Page 127 of How To Plot a Payback

“Thank you.”

“No problem. What are . . . good friends for?”

His words are weak, but he gives no sign of letting my hand go anytime soon.

I clear my throat. “Friends. Right. About that.” I release his hand and turn to my purse. “As we are reviewing paperwork today, I do have something to bring up as well.”

“Oh.” He looks startled and takes the folded sheet of paper from my hand. He unfolds it.

His brows furrow.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“What’s . . .”

When his voice trails off, I go ahead and jump in. “Right, so. Let’s just kick off by laying it all out there. I saw the list.”

To say his eyes become as dark as a crow is an understatement.

“And you . . . you copied it,” he manages at last. “Here.”

“Right. You see, the problem is, you didn’t finish it. So I took the liberty.” I lean over and point to the words on the page. It’s a replica of his list, the one I took a picture of on my phone. In deep-red ink, I’ve scribbled my own additions.

“About being the cause of your broken ankle years ago and not even apologizing,” I begin. “That is deeply regrettable, and frankly, I have no excuse. I was young, and everything happened too quickly what with scrambling to stand in for you the next day, and then rushing off to LA and flipping my life over the next month. Despite all that, it was inexcusable and should have been at the forefront of my mind.” I take both his hands firmly and look him straight in the eye. “I’m deeply sorry, Finn Masters, and I hope you can forgive me.”

“Lavender, please,” he says, looking obviously uncomfortable. “It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not,” I say, holding—almost vise gripping, really—our hands steady. “It was childish and selfish.”

He’s shaking his head.

“Finn,” I say brusquely, “I’m apologizing. Shut up and listen. Now, as for making up for that, I believe the traumatizing-chickens experience nailed that one, so we can cross it off.”

He winces, momentarily squeezing his eyes shut. “Paula told you.”

“Of course she did; she’s a good friend. Also, I cornered her in a parking lot and scared her so much she possibly peed her pants. She was bound to tell me anything. She’s surprisingly skittish for having five men in the house—”

“Chalk it up to eight years writing murder mysteries.”

I cross out number one and scribble traumatizing chickens in blue ink beside it. I finish off with a chipper little check mark. “Now, on to number two. You made it to the final casting audition for Neighbors.”

Finn drops his head as if I’ve caught him stealing candy from the local drugstore. “Lavender, please.”

“Now this one is tricky,” I say, “because I had no idea you were in auditions. I was just trying to be a supportive friend to Kye. But, I can absolutely see how that would be quite the punch to the gut.”

“Again, I’ve learned from this,” Finn says, almost pleading. “You aren’t at fault here. Honestly, without that experience I wouldn’t have been driven to writing—”

“It’s your true passion, yes, yes, I know,” I say, waving him off with my pen. “Still, there needs to be recompense. So I’m thinking the maniac ex-boyfriend visit would cover that—”

Finn groans and throws both hands over his face. My grin is a mile wide as I strike out number two and scribble the words, Coordinate a stalker-ex visit.

“Now, as for number three. Breaks up three-year relationship two weeks before you were set to propose. That’s a big one. Gosh.”

“Lavender,” Finn growls through his teeth. “You have nothing to make up for. I’m the one who should make up to you.”

“See, now one could argue that I saved you there,” I say, “given she had no appreciation for your lifestyle choices. You were just blinded by loneliness, or good looks, or something at the time, and I really think I helped you dodge a bullet. Do you know she makes her husband wear coordinating costumes for every holiday?” I pause significantly, then add, “And they do karaoke?”

He peeks through two fingers, his voice strangled. “What can I do to get you to stop?”