn’t usually talk about sex or relationships. Casey had never known Jamie to date anyone, of any gender, and Casey didn’t exactly date, either. He hadn’t grown into his looks until his twenties, and he’d spent the following years making up for lost time, in a series of casual encounters and no-strings arrangements. Of which Laurel should have just been another, he thought, grinding his teeth.

“It does seem a little stupid, though,” Jamie continued. “Getting involved with her son when you’re—”

“No, I know. It wasn’t on purpose. It was months ago, in Vegas, and I didn’t know he was her son at the time.”

He could feel Jamie shrugging down the line. “So, it’s over. No worries.”

“Yes worries. He’s back in town, and I have to, like, interact with him.”

“How much does he know about you?”

“Nothing,” Casey said quickly. “I mean, we didn’t even exchange names. This is the first time I’ve seen him since then.”

“Then you should be fine, right? Just be your usual charming self. And don’t sleep with him again. I mean, unless you want to? How long is he going to be there?”

Shit. How long was he going to be there?

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” Jamie continued. “Do you like him? Are you worried you’re going to fall for him and ruin all your plans, or something?”

“No, of course not. I just—ow!” A splinter of paint lodged itself under Casey’s nail, and he jerked his hand away from the windowsill. “It’s just inconvenient,” he said, sucking his wounded finger into his mouth.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Was there anything else? I’m headed to Costco to get hot dogs for the babies.”

The babies were a teeming colony of raccoons that lived in the woods adjacent to Jamie’s swamp.

“No, you’re right. I’ll be fine. He’s—” Casey’s throat closed up as he saw a familiar figure down below. He was here , wandering across Denise’s front lawn with that loping, self-assured stride of his. Casey had the urge to bang his head against the window. “You know what? I’ve got to go, too.”

*

Melody’s car had been out in the sun long enough for Laurel to see heat haze shimmering across the dashboard, and he knew that the inside would be a little goldfish bowl of Hell, hotter than the Earth’s molten core. He thought about just leaving it here. If he were Chip, he’d figure out a way to get it impounded, so that she couldn’t drive anymore. But instead here he was, being nice. Picking it up for her.

There was a creepy, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Melody had been under some kind of influence when she’d driven here, or else she’d still been loaded from the night before, and he should really talk to her about it. But no one talked about these sorts of things. Everyone had that uncle who was especially jolly, except when he was ranting about The War (there was only one, down here), or that maiden aunt who had persistent stomach issues and lived on mint juleps and benzos and the occasional finger sandwich. Admitting anything was wrong would just be bad manners.

Sighing, he turned to look at the house. There was movement in one of the upstairs windows, and he wondered if Denise was watching him. God, he really didn’t want to talk to her. But he also didn’t want to bake alive in Melody’s car, or talk to her .

“Laurel!” His mom was waving from the porch, decked out in Lilly Pulitzer as if she had somewhere to be, instead of just lounging around the house all day. “What a surprise. Come in, honey. Come have some tea.”

The thought of ice cubes clinking in a glass, of something cold, made up his mind. The car could wait.

Denise ushered him into her parlor. Jasper, the newlywed dog, was splayed out on the floor as if melting into it. He gave Laurel a look of infinite tragedy as he walked into the room.

The parlor, like all the rooms in the big plantation-style house, was an over-decorated, maximalist nightmare. Laurel remembered the pall of anxiety that had followed him around, living in this house as a kid. The itchy weight of all of the stuff , none of which he was allowed to touch, for fear of breaking it. The walls were covered with glamor shots from his mother’s pageant days and paintings of old white men that he might be related to. He wasn’t even sure who most of them were; one, at least, was his dad’s dad, but Denise had no “people”, as they said here. She’d spent thousands at auctions and antiques markets, building up some kind of provenance.

Laurel sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

And sat back up, heart pounding, as Casey came into the room.

“What, do you live here now?” Laurel blurted.

