Eleven
HE ISN’T ALONE.
I pass analytical eyes over the people with him. It’s important I consider them only parts of my plan instead of mere loathsome guests. Like… chess pieces. Very important ones in the game I’m playing.
Mitchum Webber is graying, brawny, his expression dour. My father’s lawyer and best man. He seems uncomfortable in his tuxedo, as if celebration isn’t his idea of fun.
His teenage children flank him. Amanda Webber is styled as I would be if I still lived in this house, her rust-red hair shining, her dress probably picked up at New York Fashion Week. She looks annoyed to be here. In contrast, Kevin Webber looks annoyingly happy to be here, his lacrosse-bro grin paired perfectly with his preppy suit.
“I need Jackson,” Dash says.
I frown. Hi, Olivia. It’s wonderful to see you. I’m so glad you’re here.
I curtail my annoying brain’s propensity to produce what I know my dad could have said, in another life, another family. I need to focus. Despite my planning, I did not expect my father to fling inane requests my way immediately.
“Which is my problem how?” I reply.
Is it petty of me? Yes. Even bratty? Yes. It’s practically my birthright, like the money I’ll be stealing. It gives me great joy to imagine my dad might recognize my reaction. No prenup could stop me from inheriting the sneer I’m giving him.
His eyes fix on me with more focus. I straighten on instinct, old muscle memory kicking in from when I once was the dutiful daughter. The one who wanted to please him, who learned his moods, who practiced avoiding getting caught in the cross fire.
Instantly, I scold myself. I let my shoulders slouch. Let him see the daughter he’s already convinced I am. Lazy. Selfish. Superficial.
He scowls, looking like the pissed-off version of presidents’ faces on money. My dad has the perfect haircut to make gray look stately, the perfect presumptuous grin to make his genteel features look earned.
Without them, he would not be notably imposing. He’s of medium height and medium build. He works out often enough to stay in shape, which isn’t difficult when four different personal trainers pay house calls to his private gym every week. His tux is flawless, of course. His shoes shine. He is wealth incarnate. The picture of success, rendered in other people’s craftsmanship.
“Could you keep a lid on the teenage-girl thing on my wedding day?” he orders me.
“Sure, I’ll keep a lid on the teenage-girl thing,” I repeat, loving when the character I’m playing lines up perfectly with the sarcasm I want to deliver. “Jackson and I broke up weeks ago. I told you this. Twice.”
He rolls his eyes. Whether at my facetiousness or something uninteresting I’ve said, I don’t know.
Other instincts flare in me, unnervingly destabilizing. It’s funny how rage and lost love strike the same sensitivities, places I can’t afford having struck. In his quick response, I remember his reaction whenever my mom wanted to go out to dinner with one of her friends, or I said something he disagreed with, or obligations of my school or even parenting in general caused him the mildest inconvenience. They make me want to scream in his face the way I would when I was fifteen.
It would smash The Plan to smithereens, probably. I wouldn’t put ejecting me from the premises past my dad. Or maybe he’d send me to my room, pretending he didn’t enjoy the infantilizing irony.
Even so, for like one-point-five gloriously furious seconds, it would be worth it.
I don’t scream, of course. I clench my jaw.
My father glances in irritation into the foyer, where guests file out to the gardens, heels noisy on the hardwood. The afternoon sun shines perfectly in every window as if it were paid to show up. I doubt Dash is impatient for the wedding per se—I’m guessing it’s more his natural response whenever anyone doesn’t oblige his every order.
“I’m aware,” he snaps. “I figured you were back together by now.”
It surprises me. “Why?” I ask honestly. I’m waiting for some jab about how girls like me love drama or are weak-willed or unhappy with independence. Podcast shit.
Instead, Dash eyes me, like I’m the surprising one. “Because you really liked him.”
I open, then close my mouth. I don’t know what to do with the insight. I hate that he’s able to read anything real on me. He shouldn’t have that fatherly right after all the paternal duties he’s abdicated.
