Ten
THE EDGE OF THE ROSE GARDEN GIVES WAY TO THE LAWN’S SLOPE down to Narragansett Bay. The estate’s boathouse sits surrounded by trees, solitary on the edge of the ocean cutting into the Rhode Island coastline.
Tom is not the first boy I’ve hooked up with in the boathouse.
He is, however, the first boy I’ve hooked up with in the boathouse in furtherance of complicated plans to steal my father’s millions.
Tom kisses me while I fumble the door open. I won’t pretend I wasn’t looking forward to this part of the heist—Tom is objectively handsome, not to mention objectively very talented in this respect. Olivia, you needed this, I hear myself decide. Honestly, even without The Plan, this liaison with Tom Pham would be the perfect cure for the memory of my ex.
When I close the door behind us, my mouth on Tom’s, the wonderful rush of my heartbeat very real even though our relationship is just for show, Tom pauses reluctantly, dragging his words over my lips. “How… how far do you want to…” He swallows. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself.”
The dash of chivalry amid the charisma of his debonair-bad-boy vibe—how hard he’s fighting himself to put me in control—yeah, it only makes it hotter.
In response to his question, I strut into the center of the room, leading him by the hand. Then I unzip my dress.
The fabric starts to fall to my feet when the door flies open. I snatch the dress to my chest and whirl around, exposing my bare back to Tom.
Jackson Roese is framed by the emerald backdrop of the lawn behind him, wounded fury covering his face like thunderclouds. “Olivia. Really? Now?” He steps in, slamming the door behind him. “Please. I just need to talk to you.”
Playing his part perfectly, Tom cuts in. “Excuse me, we’re quite in the middle of—”
Jackson rounds on him. “Who the hell are you?”
Either from experience onstage or, possibly, from experience dealing with jilted exes, Tom keeps his cool remarkably. “Thomas,” he replies with disinterest. “Pleasure.”
“Well, Thomas”—Jackson hisses like he thinks the name is fake, which, ironically, it is not—“you might’ve just waltzed in here for the day dressed like the green MM, but I’d like to discuss something with my girlfriend in private.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I snap. Jackson’s eyes wilt like dead flowers.
Nevertheless, I don’t let myself feel guilty. This is a necessary part of The Plan. I cannot be dealing with interruptions like this for the rest of the day.
Feigning reluctance, I face Tom, inclining my head to indicate the door. “I’ll meet you later,” I promise.
Tom doesn’t react or question, only nods. He passes Jackson—whose eyes remain fixed on me—on his way out of the boathouse.
“I can’t believe you,” Jackson says quietly when Tom is gone. “Moving on so fast.”
I meet his gaze. It’s stunning how hard the wrecking ball right to my heart decimates the delight of kissing Tom. Of course it does. It’s Jackson.
The Jackson I loved once.
Since we go to school together, this is obviously not the first time I’ve seen him in the three weeks since our breakup. He’s there, every day, in the corner of the classroom in Government, or on the other end of the cafeteria when I eat lunch with Reshma and McKenna instead of holing up in the library by myself. But he’s given me the space I demanded in my breakup text.
However, this is the first conversation we’ve had since. The first time I’ve looked him right in the face, into his gorgeous, heartbreakingly familiar features. The lips I remember whispering I love you into my neck whenever we had sex. I love you, I would repeat. The intense eyes from which he hides no emotion, ever. Jackson never hides—
Or I thought he didn’t.
“You can’t believe me?” I reply coldly, zipping up my dress with efficient formality. “At least I waited until we were over to hook up with someone else.”
With the unconcealed emotion I used to think was his hallmark, Jackson’s expression morphs. Surprise swallows his indignation entirely.
“Olivia, what?” he manages to say. “Is that what you think happened?”