“Nice to see you too,” Casey said dryly. He was put-together as always, hair slicked back, cream suit free of sweat stains or creases. Like a special edition Party Planner Ken that had just stepped out of its box. Laurel ground his teeth.

“Laurel, don’t be rude. Casey is already hard at work on my next soirée.” Denise sat down, crossing her long legs beneath her tasteful skirt. “Won’t you join us? We’re just about to have some tea.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Casey said, to Laurel’s dismay.

“Mom, I can’t stay long. I’m just picking up Melody’s car.”

Denise let out a theatrical sigh. “Laurel, I really wish you would just cut that girl loose. After all the trouble she’s caused—”

A sour taste rose in the back of Laurel’s throat. “Mom, please.”

“No, someone has got to say it. Oh, thank you, Miss Mina.” There was a clink as Miss Mina, Denise’s maid, set down a pitcher of sweet tea on the coffee table. She was a petite Black woman, and Laurel noticed with a pang that her hair was much more gray than he remembered. He realized he didn’t know how old she was. He didn’t know much about her, and he had never heard her complain, but he’d occasionally caught her casting her eyes to the heavens behind Denise’s back.

Miss Mina smiled at Casey, setting a separate, full glass in front of him. “And unsweet for Mr. Casey.”

“Girl, you know I’m watching my figure.”

Denise giggled. Laurel felt a twinge of disgust. No sugar, no alcohol: how did this guy live? And what figure did he need to watch? Casey was thin, maybe almost too thin, with no muscle tone except what he’d been given by genetics.

That guy’s fake as fuck .

Laurel wondered what Casey was thinking, behind that pleasant, empty expression. He took a gulp of tea, the ice cubes clattering against his teeth, the cold sending a spike of pain through his head.

“I mean it, though,” Denise said, leaning forward to place a hand on his knee. “That Melody girl is an embarrassment. I can’t imagine what her parents think. I see them at church, you know, and they can’t even bear to mention her.” She tossed her long hair over one shoulder. “It’s just bad manners, to go around bad-mouthing her ex-boyfriend like that. They were on and off for years . Surely it can’t have been that terrible, the way she kept going back to him.”

Laurel kind of wanted to dump his glass out all over the stupid, ornate coffee table with its filigreed legs, but he held it to his neck instead, trying to infuse some coolness into his being. “Mom. They started dating when she was sixteen and he was, like, thirty-five. You can’t—”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Girls like that grow up fast. Especially around here.”

He closed his eyes, wanting to sink into the couch.

“And she simply can’t be trusted in public. I can’t even remember how many times she’s embarrassed herself. I mean, what would you say to someone like that, Casey?”

Laurel heard the tinkle of ice, and he opened his eyes to see Casey watching him over the brim of his glass. “I’d say, bless her heart,” Casey remarked, with a little smirk. One of his fingers was bright red at the tip, and Laurel wondered if he had hurt it. He almost hoped he had; it would be a crack in the facade.

“So what’s the next soirée?” he asked with false sweetness, holding Casey’s gaze. “The dog wedding was such a success. I was just looking at the pictures on Instagram.”

Denise clasped her hands together. “Casey’s throwing me a Halloween ball. The first ever in Bonard! It’s sure to be an event to remember.”

“Oh yeah?” Halloween was three months away. Laurel wondered how long it took to plan a ball. His eyes kept being drawn back to Casey’s finger. The phantom taste of Casey’s skin filled his mouth, and he washed it away with another sip of tea.

“We’ve rented out Landry Hall. It’s going to be sensational,” Denise continued. “Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

“Everyone.” Laurel tapped the rim of his glass against his lips. He thought of Melody saying, I just need a chance. “Tell me more,” he said, leaning back. “I absolutely love Halloween.”

*

Casey followed Laurel out onto the porch, into the sizzling skillet of the day. Immediately, he could feel sweat prickle under his collar and beneath his arms. He thought again about getting botox for his armpits. Maybe when the next payment from Denise hit his bank account. He hated the sensation of being sweaty, hated even more when it dried, the film of salt it left behind.

