Fifty-One
ITHINK THE GUY’S INTENTIONS ARE GOOD, BUT DO WE REALLY trust him to not make this worse?” McCoy wonders aloud.
We watch Kevin stride up to his father. Mitchum Webber sits with the other groomsmen, impatience emanating off the finely dressed group. I wonder how Maureen is doing—the death of the party is pronounced, the wedding having entirely devolved into the paranoid atmosphere of the security inquisition. Without music, the hum of nervous small talk pervades the tent. The chandelier hanging over us hovers like a guillotine.
“I don’t know if it matters,” Tom replies. “What’s worse than prison?”
I can’t help my reaction. Possibly I’ve gone soft or having friends has made me an optimist. “I trust him,” I hear myself say.
Jackson’s hand finds mine under the table.
Kevin and Mitchum are too far for us to hear what they’re saying, but Kevin’s words have an immediate effect on his father. Mitchum frowns, then his face reddens. He grabs Kevin roughly and drags him over to the security guards nearest to us.
“Tell them what you told me,” Mitchum orders Kevin.
Kevin doesn’t falter. In fact, his contrition is remarkably convincing. “You can call off the search,” he says. “I pretended I was being kidnapped so I could get the combination to the safe from my dad. I faked the kidnapper’s voice.”
The security guards exchange looks. “I better get Mr. Owens,” one of them says before walking off.
“Why?” the other guard demands of Kevin.
Kevin shrugs, the perfect picture of embarrassed defensiveness. I glance to Tom, noting the grudging respect hiding in my co-conspirator’s expression.
“I thought it would be cool, I guess,” Kevin replies.
“You thought it would be cool,” Mitchum repeats, visibly irate, “to go into Dashiell Owens’s safe?”
It happens fast—the flash in Kevin’s expression. I wouldn’t recognize it if I hadn’t felt it play out beneath my own fake eyelashes hundreds of times. Kevin is seeing his explanation fit into place with the image of him that his father has. He’s realizing how, while leveraging others’ assumptions of your vanity or unintelligence is useful, it is not fun.
Dash comes over, Maureen with him. He isn’t frayed or stressed the way one might expect in the middle of this derailment of his wedding. Instead, he’s practically preening. It’s unsurprising in hindsight. Of course he’s enjoying the power of subjecting his guests to this intrusive process. Maureen, on the other hand, is not sharing his enthusiasm for the disruption to her carefully planned wedding.
“Yeah,” Kevin confirms. “I knew he has dope watches in his safe. I wanted… a pic of me wearing his Audemars Piguet for my profiles and shit. Ladies love an Audemars Piguet.” With oblivious confidence, he winks at my father. “You know how it is, man.”
I grimace. I hate how much Kevin has probably correctly guessed my father’s convictions about impressing women with watches.
Maureen interjects. Fury has made her pallor clash with her dress. “So all of this was because you wanted a photo? You don’t even have a phone.”
After reaching into his jacket, Kevin pulls out the burner.
“I snuck one in,” Kevin says. “Sorry.”
Now Dash’s demeanor darkens. He rounds on the security guards. “I was promised no one would be able to get a phone in.”
The guards exchange nervous glances. Kevin, however, spares them, needing to explain. “Look.” He holds up the iPhone. “Here’s the proof.”
While I can’t glimpse the screen, I very much suspect Kevin really does have a selfie of him wearing the Audemars Piguet, from when he and Lexi first opened the safe. While expertly employed, his cover story wasn’t a story at all. I have to smile. I hear McCoy stifle a laugh. Deonte shakes his head, amused.
Dash hands the phone to security. “Put this with the other guest phones,” he orders. “He’s not to receive it until he leaves.”
“Which means we can call the search off, right?” Maureen cuts in with the usual edge in her voice. “Not that this whole fiasco hasn’t already become the centerpiece of my event.”
The guards nod. “We’re very sorry for the inconvenience,” one of them says.
For one single second, I swear my dad’s eyes flash to me. His gaze narrows. Then he faces the guards, looking somehow smug.
“Call off the search. Fix this,” he directs before returning to his guests.
Mitchum doesn’t appear pleased by the resolution. “Go wait in the car,” he tells his son. “Obviously, you’re grounded.”
Kevin bobs his head. “But… you’re not going to delete the photo, right?”
A vein throbs down the center of Mitchum’s forehead. It’s captivating. “Go,” he says.
On Kevin’s way out of the tent, he walks with shoulders slumped, his head bowed for his father’s benefit. But when he passes our table, the crew quietly applauds him. He flashes us a smile and a covert thumbs-up before resuming his solemn march off the grass. The victorious hero, returning to his dad’s Lamborghini with the heist’s outcome owed to him.
“I have to admit it,” Tom says. “The guy has really grown on me.”
I laugh, not disagreeing. Very little unexpected is ever good. Kevin Webber’s selfless collaboration is the sterling exception.
“I think he’s earned the title of Bishop,” Deonte adds with fitting gravitas.
While I nod my confirmation, I catch sight of McCoy. He’s wiping his eyes. “Are you crying?” I ask.
“It’s okay, Pete,” Tom reassures him. “We’re going to be fine. You’re not going to prison.”
McCoy shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s just… as an educator, it’s really beautiful when you see the weird kid finally find his people.”
Deonte groans, but I notice his eyes have likewise gone dewy.
In perfect punctuation of our celebratory moment, the band resumes playing, ending the depressing pall over the gaudy celebration. It is, incredibly, “Don’t Stop Believin’.” I don’t know whether the pick is cliché or perfect. Probably both. Dash grabs a mic from the band. “Search is over, everyone. The security issue has been resolved. Let’s get this party restarted,” he urges his guests while the opening riff plays.
Relief falls over the crowd, who rise with the music. It feels as if the past hour never happened. Everything is ridiculously, wonderfully normal.
I meet the gazes of my assembled crew, one after another. My friends. My people. Wow, McCoy is really in my head.
“We did it,” I say softly.
We did it.We infiltrated my father’s world-class safe. We fended off intrusions from unexpected interlopers. We stole millions of Dashiell Owens’s money. We evaded detection. It wasn’t the heist I’ve planned for months. It worked anyway, which makes me even prouder.
The reality of our victory is reaching everyone. Giddy smiles from Tom and Deonte. Quiet wonderment from McCoy. “I say we tear up this dance floor,” Tom says.
McCoy raises a glass. “For Kevin!”
His rallying cry lifts everyone from their seats. “Don’t Stop Believin’” continues into the epic chorus, and McCoy raises hands of victory while Deonte and Tom groove. It’s oddly moving, watching them enter the dancing throng. Just a group of world-class criminals celebrating something no one else knows happened.
Instead of joining them, I hold Jackson back. He looks to me, delicate uncertainty in his eyes. His hesitation says he would wait forever. It renders him devastatingly handsome. Under the glittering lights, I do the exact opposite of what I’ve done for months—I don’t overthink.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I say to him. “I trust you, too.”
I pull him into a tender kiss, feeling like I’m stealing one perfect moment for myself.