“It’s what I know happened.” I was reading in my room on Friday night when the DM came in. I recognized the name, Kelly Devine, who goes to West Coventry High on the other end of the city. West Coventry is the nicer high school—nothing like Berkshire, just a little more upper-middle class. Crossover at West and East Coventry parties is pretty common, despite the uneasy collective economic chip on my classmates’ shoulders. Which is to say, while I’d never spoken to Kelly Devine, I knew who she was enough to curiously open the DM.
It was a screenshot. Of a message from Jackson. Wondering whether she was, in unambiguous insinuations, down to hook up. Trying his very hardest to make illicit plans with Kelly, which she sent to me out of girl-code courtesy.
I didn’t move from my desk chair for hours. I cried like I’d never cried in my life. I felt like part of me was dying, which I guess it kind of was. The truth is, I wasn’t just in love with Jackson. With Jackson, I was something even more important.
I was happy.
Jackson’s eyes have gone huge. “I did not cheat on you,” he says emphatically.
I snort. “Oh, so Kelly Devine wasn’t interested?”
“Kelly—” Jackson’s expression clouds over with confusion, as if he doesn’t know how I knew. The next moment, he pushes his uncertainty to the side, once more in control. “Olivia. I promise. I don’t know what you’ve heard or from who, but it’s not true. I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Jackson.” I cut him off. “You’re no good at it.”
Nothing he could say would change my mind. It doesn’t matter. I never should have trusted him in the first place. I needed our relationship to remember what I should’ve known going into it—giving my heart to him was childish, something I should have outgrown by now.
Now Jackson just looks lost. Stranded in a maze of his own making. Good. It’s where I needed this conversation to end. “Please,” I say calmly. “Respect me and my new boyfriend enough not to bother me today.”
I walk past Jackson toward the boathouse door. I think I’m in the clear until I’m reaching for the doorknob. Jackson’s hand, quick but gentle, grabs my wrist.
His touch jumbles me up. Suddenly, it’s the same hand, on the same wrist, over my head on my rose comforter with the lights off, the house quiet because my mom is working, my heart full of contentment I didn’t know was possible. It’s why I don’t shake him off immediately. Why I look up with naked longing I know I shouldn’t feel.
Jackson stares right into my eyes.
“I’m still in love with you,” he says.
I open my mouth, feel my jaw working. Nothing comes out.
“I’ll always love you,” he continues. “And I will prove you can trust me.”
Then he lets me go.
Unspeaking, I open the door.
I exit the boathouse rattled, glad Jackson didn’t expect me to respond. I’ll never give him the response he wants. While I wish I could forgive him, I can’t. Every memory I have of us, no matter how wonderful, rings with the horrible echo of how my father ripped my life in half. Jackson cheated. I refuse to trust him.
On the walk up the sloping lawn from the boathouse to the rose garden, I refocus myself. The Plan is what’s important. The deadline I gave my crew—providing Deonte enough time to remove the phones from the cavity he baked into a section of his cake, then smuggle them under his uniform into the bathroom—is coming up. Thirty minutes from entry.
I continue into the house, where I join the short line into the restroom off the living room. Hoping the rest of the crew followed my orders expediently, I’m pleased when I find only one phone taped to the back of the toilet.
When I click on the screen, I find the group chat with everyone’s numbers I programmed in earlier this week before I drove the phones over to Deonte’s during “chess club.” Everyone has called out their code names, which I plug into each number’s contact profile before supplying my own.
King
King signing on. Phase One is complete.
Pawn?
Pawn
On my way. Getting in position for Phase Two following welcome toasts.
The concise, organized confirmation is exactly what I need right now. I’m pleased with my crew, frankly. I shake off the memory of Jackson for good—today, I’m in complete control.
I stow my phone in my clutch, knowing no one will suspect it to contain contraband when security visibly searched it—and me—earlier. In the mirror, I check my hair, my heavy makeup. My lipstick is smudged, which is perfect. Slowly, I inhale, then exhale, controlling my nerves.
Heading for the door, I prep myself on what Phase Two entails. I’ll need my crew to continue working as flawlessly as they have thus far. Feeling focused, I push open the door—
Only to run right into my dad, Dashiell Owens himself.