Laurel had licked sweat from the hollow of his throat, once. And somehow at the time it hadn’t made Casey’s skin crawl. Just the opposite, it had—

Oh my God. Fuck this. He had to get a hold of himself.

“So you’re sticking around for a while,” he said, crossing his arms. “I hadn’t realized you’d be here in October.”

“I promise I won’t get in your way.” Laurel smiled. He had Denise’s long-lashed eyes and defined jaw, but his nose was a little large for his face, Casey thought spitefully. “I mean, unless you want me to.”

“Laurel.”

“And I couldn’t possibly miss the ball,” Laurel bulldozed on, waving a hand in the air. “This is my mom’s chance to finally make it in society. She’s lived here for years, but she’s still not in , you know?”

Oh yes, Casey had heard all about this, too. Old money vs. new money, and how much it tortured Denise that she wasn’t accepted as the former, even though she’d once been married to European royalty. It was baffling to him; money was money, and if you weren’t happy about your reputation, you could go and cry about it on your private yacht. But her desperation to be accepted was good. It made her easy to exploit. He didn’t say that, though. He said, “She seems in enough. Everyone loved the dog wedding.”

“You don’t know this place like I do. People still call her ‘Miss Idaho’ behind her back. Or ‘The Baroness,’ but, like, not in a good way.”

Miss Idaho was hilarious. He’d have to remember that. “I don’t see how there could be a not good way—”

“Trust me. If this ball is as big as you say, maybe it’ll be that last piece she needs.”

“So nice of you to care,” Casey said. “I’m sure Denise appreciates your support.”

To his surprise, he felt a little guilty, and pushed it away. There were more important things in the world than Denise Cabot Van Marcke’s reputation in this town, and she would survive with or without the ball. People like her always did.

“That’s me. Chock-full of filial piety.” Another thing Casey disliked about Laurel Van Marcke: he talked like he needed to remind everyone how Ivy League his education had been. That first night, he’d made some reference to French poetry that had been way over Casey’s head.

“Well, we’ll probably see each other occasionally, then,” Casey said, arms still crossed, voice still carefully bland. He didn’t want Laurel here, in his space. He didn’t like his eagerness, or the bright curiosity that was currently in his eyes. “I hope that’s not going to be a problem for you.”

Laurel grinned again, that one tooth catching on his bottom lip. What was it about the imperfections in his face that made it so compelling? “So who’s on the guest list for this thing, anyway? If you need any suggestions—”

Suggestions ? Casey pinched his lips together, trying to keep himself from sneering. That was the last thing he needed. If Laurel turned out to be as much of a micro-manager as his mother, Casey might have to flee town even sooner than he’d planned. “Thanks so much. But I have enough resources here already.”

“Not as many as I do.” Laurel leaned against one of the porch’s columns. “Where are you from, Casey?”

“Florida.” That much was true, although he and his dad had, at times, been all up and down the Eastern Seaboard. If he was from anywhere, it was the backseat of his dad’s classic Chevy, rolling around on sun-baked leather with no seatbelt, a packet of Ho-Hos, and a stack of coloring books, finding comfort in the names of the crayon colors. Fuschia, tangerine, olive.

“Florida, huh? I wouldn’t have expected that. Which part?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The place he associated the most with home, his grandma’s house, had been outside of Jacksonville. The heat was weighing on him, and for a moment it felt too familiar, too knowing , like someone was looking over his shoulder, breathing on his neck. Why had he come back to the South in the first place? There were other places he could have gone too, plenty of rich idiots in every state in the nation.

“I didn’t see any pictures of Florida on your Instagram.” Laurel was looking at him strangely, and Casey felt a cold jolt go through his stomach. There was a spark of intelligence behind the harmless friendliness in Laurel’s eyes, and he didn’t like it.

“No. Not all of us have a palatial family estate to go home to.” The word palatial hardly ever found its way into his vocabulary on its own. Was he copying the way Laurel spoke? Casey had a habit of doing that. Usually it helped him connect with people, but right now, he didn’t want Laurel in his brain.