I feel sometimes as if his worst quality isn’t his carelessness or his insipid greed. It’s how, despite them, he’s intelligent. Observant. Perceptive. It helps him when he needs it. The perfect gift to win forgiveness, the perfect nothing to say in investor meetings that sounds like something.
However, I don’t want to debate Jackson in front of today’s targets.
Next to Dash, Mitchum fiddles with the bridal party’s white-rose boutonniere on his lapel. For the best man at the wedding, he looks bored to be here. I have a private theory that Mitchum personally hates my father, but as his lawyer, he keeps their relationship professional—which Dash has mistaken for friendship, having no real friends to compare to Mitch’s constancy.
I used to find it cringeworthy. Now I find it invaluable. Because Mitchum being the closest friendship in my dad’s life has earned him the dubious honor of being the only other person in the world who knows the combination to the safe upstairs.
Which makes him the centerpiece of The Plan.
The problem is on either side of him. For the next phase, Amanda needs to be far from her father, and Kevin needs to be far from… everything.
It’s unlucky his family is key to my agenda, because the one year of prep school I spent with Kevin Webber is enough to last me for the rest of my life. He was the most annoying guy at Berkshire, a title with considerable competition.
Desperate for paternal attention in a way I find I can rightfully look down on, Kevin has been sucking up to my dad for years. Every Berkshire Parents’ Night where students would represent their extracurriculars for groups of parents who just wanted to show off Porsches or watches, every party I held here because I understood the estate’s grounds were a prerequisite for my popularity, there was Kevin, following my dad lapdog-like wherever he went.
Which is a problem. If Kevin gets wind of the heist, he will tattle.
I need to keep the conversation moving. It’s what helps me push past the pang of my dad managing to peer right into my heart.
I shrug one shoulder with performative flippancy. “Why do you need Jackson?” I ask.
“Sam is sick today,” my father says sourly. His emphasis says he finds the excuse either unworthy or unconvincing.
I wouldn’t know who Sam Peters—the “SEO King,” inventor of search-engine optimization algorithms, millionaire, Stanford grad, owner of homes in Palo Alto and Park City—is, except that when pulling a heist in the middle of a wedding, it’s helpful to be familiar with the entire guest list.
Especially the groomsmen of the mark.
Hence my CIA-profiler knowledge of Mr. Peters, a recent friend of my dad’s from the club where Dash golfs. I guess Sam was palling around with private-equity guys who wanted his money. He ran into my dad, conversation converted into five-hundred-dollar lunches, and months later, here we are.
Or, in Sam’s case, here we’re not.
Dash definitely does believe illness is often weakness, but in this instance, his skepticism that Sam is actually sick might be legitimate. A man who hardly knows my father could very easily realize he does not want to stand next to Dashiell Owens on his wedding day to a girl who’s young enough to be his daughter.
“Ooooo-kayyyy,” I drawl, enjoying myself. I’m starting to understand Tom’s interest in improv. “Well, last I checked, Jackson isn’t a licensed medical practitioner who can help Sam get to the wedding, so…”
Dash narrows his eyes, frustrated with my lack of comprehension.
It used to get to me, in moments when the mistakes were genuine—forgetting which parent company owned which whatever.
Not anymore. I make my expression look even emptier.
“Maureen won’t allow the wedding parties to be uneven,” he explains stiffly. He shifts on his feet, the lines of his lapel crinkling with the movement. I smell the pungent sting of his aftershave. “I need a replacement groomsman,” he says.
“And you… want Jackson?” I don’t need to fake puzzlement now. “Why?”
When my dad stares past me, I notice a gaggle of guests posing for a photo in the foyer. Emerald Schwartz. Her real name. Star of Family Fortune on Fox. Malcolm Schwartz, her father. Political donor. Reason she’s famous. Posing for the official photographer with Jenna Jurgens and Emilia Lin, friends of Maureen’s.
The realization almost makes me laugh—Dash doesn’t just want out of the conversation. He wants the publicity of his own wedding. The opportunity for famous people to say hi to him. The attention.
