Fifty-Eight
SISTERS?” JACKSON REPEATS.
On the dance floor, my crew is comically awestruck after I’ve succinctly explained the situation. Wide-eyed, they’re motionless among the crowd of wedding guests while the music pounds in our ears. Jackson looks at me, searching for some sign of how I really feel about this revelation.
I don’t entirely know. I’m not endeared to the idea of more kin on the Owens side, not with my family history. Deceit, larceny, infidelity, corruption. Why couldn’t we just get into playing Uno or visiting national parks instead? But I meant what I said about second chances. I’m going to try. I smile reassuringly to Jackson, who nods, placated.
“I think we’re missing, like, seven parts of this story,” Tom says.
“We’ll explain everything later,” Abigail promises, her authoritativeness returning. Her eyes dart past the tent, where Maureen is pointing her out to security. “Right now, I’m about to be officially kicked out of this wedding.”
“Where one of us goes, we all go,” Deonte replies unhesitatingly.
“Let’s make our triumphant getaway,” Tom concurs.
Together, we walk off the dance floor, grabbing McCoy. We’re reaching the lawn when Deonte halts.
“Hold up. We gotta get the cake!” he declares.
He’s right. Of course he’s right. Security or no security, we won’t leave the wedding without one final heist. No one hesitates. We make a dash for the cake table, each of us grabbing a plate laden with one of Deonte’s decadent slices and running off into the night. Everyone’s exhilarated laughter joins into one chorus while the din of the party recedes, the damp grass soft under our feet, the hushed house drawing nearer.
“I grabbed a slice for Kevin,” Tom shouts. “Somebody give that kid a call.”
“On it,” McCoy responds, handing his cake to Deonte so he can take out his phone.
We race to the front of the house under the stars. When we hit the driveway, Kevin is waiting for us. In his father’s Lamborghini.
Honestly, I understand Kevin’s ransom demand now. In the largely vacant driveway, under the gazes of the valet attendants, the engine hums with power. Dark-walled wheels contrast with the electric-teal curves of the SUV’s exterior. When Kevin pops the passenger door, it opens upward.
“Oh shit,” Abigail utters.
“Yeah,” Deonte agrees.
We pile in. McCoy pushes Kevin out of the driver’s seat while I sit on Jackson’s lap in the front. The interior smells like cologne-soaked leather. We tear out of the property, the pavement noiseless under the vehicle’s prowl, the headlights cutting dazzling swaths in front of us.
Our joyride lasts about thirty seconds. McCoy stops the car in the parking lot next to our van. “We’re absolutely not getting on the road in a car without enough seat belts for every minor I’m driving,” he says firmly.
Everyone grumbles but obeys. We file into the van, the reprise of when we got here earlier today. Was it only hours ago? I’m immeasurably grateful for the differences. Next to me, Jackson puts his hand in mine. Abigail’s eyes dance. Kevin looks as if he’d prefer this van with his friends over the nicest Lamborghini in the world. McCoy pulls out, leaving the Owens property while the crew eats cake, and Tom is finally permitted to put on his heist playlist.
“Cake is fire,” Kevin comments.
“Yeah. Seriously, Deonte,” I say, chewing.
Deonte takes a huge bite, rightfully pleased with himself.
“We’re rich!” Tom hollers out the window.
In the middle row, Kevin pauses with his fork held over his cake. “Wait, what? You said you were only giving me five thousand?”
Oh. Right.When I was negotiating with Kevin, I didn’t anticipate actually liking him at the end of the day.
“Don’t worry,” Abigail chimes in, “I maybe stole a little extra to cover new crew members.”
I whirl to face her in the back. “You did? When?”
“Okay, when I stole it, it wasn’t exactly with the intent to share it with any of you, but I’ve had a… change of heart,” she confesses, her eyes meeting mine.
“Does that mean I get a cut?” Jackson asks.
“Dude, no way,” Tom objects. “You didn’t do anything.”
“He did distract some guards,” Kevin points out, coming charmingly to Jackson’s defense despite having only just met him. His superpower possibly isn’t resilience in the face of rejection. It might be his open heart. While it’s not a conventional virtue in a heist crew, we’re not exactly a conventional heist crew.
“He also dutifully served as a groomsman,” McCoy says from the driver’s seat.
Deonte evaluates Jackson, unconvinced. “I don’t think dating the boss is enough to get a cut.” He decides. “No offense.”
Jackson shrugs. “I had to ask.”
“Maybe next heist, pal,” Tom offers.
“Oh god, don’t even joke!” McCoy exclaims. “I’m never doing this again.”
I catch Tom’s eye. Despite my sympathy for McCoy’s stress, I don’t feel the same way. We did it once. We could do it again. I feel the urge in me to chase my abilities until they break under my ambition. I know Tom understands. Maybe only Tom understands. His lips purse in restless contemplation, not smiling. Closer to concealing unspoken plans.
It’s reassuring in ways I wouldn’t know how to express, realizing even just one other person wants to walk the edge of everything. I’ve worked in the dark for months, lonely in my vengeance. The idea of someone, anyone, getting close was dangerous. Which makes it intoxicating now. Maybe we’ll all do it again someday. I know with certainty I would only ever pull my next heist with the people in this van.
I can’t help laughing while the music plays and wind whips in the open windows. I thought stealing from my dad would be the revenge I needed—and it was. It wasn’t my lesson to learn or my flaw to outgrow. It was vicious, and it was necessary, and it was good.
But revenge isn’t something that ends. It’s a living thing that needs to be fed within you every day. It’s bigger than just stealing from my dad, even bigger than embarrassing him. Revenge also means filling the place in my heart he vacated.
It looks like being happy and having friends and the life Dashiell Owens won’t ever have. Not for real.