“Palatial, huh? Honestly, I’d rather be wrestling gators.”

Casey groaned internally. He was distinctly aware of the sweat gathering at his hairline. “I promise you there is no gator wrestling in my past.” That was also true. “And why were you on my Instagram, anyway?”

“I’m curious about you.”

“Don’t be. I thought we agreed nothing happened.”

Laurel shrugged. “Would it be so bad if something had?”

“I don’t know. Should we tell Denise about it?”

Laurel looked away, a muscle twitching in his neck. Just as he had thought: Laurel was hiding things. Denise must not know that he liked men.

“How was Ibiza?” Laurel asked. He pronounced it, obnoxiously, eye-bee-tha , the pink tip of his tongue flicking against his teeth, and for a second, Casey had no idea what he had said, let alone what he was talking about.

“What?”

“Ibiza.” Laurel’s voice was casual, but he was still looking at him a little too intensely. “You were there, what, last year? It’s one of my favorite places. I’m honestly surprised we didn’t run into each other. I’m there super often.”

“Right.”

“There’s this tapas bar called El Pavo , right off the beach. Have you been to it?”

“Yeah,” Casey lied, feeling a line of sweat drip down his cheek. “Great place.”

“I love their sardinas. Have you had it? It’s like a spicy sardine paste on toast.”

“I don’t really eat seafood.” What was happening? Casey had the feeling that the conversation had gotten away from him, and he could see his sense of control floating off into the sky like a stray balloon. “Laurel—”

He persisted. “No? What do you eat?”

After this? Probably a whole box of donuts. He remembered Laurel hand-feeding him peanuts from the mini-bar, remembered sucking the salt off his fingers. He’d licked champagne bubbles off of his chest, too, and—a lot of other things that had seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment. Casey cleared his throat. “I have to get back to work.”

“Sure.” Laurel clapped him on the shoulder, and Casey just barely kept himself from flinching. His hand lingered, a hot, heavy weight that Casey could feel sinking into his skin. “I’ll see you around.”

“You’re not—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way. But we’re bound to run into each other in a town as small as this. Might as well lean into it.” He squeezed his shoulder, then stepped away, and Casey only had a brief moment of relief before Laurel was straightening his bow tie. “Crooked,” he said, with a grin. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Casey’s mouth was too dry to speak. He could feel the veins pulsing in his temples.

“Talk soon,” Laurel said. It sounded like a threat.

Casey’s hands were shaking as he watched Laurel walk across the lawn, and the shaking didn’t subside once the car had pulled away, sun glinting off its windows. He waited until it was out of sight to pull his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it.

He could barely type, and he didn’t even know if his spelling was correct as he Googled, el pavo ibiza —math had been his strong suit in school before he’d dropped out, the orderly reliability of numbers appealing to his brain—but of course, nothing popped up. Not even when he did a larger search for famous tapas bars, or when he examined the street view of businesses along the waterfront.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Casey typed out a text to Jamie. Did you put me in ibiza on my instagram? They’d set several of them up a long time ago, for different purposes, different identities. He remembered joking with Jamie about what a bougie gay party planner’s Instagram would look like. Cocktails Casey didn’t drink, clubs he didn’t go to, places he hadn’t been.

People will believe anything if you have a good enough backstory , he remembered his dad slurring, in the little house that smelled like old newspapers and mothballs and bird shit and was slowly creeping its way down the pitted, overgrown lawn, back into the water. Obviously Casey had gotten complacent, because he’d forgotten parts of his.

A little crescent moon appeared under his text, and the message, Jamie Riggins has notifications silenced.

Of course he did. Maybe if Casey was a hungry raccoon, he’d warrant more of Jamie’s undivided attention.

But Jamie had been right, as always. Casey didn’t like Laurel, and he definitely wasn’t falling for him, but the man was still going to ruin all of his plans.