“Because I know he’s coming, I know him, and he isn’t important,” Dash says. “If I were to ask someone else, they might wonder why they were only asked now, and I don’t want to get into it.”
I consider his reasoning with curiosity. It’s exactly the kind of awkward social situation Dash considers himself above. I don’t understand why he’s submitting to Maureen’s demand. So what if Maureen is upset that there are more bridesmaids than groomsmen? Or why doesn’t he have her ditch a bridesmaid? The Dash I grew up with would never go out of his way for someone else’s preferences.
“I’m not with Jackson. We’re not even speaking, so I can’t help you,” I say. My performance requires less effort now. I can play the resentful ex easily. My DMs hold every scrap of inspiration I could ever need.
Kevin steps forward, hand held to his heart. He lowers his voice with forced confidence. “Dash, I can stand up with you,” he says. “You’ve known me since I was born, and I’m not important, either.”
Dash looks at Kevin, then looks back to me. “I want Jackson,” he says.
Looking impervious to the rejection, Kevin nods. He’s probably very used to it.
“Mitchum said he saw you with Jackson earlier. So if you’re not speaking, I’m not sure what you were doing in the boathouse together,” Dash goes on, his voice dark with the delight of pinning me using his lackey’s information.
I purse my lips, hating his petty victory. I resist the urge to look at Mitchum, knowing I’m going to enjoy the next phase even more after his reporting on my personal life.
“We’re fighting, not speaking,” I reply. “If I’m the one who asks him to be your groomsman, he won’t do it.”
The familiar nonchalance of his shrug sets me on edge. “I can delay the wedding to give you time. Figure it out.”
I stiffen, hoping it isn’t visible. He has no idea what level of disaster he’s just invoked. It’s like when his dramatic gesturing during a phone call led to wine spilled on my ninth-grade science project poster board, except I could go to jail instead of getting zero credit. Delaying the wedding is to be avoided at all costs—even Jackson-related ones.
It leaves me with no choice.
“I’ll ask him,” I say.
Dash nods, satisfied. “If he’s wearing a suit, have him change into one of my tuxes. The fit should be fine.”
Quietly, I wrestle with my racing heartbeat. It’s fine, I counsel myself. Yeah, it’ll be frustrating. I can deal with frustration. I’ve gotten good at it at work. What inspires me is my mom, who I’ve watched neutralize frustration, handling shitty rideshare passengers and spills on aisle five. I have her resourcefulness—I just need to find her patience, her resilience.
Now that he has what he wants, Dash turns to leave.
“If he doesn’t come through, I’m still available,” Kevin calls after him. “I’ll be on the bench, waiting to go in. On the waitlist. In the reserves. Groomsman understudy.”
Dash ignores him, walking with Mitchum. They head for the foyer. Finally, his precious elbow-rubbing time with his guests.
Amanda, who has remained silent for the duration of the discussion, eyes flat as if she can’t decide which of us she disdains the most, promptly makes off in the direction of the bar outside, where the hallway’s windows reveal the green is filling up with guests. I seize my chance to separate the siblings.
“Kevin,” I say, holding him back. “Have some self-respect. I know it’s hard when you’re… you, but just try.”
If my words wound Kevin, he doesn’t show it. I doubt he’s one for hiding his emotions, which leaves me wondering if guys like him grow up physically incapable of imagining people might wish to insult them. He shrugs with loathsome cheer. “I want to be part of stuff,” he says.
“Find some friends, then,” I reply. “Don’t be one of my dad’s groomsmen. God.”
“I have friends. So many.” His defensiveness is plain now. He puts his hands in his pockets, squaring his shoulders petulantly. “If this were my wedding, there’d be twice as many groomsmen.”
In my peripheral vision, I note Amanda has disappeared outside. It unwinds just the littlest fraction of stress coiled in me. “Kevin Webber’s wedding. What a dark idea,” I say. “Please don’t invite me.”
Having accomplished what I wanted, I walk off just like my dad.