Page 7

Laurel had insisted on driving, but he didn’t look great. His face was a little greenish as he slumped over the wheel of the Land Rover, and there was razor burn on his neck, as if he’d shaved hastily. He reeked of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille, which was aggressively cloying and didn’t go well on his skin. He’d probably just bought it because it was expensive.

“Rough night?” Casey asked. Outside, the bland, regimented neighborhoods and strip malls of suburbia were giving way to countryside, the sandy soil steaming as the day got hotter. Marshy inlets and glittering stretches of cordgrass turned into tangled greenery as they drove further inland, clapboard buildings and church signs with missing letters fighting against stands of bald cypress and tupelo. He had almost missed how ungovernable the landscape was in this part of the country, missed all of the plants whose names he had learned from that battered old seed catalog in his grandmother’s house. Missed how the heat and humidity seeped into the muscles and gave everything an almost luxurious air of lethargy.

“You could say that.” Laurel ran his tongue across his teeth. The hair at his temples was damp with sweat. “I don’t know what possessed me to drink half a bottle of Midori. It was the only thing left at the beach condo and I thought it might help me sleep.”

Casey didn’t know liquor names well enough to know what he was talking about. Whatever it was, it hadn’t treated Laurel nicely, and Casey felt a little bloom of pleasure that he was driving him to drink, causing him sleepless nights. It was what he deserved.

“I slept like a baby,” Casey said, though he hadn’t. Several times, he’d gotten up and started packing, throwing his clothes into garbage bags in a panic. But it wasn’t worth it. After paying all the deposits—after Laurel had made him pay all of the deposits—his funds were depleted, and he didn’t have nearly enough to justify running. Casey had used an ice mask on his swollen under-eye area, so hopefully his own rough night wasn’t too noticeable. “I was dreaming of all the money I’m going to make.”

“Yeah, great,” Laurel said. “Glad to be of service.” He flicked on the turn signal. The sign for Abernathy Farms loomed large on the side of the road, advertising u-pick blueberries, fresh peaches, and a petting zoo. Casey had bought flowers from them wholesale for the dog wedding. It had been cheaper than hiring a florist, and he had liked putting the arrangements together himself. Like many nerdy kids in the early aughts, he and Jamie had gone through a Japan phase. Only one thing had really stuck with Casey to this day: ikebana , the art of flower arrangement. The word itself held a kind of elegance for him, a quiet sense of order. Casey liked the idea of it: treating a bouquet like a sculpture, the tactile sensation of flower stems between his fingers, the way you could build balance out of chaos by adding a bloom here or subtracting a leaf there. The symmetry of lines and the importance of negative space.

In fact, if there was anything good about Laurel’s idiotic idea to actually go through with the Halloween ball, it was that Casey already had the flowers planned. None of the tacky orange and black arrangements Denise had sent him from Pinterest would work, of course. It was going to be largely monochromatic, elegant and overwhelming and just a little bit eerie, black dahlias and black calla lilies and creeping trails of morning glory and jasmine to add contrast. Maybe some amaranthus for a bloody pop of crimson. He was so caught up in imagining how he’d drape the pillars and arches of Landry Hall in vines, making the whole event space look like some haunted castle half-reclaimed by the forest, that he didn’t notice for a moment that they had parked.

Laurel was staring at him. “Are we just going to sit in the car?”

Casey shook his head, annoyance cracking through him like a whip. He had almost forgotten that this whole thing was Laurel’s production now. His ideas for the flowers hardly mattered. Again, he thought about cutting his losses, leaving town. Gritting his teeth, he opened the car door and got out.

The air was full of the sweetness of fresh berries and corn, the green, earthy smell of the Lowcountry and an underlying barnyard odor from the petting zoo. Somewhere nearby, kids—human or goat or both—were yelling. A giant open-air barn had been turned into a fruit and vegetable market, lines of produce gleaming bright as Christmas ornaments in the sunshine. There were hay bales and scarecrows set up along the main path, and the fields behind the barn stretched off into the distance in rows of green. Casey shaded his eyes, looking down the drive. Alice and Gary Abernathy, the owners of the farm, were headed their way on a golf cart, gravel popping under the tires.

“Casey,” Alice called, her long box braids piled on top of her head, a visor shielding her eyes from the sun. “We’re glad to see you, honey. You had us worried you were going with someone else for the flowers.”

