Thirty
ISTEP ONTO THE CEMENT OF DASH’S SIX-CAR GARAGE, AND IT’S AS if I’ve walked into a new world.
There’s no wedding finery here. No floral arrangements or crown molding or crystal centerpieces. Instead, only the unglamorous utilitarian components. Trash cans, coolers of ice, extra linens. When the door shuts behind me, the sounds of cocktail hour are drowned out. I hear only the hum of the massive lights hanging from the ceiling and the harsh clicking of my heels on concrete.
I walk swiftly. The garage doors are open, revealing the golden hour outside. Catering vans and security trucks occupy most of the spots, but there’s no one loading or unloading. I know from Maureen’s run of show that while she is legally becoming Mrs. Owens in the office right now, the wedding staff is circling with hors d’oeuvres and frantically flipping the grassy cliffs from ceremony seating to dining arrangements. It gives me a window before I’ll be expected at dinner.
Before Phase Six begins.
I enter the van parked in the corner. Inside, my crew waits.
The moment I roll the door closed, everyone speaks at once. “Where are the codes?” Cass demands. “We need to know what’s going on—”
“I’m pretty sure the other security guys are onto me—” McCoy frets.
Deonte rounds on Cass. “Oh, and you couldn’t have given us a heads-up you were moving the van? I had to sneak my way back into the wedding.”
“What are we doing about Kevin?” Tom asks resentfully. “How are we supposed to get your ex-stepmom the proof she needs—?”
The cacophony continues. Everyone shouts over one another, filling the van with accusations, questions, fears, and complaints, exchanging the information the others don’t have. I don’t cut them off. In the echoing metal cage of the vehicle, I let the clamor of their debate rush over me.
Everything they’re saying is a real problem. I can’t even keep up with the string of unsolved variables. Each one on its own is vexing—all together, they add up into one undeniable reality.
The Plan has imploded.
Deonte and McCoy are stuck here until the other vendors start leaving. I have no idea how I’ll handle Kevin, frankly, short of the enticing possibility of tying him up and leaving him in one of the closets in the basement. Lexi—Lexi is a whole handful of problems in herself. Assuming I procure the evidence she wants, how will I even orchestrate the exchange without drawing attention?
The crew is not helping. Like, very not helping. While I reflect on everything going wrong, their “discussion” has unraveled into infighting over whose role is more important. While McCoy mediates with unsuccessful if valiant educator-ly effort, Tom feuds with Deonte. “I’m just saying, you get to sit in the van while I have to—”
“I did my part,” Deonte protests. “You glad for those phones? Then why don’t you say thank you—?”
“The phones were Olivia’s idea. You made a cake, and it wasn’t, like—”
“Gentlemen, I’m one insulted cake away from a hard-core migraine,” McCoy chimes in.
“Ridiculously immature.” Cass passes judgment from her seat, arms folded over her chest.
I sympathize with McCoy’s headache. It’s kind of like the drive up, except for one crucial difference. I’m not in control.
Not yet.
“Don’t say shit about my cakes,” Deonte warns.
“Everyone.” McCoy glances up urgently.
“Okay, I’m sorry, man,” Tom says, sounding genuine. “I was out of line. The cake was lovely. Sincerely. Flower game was unreal. Still—”
“Everyone.”
When McCoy holds up his phone, the infighting ceases. The strategy no one can agree on, the complaints of our present hopelessness, the futility, the frustration—it all stops. The van goes silent except for one insistent sound.
McCoy’s phone vibrating.
The screen is lit up with an incoming call. The caller ID displays M, one of the five numbers programmed into the phones.
Mfor Mitchum.
“Well, shit,” Deonte says.
“I concur,” Tom adds solemnly.