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A laugh rippled through me, pretty certain that was exactly how it would have gone down if I had approached Peyton with the idea of dating her friend. Peyton was simply that friend. The crazy one. The one always tricking her other friends into getting into some kind of trouble with them. The one who was the 'bad influence.' I'd heard some story about Savea pouring honey on some frat guy. And, well, let's face it, Savvy was not the pouring-honey-on-strangers kind of person. So that was all Peyton's influence - and likely the copious plying of alcohol seeing as Savea was a notorious lightweight.
"Savea doesn't belong with someone like me," I mumbled, a bit annoyed at the self-deprecating tone of that, but knowing it was the truth.
"What? A successful, good-looking, family-oriented, kind-hearted man? I know, right? She belongs with some deadbeat drug dealer who smacks her around, huh?"
"Scotti, be reasonable."
"I am. I'm not so sure you are. I've never known you to be insecure, King. Maybe not quite as self-assured as Atlas or Rush..."
"Because no one in the world could be as self-assured as they are."
"Exactly," she agreed. "But you've always known your worth."
The breath I pulled in stretched my chest to its capacity, the air burning on the way out. "I'm a criminal, kid."
I didn't know she'd stopped walking until I found the space beside me empty, making me turn back, finding her watching me with parted lips, brows drawn close, looking at me like she had never seen me before.
"Is that really how you see yourself?"
"Is there really any other way to see myself?"
"I don't know... do you look at me, and your first thought is that I am a criminal?" she asked. "Because, I don't know if you somehow missed it all those years, King, but I was right there beside you every single time you broke the law, every time you plotted to do it. I was there. I participated. So if you think that about yourself, that at your core, that is all you are, then that must be how you see me. And Nixon and Atlas and Rush."
"I don't see you that way," I told her, shaking my head.
"I don't see there being much of a difference."
"I was the one who could have - and didn't - stop us, steer us in a new direction. I should have been the one demanding we leave all the anger and revenge behind us. That should have been my place."
"Oh, so you're God," she said, eyes rolling. "I was an adult. Nixon, Atlas, and Rush were adults. We all chose the route we all took. we were active participants. We were willing participants. You could have shouted at us until you were blue in the face. We still would have done what we had done. And you would have gone along because you wanted to keep an eye on us. And then what? Would you have expected us to feel guilty for dragging you along?"
"Of course not." But I was seeing her point.
"Exactly. You're being ridiculous. We made those choices as a group. As a bunch of kids mourning the loss of their mother. As people marrow-deep angry at a world that allowed her to die that way. We wanted someone to pay. And we made them pay in a small way. We all chose that. And, need I remind you, it was also what led us here. It led me to Mark. And, by extension, the Mallicks. It led to my children. None of this was a mistake. None of this was something I would choose to take back. None of this was something that should be regretted. Even if, yes, we used to be criminals. Besides, don't you think Savea knows all about what we did?"
I hadn't actually given that much thought before. I had always assumed she'd been unaware. That someday, she would learn who I was, what I had done. And that was the day she was going to look at me like I was a stranger.
It never occurred to me that she already knew that me and all my siblings were former armed - though non-violent - robbers. That we had toured the country, getting jobs at different stores in a giant box store chain, learning the inner workings for weeks or even months, then pulling off perfected, orchestrated jobs over and over again.
Because we were angry.
Because the rage was the only other sensation we had to cling to other than the grief.
Our mother had been our world.
When our father died, she had needed to enter the workforce for the first time in her life. In her thirties. No work history. No one wanted to hire her.
Until she got a call from a big box store who offered her minimum wage with five mouths to feed. But it was something. Some way to keep food on the table for all of us.