“No, no.” He waved a hand in the air, keeping his voice level. Tension lingered in his shoulders, the knowledge of Laurel at his back. “There was just a little confusion with the deposits, that’s all. But we’re ready to go now. And Laurel is helping me. You know Denise’s son?”

Gary, a potbellied white man with a face ruddy from years of sun, shook Laurel’s hand with eagerness. “Laurel, good to see you, man. It’s been years. Are you still singing?”

Laurel massaged the back of his neck, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “In the shower, maybe.”

“That’s a shame. You had a voice for the stage, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, no, I still kill it at karaoke, don’t worry.”

They all laughed, the Abernathys and Laurel, and Casey felt like he had just bitten into something sour. It was so easy for Laurel. He’d slid back into everyone’s lives like a missing puzzle piece, jostling Casey to the side. “I’d like to see that,” he said sweetly, fixing Laurel with a glare hotter than the sun bouncing off the windshield of the golf cart. “You doing karaoke. I’m sure it’s an unforgettable experience.”

Laurel’s smile widened. “Stick around. You might get lucky.”

Gary slapped the back seat of the golf cart. “Load ‘er up, boys. We’ll take y’all out to the flower fields.” He jumped up front next to Alice, and Casey resigned himself to being stuck next to Laurel on the shiny, sun-baked vinyl. As they wedged themselves in, thighs touching, Gary turned, handing a red solo cup to Laurel and then another one to Casey. “A little refreshment for the drive,” he explained. “It’s our fresh peach cider. We make it on-site.”

The liquid in the cup was bubbly and vaguely sour-smelling, so Casey knew it had alcohol in it. He took a small sip. It was sweet, and sweet things were always dangerous. Intoxicants, even more so. He’d seen his dad stumble around zombie-like on various cocktails of pills enough times to know that addiction ran in his blood. Casey wondered if the cider would help him relax, or just make him feel weird and disassociated. It was always a toss-up between hating how it made him feel and liking it way too much.

“It’s hard cider,” Laurel said unnecessarily, and Casey barely kept from sneering at him.

“I know that.”

“I’ll drink it if you don’t want to.”

Casey handed him the cup wordlessly, not offering any thanks.

*

A headache was percolating behind Laurel’s eyes, and he wanted to blame the heat and all the flower pollen, but it was probably the Midori, and the peach cider on top of it, candy-sweet, making the backs of his molars ache. Either that or all the cologne he’d put on in a fit of panic that morning. He didn’t really like it; it had smelled different in Heathrow, or else the whole airport had just reeked so strongly of the Burberry store that he’d been nose blind and had bought it sight unseen—scent unsmelled?

He dragged a hand over his face. His thoughts were especially imbecilic today, chittering around in his head. He looked down at his hands, clasped around the now-empty solo cups that he had stacked inside of each other. Casey’s thigh was glued to his, clammy heat building where their bodies touched. Laurel could feel every single rattle and vibration of the seat as the golf cart puttered around the farm.

“... and black calla lilies for a kind of alien-planet-feel,” Casey was saying. He’d been talking to Alice for the last half-hour, rattling off plant names that Laurel had never heard of.

“Love it,” Alice said.

“We’ll need a lot of tree branches, too. The creepier the better.”

“We can definitely do that. I think some of the flowers we’ll have to outsource.”

“Most folks around here just want sunflowers and hay bales for fall,” Gary agreed.

“But Casey has a vision ,” Alice said, flashing him a smile over her shoulder.

He did, Laurel, thought, sneaking a glance at him. Casey’s face was almost serene, and he looked perfect as always, not a hair out of place. He smelled nice, too, and not like a cigar store had exploded all over him. There were little birds embroidered on his shirt. Laurel envied their closeness to his skin. He thought of the apartment the night before, seeing Casey undone, the way the waist of his worn-out sweatpants had clung to his hip bones.

What was going on Casey’s head? His dark eyes sparkled as he spoke, his artistic hands making shapes in the air. Was it an act? No one would memorize that many types of flowers just for a scam. So then, did he actually like event planning? Laurel searched his expression for some sign of contempt, for an indication that he was secretly judging the Abernathys, their folksiness, the goats and the scarecrows and the chintzy hand-painted murals on either side of the barn (one said Life’s a Peach ; the other said, Keep Calm and Berry On ). But maybe Laurel was the snob, because here he was picking apart this charming little slice of Americana while Casey seemed to be having a blast.

“You’re good at this,” he said finally, when the consultation was over, the timeline finalized and a tentative budget set. They were sitting in the car, hot leather seats baking against Laurel’s back and legs, and he couldn’t help saying it. The thought had been heavy on his tongue for the last half of the visit.

