Page 117 of How To Plot a Payback

She shakes her head, all the while grinning madly. “Let me break it down for you. They are the list of your offenses that have shaken up his life.”

I nod, following.

“And all his life he’s gotten along just fine dealing with his own troubles by trying to ignore the pain you—his words, not mine—caused. Then one day he’s approached by Mr. Goodwin and given the offer of a lifetime. A job on Neighbors. Too good to pass up.”

I nod again. Easy enough.

“But then he could avoid you no longer. And then another series of unfortunate incidents involving you occurred, down to getting him fired at one point—”

“I got him fired?” Well. This is news to me.

“Right after he started. Some misunderstanding involving Goodwin’s niece. But then he dug himself out of that. And I think after all of that he just . . . momentarily . . . snapped. And”—she hesitates—“attempted, against all my advice, to plot a payback.”

“What?”

We are driving roughly fifty-five miles per hour two inches from the back of a truck overloaded with what appears to be someone’s entire dorm room, including an unsecured mattress, a dresser, and a thousand coat hangers loaded with T-shirts hanging over the side, flapping in the breeze. The shock of what she just said stunts my ability to focus on the chaos before me.

I snap my attention to her. “Explain.”

“But his every attempt at being the villain failed horribly, because at Finn’s core he is a stuffed teddy bear. Ultimately, after a few spectacular flops, he was consumed by guilt and remorse. He has since decided he does not, and will not, ever, deserve you.”

“What payback?” I say. My wheels are spinning. I can’t think of any— “Hang on. Is this about the chickens?”

“Yes,” she says in a sympathetic tone. “Well . . . and Adam.”

“He wanted Adam to come for payback?” I spit out. “That was his plan?”

But no, this doesn’t make sense at all. He was so upset about it in my dressing room afterward. Just like he was about the chickens. But.

Ah.

The memory strikes me.

I see it all in a new light.

The way he looked so tortured. The way he raked a hand through his hair, absolutely in a state. At the time he seemed protective of me, even overzealous. I thought he cared about me so much that he was distressed to see me struggle.

Now I see it through another lens. It was guilt. A guilty hand raked over his face. Taut muscles as he refused to pass through my door, because he knew he was the cause of whatever had happened to me, and—

Well.

I suppose he felt bad.

“He didn’t want those things to affect you as much as they did. They were poorly executed. His attempts to merely irritate you escalated quickly, as pranks often do.”

* * *

I don’t think I’ve ever been plied with so much popcorn and Coke in my life.

As it turns out, Paula carries the weight of other people’s guilt as a habit and tries to release said guilt via gifts of food. Considering I was not only hit with the unfortunate news that the man I like has a history of loathing me but also swallowed up in a near trampling of teenage boys in leotards asking me to their prom (you do it for one kid six years ago . . . ), Paula ensured the concession stand was a fountain of Raisinets and popcorn and Sour Patch Kids endlessly flowing my way. Every time a kid said a shaky “Miss Lavender Rhodes . . . ?” behind me, she’d slip me a Reese’s. And frankly, between my pent-up energy and Paula’s worried eyes, I ate it.

I’ve never had a better-deserved five-thousand-calorie day.

Which accounts for half the reason I’m slowly drooping in here on Thursday morning, my stomach a fistful of knots and streaks of fire rising up my windpipe. As I step on set, I give a bleak nod to Paula. She was awfully kind to answer the questions I lobbed at her every few minutes throughout her son’s match, evidently deciding it was better not to prolong my agony.

“So break down for me exactly the story of the things on the list. How exactly did I do all these things?”

“So how does he feel about me now? Really?”