The look of quiet contentment dropped off Casey’s face as quickly as a curtain falling. “I think you should let me drive.”

“I’m not even buzzed,” Laurel said, though his brain felt a little wobbly. He was unsettled, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the alcohol. He probably should let Casey drive. If only so he wouldn’t feel like a hypocrite for worrying about Melody behind the wheel. But he didn’t want Casey touching his car; it felt too intimate somehow. The Land Rover had been in storage for months, and he’d missed it, and the open Lowcountry roads. He didn’t get to drive a lot in Europe.

He turned the key in the ignition. “I mean it. You’re good at this. I don’t know why you don’t just do it as a real job. Being a party planner could be super lucrative.”

“Being a party planner is bullshit.” Casey twisted the dial on the AC all the way up, and Laurel felt annoyance needling at his spine. “Being at someone’s beck and call all the time. Existing just to make sure someone else has a perfect experience.”

Laurel bit his lip. “I get it.”

“You don’t. Have you ever had to send back an entire cupcake tower because the royal purple icing didn’t look royal enough? Or taken a poodle to get fitted for a Swarovski crystal-encrusted eyepatch?”

He shrugged, trying for humor. “I bet you could write a hell of a memoir.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “It’s not a funny story. It’s being treated like an accessory. It’s seeing absolutely disgusting amounts of money change hands and knowing all of it is going towards the stupidest shit, when you don’t even have dental insurance.”

Laurel looked out at the road. “Well, what are you going to do with your disgusting amount of money when this is over?”

“I don’t know.” Casey was messing with the window control, opening it a crack and then rolling it back up. Laurel pressed the child lock button. Casey flung himself back into the seat, scowling.

A red, white, and blue sign for Wayon Bonard, “The People’s Congressman,” whizzed by in Laurel’s periphery. It was an eyesore, taking up half the sky, Wayon Bonard’s piggy little eyes boring into him. He grimaced, the sour feeling in his stomach getting stronger.

“So why are you really doing this?” Casey asked.

“What?”

“It doesn’t even seem like you like your mom that much. So why are you insisting on going through with this ball, instead of just turning me in? Got something to prove?”

Laurel wasn’t sure he should tell him. He wasn’t sure he even knew, himself. He was probably just being stupid and had, once again, thrown himself headfirst into something without thinking about the consequences. He pressed his lips together, fiddling with the air conditioning.

“Is it just for the pleasure of my company?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Laurel’s hands tightened on the wheel. He was going a little too fast for the rutted gravel road, the car shuddering around them. “Regardless of how much I do or don’t like her, I don’t want to see her humiliated.” That much was true, at least. Theoretically. Maybe-probably.

“Huh. Well, I guess as long as you’re paying me, it doesn’t matter.” Casey leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.

“That’s right, it doesn’t.”

An electronic ringing noise filled the car as Laurel’s bluetooth sparked to life. Denise’s name flashed across the screen, and he groaned. He didn’t want to talk to her. But he also didn’t want Casey in his head, digging up the past, questioning his reasoning. Laurel’s collar felt hot, irritation weighing him down. He didn’t like feeling this way, like all the varnish had been sanded off his emotions.

“Mom,” he said, his thumb pressing too hard against the answer icon. He forced a smile into his voice. “Hi.”

“Laurel, honey.” Denise’s voice came blaring out of the speaker. “Are you out at the Abernathy farm? Sarah Ann Copeland said she saw you there with Casey.”

God, there was no privacy in this town. Laurel pinched the bridge of his nose, headache thudding dully against his skull. “Yeah, mom. He, uh.” Suddenly Laurel couldn’t think of a good reason why he’d be spending time with Casey.

“Laurel offered to give me a ride,” Casey said, his voice smooth as butter. “My car is in the shop. But I don’t think he’s going to develop an interest in floral arrangements anytime soon.”

Denise laughed, and Laurel shot Casey a look, not sure whether to be grateful or perturbed. He’d changed registers so easily, like shrugging on a new jacket.

“Casey, sweetheart!” Denise sounded delighted to hear his voice. Much more delighted than she was to speak to her own son. “Well, get me caught up. What have you figured out?”

“It’s going to be glorious, Denise. Don’t worry,” Casey said.“Old Hollywood glam meets haunted castle meets Art Nouveau. Dracula, but in the Jazz Age. Make it spooky, but make it classy. Black and white. Pops of color.”

“And you’ll have my pumpkins?” Denise sounded dubious. Laurel wanted to spit out whatever word salad Casey had just tried to feed them. Absurdly, he pictured Dracula doing Jazz hands, and felt a little ill.

“We will absolutely have your pumpkins,” said Casey, who had just told Alice that under no circumstances would pumpkins be allowed.

“And my flower wall.”

“A flower wall for the gods, Denise. I couldn’t let you pose for pictures in front of any old thing, now could I? But don’t worry, it won’t outshine your gorgeous self. As if anything could.”

Denise giggled. “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful, Casey. And how’s Laurel doing? Is he being good? Not giving you too much trouble, I hope.”

Casey looked at Laurel, eyes flat, a smile frozen on his face. “As good as he can be,” he said.

“Thanks for calling, mom.” Laurel stabbed the screen with his finger, hanging up.

*

The call disconnected, and the car was filled with a hot, uncomfortable silence as Laurel pulled onto the highway. His knuckles were white on the wheel. He fumbled at the radio for a moment, and a blast of music, startling and discordant, made Casey tense up in his seat. Laurel punched the knob again, turning it off. Something ticked in his jaw as he said, “You really are fake as fuck, aren’t you.”

“What?” Casey felt a heaviness in the back of his throat.

“Melody was right. All that talk about how you can’t stand to be at anyone’s beck and call, but you’re sucking up to my mom like she’s the greatest damn person in the world. A flower wall for the gods? How fabulous . Yass, queen.” Laurel’s voice was a sarcastic sneer as he stared Casey down. One strand of hair had come loose, plastered across his damp forehead, and his eyes were dilated and a little wild.

“Watch the road, please,” Casey said primly. Unease was crawling through his gut. He thought involuntarily of his dad’s noisy old classic car lurching around country roads, the staticky buzz of the Country station or the drone of the prayer channel. His dad’s gray skin and gritted teeth as he tried to not nod off at the wheel.

“It’s creepy. Like you’re putting on a costume.”

“Me? Let’s talk about what costumes you’re wearing, Laurel .” Casey crossed his arms.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Laurel said, not looking away. He was going too fast, air roaring past the windows. “I’m sure you think you’re some kind of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich, but what about those nice people at the farm? You would have scammed them too.”

Casey bristled. Laurel didn’t get it. He’d never worked multiple minimum wage jobs, never come home with nothing but a pocket full of grubby tip money, aching feet, and a profound longing for death. He’d probably never even worked at all. Casey was only doing what he had to do to get ahead.

“Pull over,” Casey said. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re such a voice of reason.” Laurel swiped at his hair angrily, again not managing to push it back. “Lying to everyone, laughing behind their backs. You think you’re better than us, but you’re not, you know that? Being a liar doesn’t make you different or special, it just—”

“And what about you?” Casey asked. His hands were sweaty on the edge of his seat, and now he wasn’t watching the road either, because let’s be honest, if Laurel drove this fucking luxury vehicle that probably cost more than Casey’s entire existence into a ditch, he could just laugh it off and get a new one. There were no consequences for people like him, ever. “You’re some paradigm of honesty?”

“Paragon,” Laurel said, like he couldn’t help himself. “Paragon of honesty.”

“Fucking seriously?” Casey could feel a vein ticking in his temple. He wanted to stuff paragon and all of Laurel’s other five thousand damn SAT words back down his throat. “You’re not as smart as you think you are, you know. And you’ve been hiding big chunks of your life from your mom, pretending to be the perfect son when—”

“ Don’t. ” Laurel’s face drained of color. “Don’t you dare. You don’t understand.”

“I think I understand too well, Laurel. You’re just as fake as me.” Casey hit the button for the hazard lights, his palm tingling. He grabbed Laurel’s wrist. “Pull over, or I’ll make you. I’m going to drive.”

Laurel let out a groan of frustration and swerved onto the shoulder, hitting the brakes so hard that the car nearly skidded out. The windows rattled and Casey’s teeth clacked together as gravel sprayed up from the wheels, pinging against the Land Rover’s underbelly. His heart was fluttering in his chest like a moth in a jar, and his tendons, his veins, felt like live wires as he tried to pry the keys out of Laurel’s hand.

Laurel wouldn’t let go, and Casey was undoing his seatbelt and leaning across the center console. He had Laurel’s wrist pinned against the headrest, and his other hand had somehow landed on his thigh. Casey could feel Laurel’s muscle twitch beneath his palm like the flank of a trapped deer, and the hazard lights were clicking on and off in his head, and he didn’t really know who kissed who first, just that Laurel’s lips were suddenly on his.

Laurel’s mouth was sticky-sweet from the cider, hot and decadent as the center of a peach cobbler, and Casey wanted more of it, wanted to kiss his way to the core of him. The horn let out a plaintive bleat as his elbow hit it, and then he was half in the driver’s seat, Laurel already yanking at his belt buckle, and he could feel the blood pounding beneath Laurel’s skin as he ran a hand over his throat, up across his jaw and into the lush thickness of his hair.

“Fuck,” Laurel said into Casey’s mouth, unable to stop talking even now. Casey tugged on his hair a little bit, which made him shudder invitingly, red blooming across his face, lighting up the shells of his ears like neon. His hand was in Casey’s pants, skillful and familiar, stroking him, making trails of light swim behind Casey’s eyes, flowers unfurl in his head, and how he had lied, Casey thought, as he bit into Laurel’s shoulder through his shirt, tasting clean cotton and the tang of his sweat. How he had lied, because of course he hadn’t forgotten him; he’d just put him away for safekeeping, and—

Something was trilling, an annoying, computerized sound. The same monotone female voice from before came over the speakers. “Incoming call.”

“Your mom again?” Casey asked, against the pulse pounding in Laurel’s neck. He wrapped his hand around Laurel’s where it had stilled on his cock, squeezing slightly. His ears were ringing as he said, “Go on, answer it.”

Laurel made a strange, wounded sound and started stroking him faster, pressing kisses to Casey’s throat, his chin. He was trembling, his whole body tense beneath Casey’s touch. A semi-truck drove past in a rush of sound, and the car rocked alarmingly on its wheels, spilling Casey fully into Laurel’s lap. Their teeth clashed, Laurel nipping at his lower lip, and Casey tore at the collar of his shirt, wanting his palm flush against Laurel’s skin, wanting to feel the rise and fall of his chest. They could die like this. Another truck might swing too close, crumple the car like a tin can. Casey couldn’t make himself care. He pulled back, watching Laurel’s face, the dark fan of his lashes, his dazed, almost indignant expression. As if he were the one receiving pleasure, even though Casey hadn’t touched the very obvious erection straining against his fly, hadn’t so much as acknowledged it. Laurel’s lips were swollen, and he leaned forward, brushing them against Casey’s.

“Stop thinking ,” he murmured, with the trace of a smile. “I can see you doing it.”

“I want to see your face,” Casey said. Birds were taking flight in his head, and pressure was building in his groin, his nails leaving indentations in Laurel’s chest. The phone was still ringing, on and on.

“I want to see yours. I want to taste you again. I want—”

“ Incoming call .”

“Jesus fuck,” Casey said. “How do you shut that thing off?” His car didn’t even have a working CD player, much less a bluetooth.

“I’ve got it, I’ll just—” Laurel reached over his shoulder for the console, and stilled. “It’s Melody.”

“So?” Casey’s tongue, his balls, the soles of his feet, were throbbing. He kissed Laurel’s temple, his cheek, but all the dreamy intoxication of the previous moment was gone. Instead of melting into him, Laurel pulled back, shaking his head.

“I promised her I’d never miss a call. I’m so sorry.” Laurel started, awkwardly, to zip up Casey’s fly, and Casey shoved his hand away in annoyance.

“I can do that myself.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I have to—I have to take this. I’ll go outside so you don’t have to listen.” His face was blotchy, the red flush starting to fade, and his hair was a mass of brambles, standing on end. Laurel tried unsuccessfully to smooth it down. His shirt was still unbuttoned, five lunar crescents from Casey’s nails embedded starkly in his flesh. “God. Shit. Be—be right back, I guess.” He snatched up his phone from the center console and slid out into the heat of the day, shutting the door behind him. Casey could hear his steps crunching across the gravel as he walked back behind the car.

Casey’s hands were shaking. There was a half-empty bottle of water in the cupholder, and he reached for it, gulping it down. It was bathtub-warm and tasted like plastic, and it churned around uncomfortably in his stomach. Every inch of him was still on fire, nerves sparking like exposed wires, and his dick hadn’t had the good manners to go down yet. God, what was he even doing? It was too hot out, and Laurel was inescapable, and he could feel himself sliding down a hill, sliding toward something he couldn’t imagine. Sighing, he held the bottle to his head and leaned back against the seat.